Private Tales Old Scars, Old Scores

The world lurched as Asher stepped into the leyline.

For a brief moment, he felt weightless, untethered, his body stretching and condensing all at once, his vision swallowed by streaks of glowing light. The familiar rush of energy pulled him forward, yanking him through space, through distance—until, with a final snap, the world righted itself again.

His boots hit solid ground.

Warmth. That was the first thing he felt. The air here was thick with heat, the golden glow of the Day Court stretching in every direction, painting the sky in hues of amber and flame. Unlike the Elderglen, where the trees stretched tall and the light filtered gently through the leaves, the sun reigned here. It was oppressive, blinding, an unrelenting force that washed over the marble structures and golden spires in the distance.

But Asher barely noticed. His pulse thrummed with purpose. He took one step forward— And immediately, two large figures moved into his path.

Towering fae males, clad in full golden armor, their crested helms gleaming beneath the relentless sunlight. Their stance was rigid, unmoving, barring his way before he could so much as breathe the same air as the nobles behind them.

"Halt." One of them growled, his voice firm, unyielding.

Asher clenched his jaw.

"State your business."

Green eyes flicked between the two of them, sharp, assessing. He could tell, immediately, that they had no intention of letting him pass. Their shoulders squared, their hands resting casually on the hilts of their weapons—ready. Waiting.

He exhaled slowly, controlled. "I'm here to see my brother. Fionn." No labels, no titles. Just his brother.

A beat of silence. Neither guard moved.

"Now."

His gaze darkened, narrowing as his stance shifted slightly, his muscles coiled tight, warning. "Deny me, and I'll cause a fucking scene."

The threat hung thick in the air between them, tangible, crackling like the distant hum of a brewing storm. The guards glanced at each other, something unspoken passing between them, and Asher felt his fingers twitch at his sides.

They could make this easy.

Or they could make this messy.

It was their fucking choice.

Fionn Vespera

Asher wasn’t in the mood for whatever this was—this arrogant, golden-lit performance.

"Apologies, Commander." The title dripped with mockery as Asher tilted his head, voice as smooth as it was venomous. "I'm a bit rusty in Court etiquette. I should have written a letter to warn you of my visit. And it's lovely to see you too."

His eyes flicked up and down his brother’s frame, taking in the state of him. "You look like shit, by the way."

Asher was one to talk. He had slept under a fucking tree for weeks, his hair longer, scruffier, shadows hollowing out his sharp features. He hadn’t even bothered to wash Vespera’s blood from his hands or his clothes, the dried crimson a stark reminder of why he was here.

His fingers twitched. The air shifted. Shadows slithered over his skin, curling up his arms, flickering at his shoulders like something alive.

He took a step forward. "This is a conversation I'd far rather have in person, so let's get to it."

Another step. The easy, sharp-edged drawl in his voice remained, but his eyes burned with something darker. "You're going to tell me how the fuck your name spilled from her mouth when I asked her about that word that's carved into her back."

A pause. The kind that stretched, taut and seething. Then, quieter. More dangerous. "Then you're going to tell me where I can find those old friends of yours, so that I can repay each and every one of them."

The shadows around him pulsed. His breath was slow. Measured. Controlled—barely.

"You know exactly whom I speak of, Fionn." Asher's voice was razor-edged.

"Vespera," he corrected, voice low and brimming with warning, as though the very name itself was a challenge. His fingers twitched at his sides, betraying the restraint he fought to maintain. The shadows at his feet curled and coiled in response, a restless thing barely held in check beneath the weight of the sun’s gaze.

He studied his brother, searching for any flicker of recognition, any sign that he understood the gravity of the name he had so carelessly reduced to halfling.

Asher's jaw clenched. “I'm not in the mood for long stories. Your friends tortured her - I want to know who. And I want to know if you had any part in it.”