Lysander
Six thousand years of diplomatic protocol hadn't prepared me for breakfast cereal that sparkled or showerheads that sang operatic renditions of mortal love songs. The hidden folk had transformed Bloodmoon packhouse into something that straddled the line between Summer Court elegance and a fever dream decorated by enthusiastic children with access to glitter and magic markers.
I stood at the edge of the dead grass crescent, watching the sun set behind the mountains while tiny wood fae tried unsuccessfully to coax life back into the Shadow Queen's calling card. Their frustrated murmurs sounded like leaves rustling in autumn wind.
"Nothing works," one complained, her bark-like skin furrowing with concern. "The soil remembers only void. It has forgotten how to grow."
The message c
