Myra discarded the mundane findings—the fungus matches, the geographical cross-referencing—and focused purely on the arcane. As a powerful White Witch, she knew that every spell, every ward, and every Fae presence left an energetic residue, a signature she could track if she focused her considerable power correctly.
She isolated the frame of the video where Octavia Vane was closest, her eyes closed in deep concentration. She wasn't just looking at the video; she was using a potent scrying ritual focused entirely on the magical imprint left on the broadcast. She was looking for the scent of Fae power.
What she found was immediate and nauseating: a faint, corrupted Fae signature, like perfume mixed with rot. It was a sickly-sweet magic that spoke of deliberate decay and long-abandoned energy.
“It’s not clean Fae power,” Myra declared, her voice low. A silver circlet on her forehead, part of her focus ritual, seemed to pulse with faint white light. “The magic she used to bind Amelia is heavy with the static of a dying source. It’s been tainted, deliberately muddied to cloak her location.”
Kian stepped closer, his jaw tight. “A ward? Can we counter-spell it?”
“Wards are defensive; this is environmental,” Myra explained, gesturing to the subtle energy distortion in the corner of the image. “She wasn’t just casting on Amelia; she was leveraging the energy of the space. The magic suggests proximity to a dimensional hinge—a nexus point.”
A nexus point, the thin, vulnerable places where the Mortal and Fae Realms brushed against each other, was the highest possible security risk. Active nexuses were guarded by both Morvane and Fae forces.
“A fully active nexus is impossible,” Kian reiterated. “They are all accounted for, or destroyed.”
“Precisely,” Myra confirmed. “This isn’t an active one. This is a fading nexus. An ancient doorway, long unused and decaying, perhaps collapsing entirely. The energy is residual, corrupted by time and mortal earth. It provides a perfect magical shield, a natural jammer for both Morvane scrying and Fae monitoring.”
Gareth immediately saw the strategic brilliance of the placement. “They are using the background noise of the fading door to hide. If they are on the mortal realm side, near a fading door, it means they are maximizing the confusion. They are physically in our territory, but magically hidden in another.”
Myra pulled up a rarely used, highly sensitive historical map used by her Coven for tracking ancient magical disturbances. She overlaid her calculated energetic footprint—the combined signature of the corrupted Fae magic and the persistent mechanical thrum she’d detected.
The screen flashed, and a single, long-forgotten location flared red on the map: a remote, decaying structure deep within the Greyclaw Mountains, historically marked as the site of a minor trade nexus used centuries before the Great Sundering.
“The Greyclaw Manor,” Myra whispered, recognizing the name from forgotten witch lore. “It was owned by a rogue Morvane family, but it was built directly on the fading doorway by their Fae contact centuries ago. It’s been vacant for over three hundred years. The records indicate the manor was constructed of heavy, rough-cut Greyclaw Oak—the exact wood grain from the video.”
The confluence of physical data and arcane insight was undeniable. They had the target.
Kian felt the crushing weight of the unknown lift, replaced by the acute pressure of the clock. “The Greyclaw Manor is roughly eight hours away by stealth runner through the mountain passes. We move immediately.”
“No,” Gareth quickly countered, planting his hand firmly on the map. “We stick to the plan. You broadcast tomorrow morning. Vane is watching for any sign of panic or abnormal mobilization. We need that window of attention. If we move now, the chaos we cause will trigger Amelia's execution.”
Kian fought the animal urge to run, to sprint toward the coordinates. “And if she goes into labor? We are talking about hours, Gareth.”
“That is why the infiltration must be flawless,” Myra said, her eyes meeting Kian’s. “We use the day to prepare the team and gather Fae-resistant countermeasures. You must give the broadcast first. You must buy us the safety window to approach unseen.”
Kian knew the truth in her words. The price of his kingdom was the shield that would allow them to save his Queen.
“Very well,” Kian conceded, his voice heavy with self-loathing. “The broadcast goes ahead. Gareth, begin the mobilization of the strike team—in stages, under the cover of a routine training exercise. Myra, you and I will map the final approach path. We have one night to prepare to storm the Greyclaw Manor.”