Entry 75: Nimmerhold party

Dear diary,
 
 
An hour after returning to the palace and freshening up, we gathered in the hallway—ready, or as ready as one can be, to face the final spectacle of the festival: the grand party.
Everyone had made the effort. The finest clothes we had—or had been gifted—were on display. Even Luke, who until now had rejected anything even remotely fey-touched, had cleaned up nicely. Apparently the hope of impressing a fair fey maiden was enough to sway him after all.
 
All except me.
 
I stepped out in the same black robes I had worn when standing before the king of Keralon. I saw no reason to dress up now. If Keralon’s king hadn’t earned my silk and silver, these obnoxious fey certainly hadn’t. I wasn’t there to impress them. I was there to watch.
 
The grand hall had been transformed. Lanternlight flickered in hues no natural fire could match, casting moving shadows across crystal-laced banners and floating ivy. The room pulsed with music, laughter, and the whisper-thin thread of tension that always lies under the surface at fey gatherings.
 
At the far end of the hall, on a raised dais, lounged King Ulther—a picture of bored indulgence. Around him stood his closest allies: Vivienne, resplendent as ever in her calm authority, and Elanna, the woman from Raven whose magic had once shielded us from harm.
 
We crossed the floor toward the dais, and as we did, the room shifted. Conversations stilled. Heads turned. Eyes locked onto us.
 
Disdain. Contempt. Amusement. Mockery.
 
They dressed their judgments in smiles, in wine cups and whispers, but I could see the edges. These were not friends. These were not allies. This was a court where reputation was armor, and laughter a blade.
Even from that distance, I could feel Wolf’s gaze—cold, calculating, unreadable. Deer stood beside him on the raised walkway, unmoving, ever watchful.
 
I let my eyes scan the crowd, noting faces that stood out from the blur of powdered masks and painted grins.
 
There was Lumiria, a blindingly beautiful fey whose very presence seemed to ripple through the room. Luke, to no one’s surprise, locked onto her the instant he saw her. I could feel his curiosity—and something else—spark like dry tinder.
 
There was Nymeria Windseer, an owl-like humanoid with eyes sharper than any blade in the hall. She watched everything, even us, with clinical detachment. I marked her as a potential ally—or a dangerous observer.
 
A dragonborn, solitary and quiet, stood near the back, seemingly as out of place as we were. I couldn’t get a read on him.
 
And then there was Lady Rootskewer.
 
She didn’t need claws or a crooked nose to reveal what she was. Every inch of her screamed hag, despite the youthful glamour she wore like a child playing dress-up. She wasn’t trying to hide—she wanted us to see.
Of all the faces in the crowd, hers made the hair on my neck stand.
 
As the room resumed its slow rhythm of conversation and dancing, we reached the foot of the dais and stopped. Davozan, master of ceremony announced our presence to the king.
 
King Ulther looked down at us with the expression of a man being mildly inconvenienced by the weather. His smirk was measured, his voice falsely warm as he welcomed us to his party.
 
Then he motioned to the large wolf curled at his feet. Thanked us for the gift.
The truth struck immediately. The Warg King, slain during our venture into the wilds, now reborn—or rather, debased. A dumb beast. A tongue-less pet. Just another tool for Ulther to flex his cruelty and make a point: even kings can be made to heel in Neverhold.
 
We introduced ourselves, one by one.
 
Liliana received the warmest welcome, if it can be called that. No venom, no mockery—her ties to Lady Vivienne still earned her some goodwill. Gael, however, was met with thinly veiled rage. He was accused of murdering Cornu. No trial, no evidence presented. Just an open declaration. Gael, to his credit, didn’t blink. He stood firm, calm, utterly unshaken.
 
Alistan—champion of the people's tournament—was mocked for the title, but he smiled through it. Said it was an honour to entertain the people. Ulther's barb dulled in the air. Alistan’s pride in what the king considered a joke turned it back on him.
Then it was my turn.
 
I gave no bow. No false courtesy. Just met his gaze, eye to eye, and spoke my name with calm clarity.
 
That’s when everything changed.
 
His lips moved—but all sound vanished.
 
Not dulled. Gone.
 
I scanned the room. The courtiers still laughed. Glasses clinked. Dancers moved to music I could no longer hear. Only we were caught in this soundless cage, held apart from the rest.
 
But I was not the only one who noticed. Lady Rootskewer watched me closely, her eyes sharp and gleaming with interest. She knew. Whatever spell had been cast, she had seen through it.
 
When his speech—whatever mockery it had contained—ended, the noise returned instantly, as if someone had lifted a glass dome off our heads.
 
I met his gaze again and smiled.
 
A quiet shrug. An expression of mild amusement. Nothing more.
 
And in that moment, he lost. He didn’t get the outrage, the submission, or even the satisfaction of a reaction. Just my indifference.
 
The court may be his playground, but I had learned something far more valuable than his disdain: Lady Rootskewer was watching me, not with contempt—but curiosity.
 
She knew something.
 
And I would make sure we spoke before the night was done.
 
My brother was next.
 
Like me, Luke did not bow. Did not flatter. Did not even pretend to care for the game Ulther was so eager for us to play.
The king, clearly baiting him, chastised Luke’s pursuit of tower magic—called it foul.
 
Luke, with all the dry contempt only a sibling can perfect, replied that the king was an expert in all things foul. It landed with precision. A quiet insult, dismissive and sharp, offered with an arched brow and no further explanation.
 
That seemed to break whatever interest the king had in us. No angry retort. Just bored dismissal. We weren’t playing the part he had written for us, and without the satisfaction of outrage or submission, he waved us away like a failed performance.
 
We turned and left the dais.
 
But not before I passed Davozan.
 
“Thank you,” I said, just loud enough. “For being the most noble of all the fey gathered here tonight.”
 
He smiled, a slow and knowing smile, and gave me a small bow. No words. Just that glimmer in his eye—one predator recognizing another.
 
Now free to mingle, I gathered a plate of food and wine, but my destination was clear from the start: Lady Rootskewer.
 
She greeted me warmly and gestured to the seat beside her. Her smile was wide, unreadable, and yet somehow genuine. I sat without hesitation. And—true to my subtle nature—I asked immediately what she knew of the spell that had silenced Ulther’s words from reaching my ears.
 
Her answer didn’t just surprise me—it confirmed a quiet, hopeful suspicion.
 
She smiled, leaned in, and said it had been her doing. Then she added something that made the air in my lungs still: she had come as a favor to someone who loves me. Someone we both know.
 
Sister Willow.
 
Watching over me still, even here. Even now. Since the day I was born, it seems.
 
The moment settled heavily over me, not as a burden, but as something warm. Protective. Rooted. A reminder that no matter how far I roam, I am not alone.
 
Lady Rootskewer changed the topic then, but in truth, we were still talking about the same thing. She asked what I thought of the fey.
 
I told her.
 
I said I no longer saw the fey as one people. There are two kinds to me now: those like her, Sister Willow, Davozan—older, deeper things, with wisdom and patience etched into every line of their presence. And then the others: the young fey, the eladrin, the masks and the games—fickle children playing with knives and calling it politics.
 
She laughed. Not mocking, but pleased.
 
“You see clearly,” she said, “and few do.” She agreed with my assessment and then added something else: Davozan is a Fomorian. Ancient. Far older than most here. And he plays the fool because it keeps others from seeing the truth of him.
It made sense.
 
Here in Neverhold, truth is just another secret. Another weapon. And wisdom is most dangerous when it’s hidden behind a smile.
 
Lady Rootskewer tilted her head ever so slightly, watching me as one might study the embers of a fire to see which way the wind would carry the smoke.
 
She asked me about Keralon—a deliberate prod. She’d heard me call the fey nobles here children, and yet I serve nobles there, do I not?
 
I smirked. “I serve the people of Keralon. Not the nobles. Not the king.”
 
Being a knight is just a tool, a mask of its own. One I wear because it gets me close to the things that matter.
The crown? It means nothing. The court? A puppet stage.
 
That answer earned me another smile. It wasn’t polite. It was pleased. The look of a teacher hearing their pupil speak truth in their own words.
 
Why was I here? Why bother with these theatrics, if my opinion of the fey is what it is? Why had I come?
 
She admitted she hadn’t expected me to attend at all. So I gave her my truth:
 
“I’m here for my friends. Not for the king. If it had been up to me alone, we would never have set foot in this city. Damned be Ulther and his vanity.”
 
Another nod. Another quiet victory. I could feel it. I was being tested, weighed, measured. And so far, I was passing.
 
Then she offered something in return—not a name, but a shape in shadow. She said she serves another, someone who cannot act directly. Someone close to us both.
 
She didn’t need to say it. We both heard the name in our minds: Sister Willow.
 
The ancient fey, sealed away by the others who feared her. Watching over me all my life.
 
I thanked her for that—her time, her protection, her honesty—and she smiled once more, as though she’d given me a torch to carry through some coming darkness.
 
Before she turned away, she offered one last piece of counsel:
 
“Speak to Davozan,” she said.
“Convince him to give you one of his keys.”
 
A simple sentence. But it landed like prophecy.
A key to what?
 
I didn’t ask. I just nodded, and tucked the puzzle away, knowing it would come back around when it was time.
 
At that moment, Liliana joined us, smiling politely as she sat across from us. Rootskewer’s gaze shifted—still kind, but sharp. Surgical.
 
She began again, just as she had with me: questions about Keralon, about loyalty, about Lady Vivienne.
 
And then she asked a question she hadn’t asked me.
 
“Who would you never betray?”
 
My heart slowed as I turned toward Liliana.
No hesitation. No breath taken.
Just one word.
 
“Hayley.”
 
My name. Soft. Certain.
 
Gods, Liliana. My sweet, sweet Liliana.
 
The answer bloomed in my chest, warm and bittersweet. It made me smile, and ache, and worry, all at once.
Because while it was the answer I had expected to hear… it wasn’t the right one.
 
I saw it in Rootskewer’s eyes as clearly as I felt it in my bones. She didn’t frown. She didn’t flinch. But there was something there—pity, maybe. Or disappointment.
 
Because the only right answer… the only one that can stand in the long night…
 
…is yourself.
 
And maybe one day, Liliana will understand that.
And maybe, one day, she’ll choose herself first.
And I’ll be proud of her when she does.
 
Before I could respond to Liliana’s declaration—before I could say what I felt—the room exploded with gasps.
 
Magic flared. All eyes turned.
 
Luke.
 
He had cast something—maybe a spell to impress Lumiria, or perhaps just curiosity reaching too far. Either way, the magic didn't behave like it should have. Not in the Feywild.
Instead, the air rippled open, and for a brief, blinding moment, we saw through.
Not to another realm. Not even to something known.
We saw chaos—raw, primordial chaos. Something ancient, untamed. Something older than magic, older than thought.
 
It passed as quickly as it came, but I saw the fear flash across the faces of the nobles.
 
That’s what they’re afraid of.
 
Not us. Not the towers. Not even Luke.
 
They’re afraid that the walls are thinning, that the structure of the Feywild is cracking under the weight of something buried—something true.
 
As the echoes faded and the crowd began murmuring again, Gael reappeared at my side with a message from Nymeria Windseer. She wished to speak with Lady Rootskewer in the gardens. The hag rose and, before slipping away, gave me one more task:
"Speak to Alistan. Ask him about the figurine. The old woman."
 
I tucked that away. Another clue. Another thread.
 
Then Liliana took my hand.
 
Her touch was soft but firm—like a tether. She smiled and pulled me toward the dance floor. I resisted, instinctively, but she was having none of it. So I let her lead me.
And for a moment… it was beautiful.
 
The fey magic in the air lifted us. We weren’t dancing on the floor—we were floating, high above it, on soft clouds tinged in pink, beneath a sky of glittering stars. The music wasn’t coming from anywhere. It was inside us, moving our feet, guiding our hearts.
 
But the beauty was a trap.
 
It started subtly. People fading. Faces vanishing. My mind unraveling.
Until I was alone with the music, and even the music was pulling me apart.
Thoughts blurred. Time slowed. My sense of self… began to fade.
 
And then—
Liliana.
She yanked me back. Hard. A sharp pull. A grounding kiss.
 
And just like that, the clouds turned back to air, the stars blinked out, and I was myself again.
 
Thank you, Liliana.
 
You knew. You saw it for what it was—and you saved me.
 
But not all of us were so lucky.
When the spell lifted, only about half the dancers returned.
Luke.
Gael.
Gone.
Not dead. Not hurt. Just… swept away.
 
Carried by the magic into whatever dream-realm the Feywild calls its own.
 
Liliana, calm as ever, reassured me. “They’ll be back in the morning,” she said. “This happens.”
 
But her words didn’t ease the anger in me.
 
This wasn’t a dream.
It was manipulation.
Another intrusion. Another trick.
Another way for the Feywild to touch us, change us, without consent.
 
Then, of course, Ulther rose.
 
He stood with theatrical flair, arms raised, commanding silence with his presence.
 
And he announced—our apology.
 
He paused when he noticed the missing members of our group.
 
Liliana stepped in—graceful, poised—and explained.
 
They had been swept away by the dance’s enchantment, she said. It was not their doing.
He accepted the answer with a dismissive wave. Of course he did. This whole “apology” isn’t about logic—it’s about dominance.
About seeing whether we’ll bend the knee when he snaps his fingers.
 
I will not.
No matter what game he thinks he’s playing…
I am not a piece on his board.
 
When King Ulther turned to Davozan, intent on further humiliating us—mocking Luke and Gael for being "weak-willed mortals" swept up in the magic—I braced myself.
 
But Davozan surprised even me.
 
He met the king’s barb with a calm, devastating reply:
That Luke and Gael were not to blame.
That they were not weak-willed.
That if anyone was at fault for their absence, it was Ulther himself.
 
The air in the hall changed. I saw Ulther’s eyes flash, his smirk waver.
 
He had not expected to be challenged. Certainly not by someone like Davozan, whom he likely thought beneath the politics of court.
 
But there it was—public defiance, elegantly delivered.
 
I didn’t hesitate. I stepped forward and added fuel to the flame:
I offered Davozan my sincerest thanks—my gratitude that at least one noble fey in the hall saw no need to cloak every word in deceit.
 
He accepted it with a smile, voice calm as ever.
“No bad blood between us.”
 
For Ulther, that was the last straw.
 
With barely a flicker of grace, he dismissed us—snapped the whole matter closed with a wave of his hand and a curt command. The "apology" had become a farce, and he knew it.
 
We didn’t wait. We left the dais without a word to the king and went to sit with Davozan instead. We offered him something real—an invitation.
 
He would always be welcome in Wolf’s Rest.
In return, he gave us a ring.
A simple band, ancient and cold to the touch.
"A one-time portal," he said.
To his domain, should we ever wish to visit.
It was an honor, and one I took seriously.
 
As the others drifted away to mingle, I leaned in and quietly asked Davozan if he would speak with me in private. He agreed.
 
I returned to my room first, away from the noise and flattery, away from the games. I needed silence. I needed honesty.
 
When he arrived, I didn’t waste time with pleasantries. I told him the truth.
 
That I do not play in riddles or veiled compliments. That what I’ve learned over these last months has shaped my views of the fey, not softened them. That to me, most of the fey—the noble courts, the eladrin, the gilded dancers and whispering flatterers—are children. Petty, self-obsessed, and fragile.
 
But that there is another kind.
 
The hags, the ancients, and beings like him.
Not kind, not tame—but grown.
They may be dangerous, but at least they are honest in their nature.
They do not pretend to be anything other than what they are.
 
I told him that Lady Rootskewer had sent me. That she had asked hard questions—probing ones—not to unsettle me, but to measure something. Where I stood. Why I was here. Who I truly serve.
 
I told him that, had it been my choice alone, I never would have come to this absurd gathering. That I have no interest in pleasing Fey royalty or dancing to their whims. But—truth be told—I was glad I came. Because it allowed me to meet him. A creature who didn’t wrap every truth in illusion. A being of ancient weight and real substance.
 
Then, in my usual subtle way, I dropped the real reason I’d asked for this meeting.
 
I told him Rootskewer had asked me to convince him to give me one of his keys.
 
I didn’t know what it was for, or why she would ask it of me. And I wasn’t about to lie or manipulate to get it. I said as much.
 
He didn’t laugh, nor look offended.
 
He looked… thoughtful. And something in his eyes softened.
 
Davozan said he understood exactly what I was talking about—and more than that, he was impressed. Most mortals, he said, can’t tell the difference between Fey like himself and the flighty, preening nobility above. To them, it’s all glimmer and magic. But I’d seen deeper, and that, he said, was rare.
 
Then he told me a story I did not expect to hear.
 
He spoke of the Fomorians. His people.
 
Once, long ago, they ruled the Feywild. Not alone—Hags shared that power with them. The Fomorians were reflections of the ancient giants of the mortal realm. Powerful, primordial, proud. But then came the Elves. The Eladrin. New, beautiful, swift-breeding and many. The younger Fey. They overwhelmed the old. And so the Fomorians were driven down, into the hollow realms beneath the Feywild, condemned to live in the dark places below while the Eladrin built their glittering courts above.
 
Davozan lives beneath the Neverhold. That is why he serves Ulther, though he clearly does so without love. He is bound by oath, not affection. His duty is for the good of his people.
 
When I mentioned the keys, he stilled. I had struck a chord.
 
He admitted he was surprised Rootskewer would speak of them to a mortal. Something in his voice told me that this was ancient, sacred knowledge—not shared lightly, not even between Fey.
 
He told me of an old temple—now long lost.
A temple once dedicated to five spirits, known together as the Blood Pentacle:
 
Sister Willow,
Brother Stalker,
Mother Root,
Father Bright, and
A triune force known only as The Three Fates.
 
The temple, he said, was torn from the Feywild itself and now floats somewhere in the Astral Plane, severed and adrift. He once served there, as a priest.
Only Father Bright still remains.
 
Sister Willow and Brother Stalker sleep beneath the Lorewood.
 
What became of Mother Root and The Three Fates is unknown.
 
And the keys?
 
They are the only way to reach the temple now. He possesses them—ancient, potent artifacts of navigation and access. Each can only be used three times. Then they are spent.
 
If Rootskewer wants me to go there, he said, then he will trust her judgment. And mine. He will give me a key.
 
My breath caught for a moment—not from awe, but from the weight of what was unfolding. I had not expected this. But I had also not expected to feel ready.
 
Whatever Rootskewer is preparing for—whatever stirs beneath the forest floor and in the lost corners of the Feywild—it is old. And it is coming.
 
And somehow, I am now a part of it.
 
I smiled at Davozan, finally understanding what Rootskewer saw in him. There was no pomp, no grand illusion—only age, power, and the quiet dignity of someone who had survived long after others had turned to dust.
 
“I think I understand now,” I told him. “Why Rootskewer sent me. Why she trusts you. Why Sister Willow…” I paused, pulling the bracelet from under my sleeve. “...why she has always been watching over me.”
 
I held it up, the little thing that had become so much more.
 
“This connects them all, doesn’t it? Sister Willow is at the heart of it. I’ve only recently learned just how long she’s been looking out for me. It was her magic that protected me from Ulther’s curse. It was her that sent Rootskewer. And perhaps... it's her hand guiding all of this.”
 
Then I said what needed to be said, directly. Honestly.
 
“If you want to give me the key, I’ll accept. But I need to ask—are you sure? It’s a powerful artifact. And while I will not trick you, I need you to know you can trust me.”
 
He studied me for a long moment—silent, unreadable. Then, with a slow nod, he reached into a pouch at his side and produced the key. Cold. Heavy. Old.
 
“Trust is not something easily given by my kind,” he said. “But the favor of Sister Willow and Rootskewer is not something I take lightly. They believe in you. That will do—for now.”
 
He pressed it into my hand.
 
“The key will take you to the temple. But only three times. Use it wisely.”
 
I thanked him with all the sincerity I could muster. Then, with the key safe, I asked what to expect on the other side.
 
His expression darkened.
 
“The temple is no sanctuary anymore,” he said. “It’s a ruin. It floats on a barren shard in the Astral Plane—nothing but rock and dust and black sky. It was once a place of reverence, blood, and ritual. A mausoleum, sacred and still.”
“But now,” he continued, “it has changed. For the past century or so, something has made its home there. Beings not of this world. Not of any world, perhaps. From deep within the Astral dark, or beyond it. They are dangerous. Some are mindless. Others so alien they cannot be reasoned with. I no longer go there.”
 
He looked me in the eyes then.
 
“I don’t know what Rootskewer wants with that place. It’s not a vault of knowledge. No libraries. No scrolls. Just the residue of ancient rites, and maybe... ghosts. If you go, bring strength. And blood. The temple was never about understanding. It was about remembering.”
 
I stood, placing the key in a pouch close to my chest.
 
“I hope I never betray the trust you’ve placed in me,” I said quietly. “And know that my home, Wolf’s Rest, is open to you. As a friend.”
 
As we walked to the door, I turned back once more.
 
“One more thing,” I said. “I intend to dismantle the feudal rot choking both Neverhold and Keralon. This whole corrupted system... it has no place in the world we want to build.”
 
Davozan gave me a small smile. Wry. Knowing. He didn’t say anything.
 
He didn’t need to.
And then he was gone.
 
Not long after, Liliana returned. Without a word, I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close, holding her there for a moment longer than usual.
“I’m glad we’re going home tomorrow,” I said, my voice soft against her hair.
She smiled up at me, and for the first time in what felt like days, I let the weight of everything I had learned settle in silence.
 
A key. A ruined temple. Sleeping gods.
 
And a future, still uncertain—yet more mine than ever before.