The crossing from Nightbloom was not marked by distance, but by surrender.
When Aurelian stepped onto the hidden path, the world folded inward, shadow layering over shadow until even time seemed unsure of its pace.
The sea did not roar here. It whispered.
Dark waters stretched endlessly beneath a sky without sun or moon, illuminated only by drifting motes of emerald light—fragments of ancient spells guiding those permitted to pass.
Aurelian walked upon nothing solid, yet never sank. His shadow stretched ahead of him, shaping itself into a road where none existed. With every step, the presence of Nightbloom receded, replaced by something heavier, rougher.
The realm of men.
He felt it before he saw it—the weight of iron belief, the dull ache of a world that had forgotten how to listen to magic. Westeros pressed against his senses like cold stone.
The path ended without ceremony. One step carried him from shadow to sand, and the illusion collapsed behind him like a closing eye.
Aurelian stood upon a narrow, jagged shore beneath a gray sky. Waves crashed against black rocks, salt spray biting against his skin. No glamour hid this land. It was harsh, unyielding, and very real.
He drew a slow breath. The air tasted of smoke and old blood.
Far in the distance, cliffs rose like broken teeth, their faces scarred by wind and war. No banners flew here, no welcoming horns sounded. Westeros did not announce itself—it endured.
Aurelian pulled his cloak tighter, shadows curling naturally around its edges. His magic quieted itself, folding inward as his mother had taught him. Here, power needed subtlety.
Footprints marred the sand nearby—human, recent. He crouched, brushing his fingers near them without touching. Fear lingered in the impression, sharp and frantic.
Something had chased them.
From the cliffs above came the echo of raised voices. Men arguing, their words sharp with suspicion and hunger. Aurelian rose soundlessly, eyes lifting toward the sound.
He moved as the Dark Fae did best—not unseen, but unnoticed. Shadows bent around him as he climbed, masking movement rather than erasing it.
At the cliff's edge, he peered down upon a small encampment. Rough tents, damp firewood, rusted armor. These were not knights or lords—mercenaries, perhaps, or deserters.
At their center lay a broken crate marked with faded runes.
Fae runes.
Aurelian's jaw tightened.
One of the men kicked the crate in frustration. "Told you it was cursed," he spat. "Storm came out of nowhere after we hauled it up."
Another laughed nervously. "Everything's cursed if you're stupid enough."
The crate shuddered faintly, as if answering them.
Aurelian felt the pull again—the same tug he had sensed within Nightbloom. Whatever lay inside that box did not belong in this world.
And it was afraid.
A twig snapped beneath his foot before he could stop it.
Steel scraped free of a sheath. "Who's there?" a man shouted, fear sharp now, naked.
Aurelian stepped into view.
Gasps followed. Men froze, eyes widening at his unnatural poise, the way the shadows clung to him like living things.
"I will take what you stole," Aurelian said calmly. His voice carried—not loud, but absolute. "And you will leave this place."
One man laughed, brittle and desperate. "And who in seven hells are you supposed to be?"
Aurelian's eyes flashed emerald-gold.
"Someone older than your fear," he replied.
The crate burst open on its own.
Dark green light spilled outward, warping the air. The men shouted, stumbling back as thorned vines of shadow erupted, wrapping weapons, pinning feet—not crushing, not killing.
Controlled.
Aurelian lifted his hand, and the magic obeyed.
Within the crate lay a shard of black crystal, pulsing like a heartbeat. A fae relic—one of the Veil Anchors, meant to stabilize the borders between realms.
Here, it was a beacon.
Aurelian closed his fingers around it, and the crystal stilled instantly, recognizing its kin.
The men fled moments later, scrambling over rocks and sand, leaving curses and prayers behind in equal measure.
When silence returned, the wind shifted.
Aurelian turned slowly.
From the ridge above the camp stood a lone figure wrapped in a dark cloak, watching him with sharp, knowing eyes. No fear. No confusion.
Interest.
Their gaze met.
Somewhere deep within Westeros, a new thread tightened in the weave of fate.
The Dark Fae prince had arrived.