The Unseelie Queen

April 1, 2025.

Location: Fae City within the Sanctum, 15 miles west of Doras Dhagda, Scottish Highlands.

Memory Perspective: Robert MacCallum.

Now, let me tell you, folks, the air got heavier with every step we took, thick and buzzing like a storm about to burst loose right over our heads. The trees' glow had twisted into something wild, those hues flickered like a beast eyeing us up, hungry and mean as hell.

I swear to you, that forest wasn't just watching, it was picking us apart, figuring if we were fools to gut or prey to play with.

Langston tripped over a gnarled root, and out came a curse sharp enough to slice steel. "Trees don't twist like this, it's pure nonsense!" he snapped, his Californian voice clear as a bell, brushing dirt off as if it'd insulted him personally.

Up on a low branch, Chaucer stretched out, all smug and lazy, like a lord at his leisure. "Oh, Langston, ye dour fool," he purred, his English lilt quick and sly as a London bard, "why drag thy dusty logic into a realm that laughs in its face?" His whiskers twitched, a grin dancing in his eyes.

Langston fired a glare that could've melted a forge. "Some of us still want a shred of sanity!" he shot back, arms crossing tight like a barricade.

Snow let out a wee giggle, soft and lilting from her highlands tongue, as she slipped past them both. But Hamish, he wasn't having any of it, he stood steady as old stone, hands hovering near his swords, those sharp eyes of his cutting through the gloom ahead. "Shut yer traps," he growled, his Scottish burr subtle but firm with sixty-five years of grit, "this place reeks of trouble, and I dinnae like it one wee bit."

He wasn't wrong, I'll tell ye that. That path we were on had turned into a right bastard, roots jabbing up like spikes, branches clawing down like talons, ground uneven as a drunk's stumble. The air stuck in my throat, thick and sour, like the Sanctum itself was trying to choke us out for daring to step in.

Then I caught it, a shimmer, quick as a blink, flickering off to the side. I spun fast, but nothing was there, Snow froze beside me, her staff pulsing as her breath caught sharp. "Did ye see that?" she hissed, her soft Scots lilt tight with worry.

"You bet I did," I said, my pulse kicking up like a drumroll, mostly American straight, with just a hint of my old Scots roots in the rhythm. "And it's not here to swap stories."

Chaucer sniffed the air, his tail stiffening like a quill. "Sprites," he spat, crouching low, his posh English clipped and sure. "Quick as a whip, cruel as a kicked tomcat, and devilish pissed, m'lord."

Langston, still clinging to his doubts like a lifeline, crossed his arms tighter. "Fairies? You're kidding me, right?" he scoffed, voice smooth and Cali-clear, dripping with that skeptical edge.

I shot him a look hard as rock, jaw set firm. "Wake up, Langston, this is Sanctum rules now, not your lab."

More shimmers darted past, faster this time, circling us close. Those lights wove a noose around us, tight and ruthless as a hangman, herding us right where they wanted.

Hamish growled low, steel rasping as he yanked his blades free. "Playtime's done, ye wee devils," he rumbled, stance wide and steady as a wall.

"No," I said, my eyes narrowing to slits, "they're weighing our guts, seeing what we've got."

Then those lights snapped together, fused into a hulking shadow with red eyes blazing like hellfire. It let out a roar that shook the ground under my boots, a bellow so deep it rattled my damn bones, Langston stumbled back, swearing loud enough to wake the dead. "What the hell is that thing?!" he yelled, voice cracking clear and sharp.

"Just an illusion," I said, though that roar sent a chill snaking down my spine cold as a winter burn. "Brace yourselves, they're out to break us."

I thrust my hands out, and wind howled from my palms like a banshee, shredding that shadow into glowing ash that scattered wild. Out came the real bastards, sprites, winged and glittering, with eyes like knives and grins promising a bloody end, they hissed loud as snakes, clutching jagged shards of light in their claws like they meant to carve us up good.

One streaked straight at Hamish, fast as a loosed bolt. He swung hard, his blade sliced it clean in two, and gore sprayed out, black and hot, stinking of charred meat, "They bleed like pigs," he grunted, lips curling into a dark smirk, those old eyes glinting fierce with a warden's fire, always guarding us, even now.

That was the spark we needed, folks. Snow stepped up beside me, frost crackling around her staff like a living storm, she thrust it forward, I heard the sharp snap of ice as spears tore through the air, punching into two sprites mid-flight.

They shrieked loud, wings shattering like frail glass, guts splattering red across the moss in a messy arc. Chaucer vaulted up high, branch to branch, his wakizashi blades flashing deadly in the dim, blood arced wide as he took a sprite's head clean off, and it thudded to the ground like a rotten apple.

I summoned fire, let it roar out of me, a wall of heat that scorched my palms and lit the air ablaze. Sprites screamed as their wings crisped, scattering like burned flies caught in a gust, Langston flinched hard when one buzzed his ear, his yelp broke sharp, arms thrashing wild. "How do you even fight this crap?!" he barked, voice splintering in the chaos, pure Cali panic.

"Grow a damn spine!" I snapped back, hurling a stream of water that slammed a sprite off Snow's flank, sending it crashing wet and broken.

That fight was a grinder, let me tell ye, fast, bloody, and relentless as a hurricane. Those sprites darted like hornets on a rampage, too quick to pin down easy, Hamish carved through them, his steel singing as guts painted his boots, he stood like a wall, keeping us covered.

Snow's ice stabbed true, turning sprite bones to crunching mush with every hit. Chaucer danced in the dark, blades biting meat with every leap, blood trailing his path, one by one, we broke those bastards, till the last one crumpled into fading light, leaving a glowing crystal in the muck.

I snatched it up quick, its warmth pulsing sharp against my palm. "This here's an illusionary crystal, rare as all hell," I said, rolling it in my fingers.

Snow leaned in close, her breath still ragged from the fight, eyes bright with wonder. "It's bonnie," she rasped, her highlands lilt soft but alive.

Chaucer dropped down beside me, wiping gore off his steel with a quick swipe. "Bonnie and gold-worthy," he grinned, fast and sly with that English flare. "This Sanctum's starting to pay its dues, m'lord!"

Langston shook off blood-streaked dirt from his coat, his snort cutting through. "You're all insane!" he muttered, voice flat and Californian, but I caught his eyes snagging on that crystal, sharp, hungry, like it'd hooked him despite himself.

I stashed it in my pouch, feeling the forest's glare bore into me, it was angrier now, no question. Hamish sheathed his blades, his knuckles popping loud as he flexed those old hands. "This place wants us deid, plain and simple," he said, voice surly but steady as granite.

"Yeah," I said, the crystal's hum buzzing against my hip, "and the deeper we cut, the worse it'll hate us."

Chaucer patted my leg, his claws tacky with sprite blood. "Onward, m'lord, loot's calling us loud!" he chirped, all eager and English.

I smirked at him, but it faded fast as lightning. This Sanctum wasn't just testing us, it was plotting our graves, and I could feel it in my bones.

The air turned cold as we carved deeper, a crisp bite sinking into my sweat-slick skin. Those trees swelled up around us, fortress trunks guarding the path like they'd grown to keep us out, the ground smoothed out under our boots, too clean, too deliberate, luring us blind into its jaws.

Chaucer jabbed one of his blades at a hollowed trunk ahead. "There's our way up, a stairway twisting right into the guts of it," he said, voice low and eager with that poet's flair.

Snow stepped close, her fingers brushing the bark, it was alive, thrumming under her touch like a heartbeat. "This wasnae carved," she breathed, eyes wide with highlands awe. "It grew this way."

"Magic," I said, pressing my palm flat against the wood, it pulsed back, humming steady.

Hamish scuffed the first step with his boot, letting out a surly grunt. "Big damn tree, better pay off after all this," he muttered, but his stance stayed solid, ready to guard us up.

We climbed that spiral, the bark's faint glow lighting our way as the forest's murmur faded below. The air sharpened in my lungs, sweet with phantom blooms I couldn't name, burning cold with every breath, my legs ached, steps dragging heavy, but then we broke into the canopy, and damn, it stole the wind right out of me.

Platforms sprawled out before us, woven tight from living branches, they hung between trunks like some fae spider's work. Bridges swayed gentle in the breeze, lanterns casting ghost-light across the whole mess, up above, the canopy shimmered green and silver, sunlight fracturing through it into rivers of gold that danced wild.

Snow stepped onto the nearest platform, her staff hanging limp in her grip, voice barely a thread. "It's bonnie," she whispered, caught up in it, her Scots lilt soft as a lullaby.

Even Hamish, that old stoic warden, let his stone face crack just a hair, awe slipping through. "Aye," he murmured, softer than usual, "it's worth a wee gander, I'll give them that."

The city lay silent around us, shops empty, tools scattered like their owners had bolted mid-breath. Homes locked up tight, magic sealing their doors shut like a clenched fist.

"They've all gone to the castle," I said, keeping my voice low, eyes sweeping the emptiness. "They're waiting for us, mark my words."

Chaucer was already rifling a stall, snagging a tiny gold sword that glinted in his paw. "Cute little thing," he chirped, pocketing it fast with a fistful of coins, his English cheek shining through. "Fae-sized loot, charming as a sonnet!"

Snow's glare sliced through him sharp. "Chaucer, hae some respect for the deid, ye wee thief!" she snapped, her voice firm but sweet, hating the strife.

He winked at her, unbowed as ever. "The dead don't spend, sweet lass, waste not, want not!" he shot back, all cheek and English flair.

I let them bicker, my eyes snagged on the fortress ahead. It gleamed fierce, wood silvered like moonlight, stained glass blazing with liquid fire, reliefs danced across its walls, fae wars, life, defiance etched deep enough to feel. Crossbows bristled along the ramparts, small but lethal, manned by soldiers with eyes glowing hot and ready.

Hamish edged up beside me, his voice a gravel rasp. "They're set for a scrap," he said, hand resting easy but firm on a hilt.

"More than set," I said, my gut coiling tight as a spring. "They're defiant, they see us as the enemy storming their gates."

Snow flanked me, her breath fogging in the cool air. "They're guarding something, or someone," she said, voice steady but tense with that highlands calm.

Chaucer slipped a few more coins into his pouch, his grin sly as sin. "I'd wager both, shiny stakes, m'lord!" he tossed out, quick and light with that poet's tongue.

Langston lingered back a step, shaking his head at the sprawl like it offended him. "This engineering, it's flat-out impossible!" he muttered, voice clear and Californian, no trace of an accent.

"Magic," I said, letting a smirk cut through the weight of it all.

He scowled at me, but for once, he kept his trap shut. We stood there, the fortress pulsing angry and alive in front of us.

Snow's whisper came tight and low. "It's watching us, Robert, I can feel it," she said, her lilt soft but edged now.

"Yeah," I said, the skin on my neck crawling like ants. "It's waiting for blood, no doubt."

Hamish cracked his neck loud, steel shifting at his hips, always ready to shield us. "No retreat now, not after this far," he said, voice rough but sure as granite.

"Never was the plan," I said, locking my eyes on that fortress. "Let's move."

That fortress sharpened with every step we took, glass glinting like fire, carvings clawing the air around it. The Sanctum's rage thrummed hard in my chest, a storm clawing to break loose and swallow us whole.

Then a figure rose up on the low wall, small, just forearm-high, but he carried himself like he owned the damn place. His obsidian skin shimmered faint in the light, wings jagged as broken blades catching the glow, armor swirled silver and blue across his chest, a curved sword hanging at his hip, authority poured off him like heat off a forge.

"Halt, ye intruders!" he bellowed, and damn if his voice didn't crack like a whip despite his size. "Why stomp yer clumsy bulk into our heart, speak, or bleed!"

His stare pinned me where I stood, Snow gripped her staff tight, unease flickering in her stance. Hamish's hands curled firm around his hilts, jaw set like old iron, Chaucer grinned wide, his tail flicking with pure delight at the show.

I stepped up, words coming rough and halting. "We're here for the Sanctum Core, it's in your castle, we reckon," I said, trying to keep it steady, my American drawl tinged with a Scots echo.

That stirred the fae up quick, whispers buzzed sharp like a kicked hive, their hands flaring with rage. Soldiers bristled along the walls, magic crackling hot in their palms, ready to burn us down.

The general's face turned cold as stone, his voice cutting sharp. "Ye grasp nothing, giant," he snapped, wings twitching taut. "Get out, or bleed for it."

Chaucer sauntered forward before I could get a word in, arms flung wide, voice a taunt wrapped in silk. "Bold words, wee chief!" he called, pacing fast with that English swagger. Then he let loose a rhyme that sliced the air like a blade.

"Giants stride, walls crumble fast,

Fire burns where defiance lasts.

City, woods, ash in their wake,

Think hard on the choice ye make."

The general's wings snapped tight, fury blazing in his eyes. "Ye threaten us?!" he roared, hand thrusting up. "Reap it, then, strike them down!"

Magic screamed to life, bolts and fire rained hot from the walls. The air burned fierce, heat searing my face as spells tore into the ground around us.

Hamish parried a firebolt, his steel shrieking loud, he flashed a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Och, ye vicious wee bastards!" he growled, his burr thickening as the fight lit him up.

Snow thrust her staff up quick, a shimmering dome flared around us, but it cracked fast under the barrage. "Hold tight!" she called, her sweet lilt hardening, arms shaking as she braced it.

"Enough of this!" I roared, fists blazing red. I unleashed fire, a wave roared out, slamming the wall's base hard, cracks split the wood wide, and fae scattered like burning moths caught in a storm.

Chaucer dove low behind some stones, his laugh raw and wild. "Fire's the ticket, m'lord, burn them good!" he called, sharp and fierce with that poet's edge.

Hamish pulsed light from his blades, a blinding flare that scattered the next volley wild into the air. "Drop that wall, Robert, now, ye bodach!" he barked, steel flashing fast, his accent thick with heat.

I grinned savage and sharp, earth and fire fused in my gut, molten stone erupting like a tide. It smashed the wall to rubble, shards rained down, fae wings buzzing in panic as they fled.

Snow darted between us, her hands spilling healing light. She pressed Hamish's shoulder, scorched armor hissed under her touch, and he gave her a gruff nod, "Good lass," he muttered, soft for her. Then she hit me, pain flared hot in my arm, then dulled as the graze knit shut.

The castle loomed ahead, fae regrouped on its heights, the general shouting defiance over the chaos.

Then chaos hit us full-on, blood and water drowned that courtyard in a heartbeat. Snow stood fierce at the edge, thrusting her staff high, water roared out of nowhere, a flood smashing through the castle's halls, "Take that, ye beasts!" she cried, her lilt sharp now, sweet voice honed against killers. Fae flew wild, their wings snapping like twigs, bodies slamming walls hard, flyers dove fast, snatching kin from the tide, but that flood chewed them up raw and relentless.

Hamish turned on the walls, his blades swung flat, smashing ramparts to bits. Fae soldiers tumbled, bones snapping loud as they hit the soaked dirt below, some got caught mid-fall by their kin, others splattered hard, crossbows splintered to junk under his fury. "Stay clear, ye wee diabhals, I've got yer backs!" he bellowed, voice rough but steady, that old warden heart keeping us covered, thick burr rolling hot.

Over on the far side, Chaucer had a swarm on his tail, his taunts had lit a fire under them. Firebolts seared his shoulder, blood sprayed wide, spinning him down hard, another bolt punched his side, fur smoking as he crashed behind jagged rubble. A snarl ripped from him, claws raking the dirt in pain, somber now, no jest in it.

Snow flung a vial his way, blue liquid glinted sharp in the air. "Drink it, ye daft mouse!" she barked, her voice cutting through the roar, sweet but steel-edged.

Chaucer snatched it up quick, his hands shook as he popped the cork, taking a fast swig. He splashed the rest on his wounds, liquid hissed, steam curling up, and he winced hard but let out a shaky sigh, "Bloody pixies, rhyme-haters, the lot!" he spat, tail lashing furious, English bite back in his growl. I saw Hamish's eyes flick to him, sharp with worry under that surly mask, caring deep for the wee mouse.

I spun wind around me fast, a howling shield that flung spells wide, smashing them back into the fae who'd dared cast them. My hands blazed up, light missiles split the air, dozens of deadly darts ripping through, fae burst mid-flight, blood misted red, their fragile screams fading quick as they fell.

"Robert!" Hamish bellowed, charging through the gore with a warden's purpose. His swords carved a bloody path straight ahead, his eyes locked on that general like a hound on a hare, "Och, ye're mine, ye wee shite!" he roared, accent thick as peat now.

Light flared around him, he lunged fast, one massive fist snagging the fae clean out of the air. The general thrashed wild, magic sparked in his tiny hands, but it was nothing against Hamish's grip, he squeezed slow, bones creaked loud, the fae's face twisting up in agony.

Despair hit the fae like a wave, their leader dangled, crushed in a giant's hand, and their fight bled out fast. Their hands dimmed, spells faltering as they stared, lost and broken.

Hamish's growl rumbled out, dark and sure as stone. "Call them off, or ye're pulp, ye wee bodach," he said, voice low with sixty-five years of don't-test-me, burr rolling thick.

The general bared his teeth, defiance burning hot, then the castle struck back. A pulse slammed us, black and heavy, it punched my chest hard, another hit quick, air cracked, my ears ringing loud. Then purple light seared my eyes, I blinked, and the courtyard was gone, silence swallowing us whole.

We stood in a throne room, stained glass towered high, slashing rainbows across the floor. The air bit cold into my skin, thick with dread that sank deep.

And there she was, the Queen, tall and fierce on a blackened throne. Her silver-blue skin shimmered like ice, hair flowing wild like moonfire caught in a gale, her wings snapped wide, a crack like shattering ice split the air, flaring iridescent and painting the floor in emerald and gold. Violet eyes bled fury, the room darkening fast as magic coiled tight at her claws, she was no dainty royal, but a storm caged in flesh.

Her voice sliced out, soft and venomous as a blade in the dark. "Ye butcher my kin, torch my home," she said, leaning forward, wings twitching sharp, her own Scots edge biting through. "What excuses yer bloodlust, giants?"

I stepped up, my pulse loud in my ears, locking eyes with her. "We came for the Sanctum Core," I said, voice steady as I could make it, American drawl carrying that faint Scots echo.

Her smile cut like ice, cold, cruel, and deadly as sin. "Ye've found me, ye fool," she said, and I felt that storm ready to break.