Threadborn

I never asked to be the chosen anything. I had a nice enough life, if you enjoy communing with dead people, wrangling ghostly regrets, and being occasionally mistaken for a lost Victorian child. Harrowers don’t get holidays, and we certainly don’t get destiny. We get well-worn boots, crumbling field journals, and maybe—if we’re lucky—a thermos that doesn’t leak. I was fine with that.



Then came the part where I accidentally got involved in a celestial conspiracy. You know, the usual: unraveling the fabric of fate, discovering I may or may not be some mythical thread-weaver, dodging bureaucratic Fae with sharp smiles and sharper agendas, and, most inconveniently of all, developing a highly inconvenient attraction to a certain exiled Huntsman of the Unseelie Court who looks he stepped out GQ: Gothic Edition and smells like rain.



Alaric Fen. Yes, that Alaric. The one with the eyes like amber lightning and cheekbones you could cut yourself on.



Now I’m trying to stop the Balance from folding like a wet towel, while two ancient Courts most humans are blissfully unaware about flirt with civil war, and everyone keeps looking at me like I’ve got the answers. I don't. I have tattoos I didn't sign up for, a fast-talking con artist for a best friend, and some stubborn hope that kindness still counts for something.



So if you're looking for a grand epic of magic, love, betrayal, memory, and rebellion—well. Here we are.  Just… don’t expect me to smile about it. Come along if you'd like. I could use someone on my side.



-Entry from the diary of Grey Wyrde