LIV
Lorian's father had arranged transport, a sporty black car, tinted windows, fairy blooded driver with ears that faintly grew into a point, eyes shining in the dim light. The representatives of Europe didn't do things halfway. They were old families, old power, old magic. They moved with the kind of quiet efficiency that made you feel watched even when no one spoke.
The rain hammered the roof of the car as you drove through London.
Orange streetlamps blurred into streaks. Pedestrians hurried under umbrellas.
The city felt alive, unaware of the supernatural politics unfolding within it.
Lorian stared out the window, jaw tight, exhaustion still clinging to him. He had spent the last five days juggling business calls, damage control, and supernatural diplomacy. Now he was bracing himself for the council an arena far more vicious than any boardroom. His father had dealt with these people for years, and now it was his turn.
I sat beside him, the soul‑mirror wrapped in a scarf to keep it from catching the light. Lorian's cool hand touched mine, fingers spreading, he gripped it. He knew I was nervous, and in turn, I could feel his stress through his long fingers.
Inside my mind, the hat man whispered persistently.
"Princess… let me out…I can help you…I can protect you…
Let me feed a little…," his voice pleaded, poking at my sympathy.
His voice slid into my mind like the cold drops of rain dripped down my back from my wet hair. Even in the waking world, he found cracks. "Stop," I muttered. Of course he didn't.
He was tied to me. My spirit woven into the cage that held him. And the council's plan, the one Lorian's father hinted at, made your stomach twist.
I days to realize what the council might demand. They wouldn't want him destroyed. He was powerful and had intelligence of his own.
They'd want to use him as a weapon, a deterrent.
A threat around the throat of something worse.
With my spirit woven into his cage. I would be his leash, his choke chain.
I'd be the one responsible for feeding him just enough to keep him stable, but not enough to let him grow strong. The one who would have to monitor him, manage him, keep him from starving or exploding or slipping through cracks. I'd be the handler of a dog barely in control, and at any time he could bite back savagely.
The rain intensified, drumming against the car like a warning.
Lorian's father's estate loomed ahead. It was an old stone manor with ivy crawling up the walls, lanterns glowing in the mist, and wards shimmering faintly in the air. A Georgian sprawl of an estate.
The car slowed. The gates opened.
I tightened my grip on the soul‑mirror as the hat man whispered again, weak but relentless.
"My darling…Don't let them bind me…Don't let them starve me…I can give you anything…"
I stepped out into the cold English rain, a steward holding a black umbrella above my head as we were escorted to the manor doors.
The council waited inside. Some sat inside with pale, luminous skin that seemed to catch candlelight even in shadow. Others sported pinkish‑brown hair with undertones of rose gold or copper, shifting like autumn leaves. Many had upturned or faintly pointed ears, not enough to draw human suspicion, but unmistakable to anyone who knew the signs. Cool piercing eyes with a glassy sheen, like polished river stones, brown, green, blue, but always too bright. Their irises tinged with magic. They arrived in small clusters, each family carrying the subtle marks of their lineage and aristocratic bearing.
None of them were pure fey. But none of them were fully human either. They were descendants of changelings that stayed far from fairy, in their adopted human countries. Their magic was diluted, but still potent. They stood behind politics that were ancient. Their alliances were complicated, and their interest in the hat man was immediate.
We were led into a long hall lined with portraits of kings, queens, dukes, and duchesses whose fairy traits had been painted subtly, hidden beneath powdered wigs and royal attire. The air smelled of old wood, rain, and faint enchantment.
The representatives took their seats at a round table carved from a single piece of oak. Lorian's father stood to the right, near the head, his presence commanding, his pale eyes sharp.
I held the scarf wrapped soul‑mirror close to me, its faint pulse tapping against my palms like a heartbeat.
The room quieted.
A woman with rose‑gold hair and a crown‑straight posture spoke first. "We understand you carry the entity responsible for the sylph massacre."
Her voice was calm, Her eyes calculating.
Another representative leaned forward, his pointed ears barely visible beneath his dark curls. "Is it true he is bound to your spirit through the mirror?"
You nodded. "Yes."
A ripple of interest moved through the room, voices soft and dangerous.
Lorian shifted beside you, protective tension radiating off him.
The council didn't waste time. They spoke of utility, not mercy. Some offered observations and strategy, not safety. They emphasized opportunity, no ethics involved.
"The hat man is dangerous," one said, "but so are the things that lurk beyond our borders."
"He could be a deterrent," another murmured. "A leash around the throat of greater evils."
"A weapon," someone else added.
Their eyes slid toward you. "You would be his keeper," the rose‑gold woman said. "His anchor. His stabilizer."
My stomach tightened.
Lorian's father raised a hand. "We must also consider the danger to her. The entity drains spirit energy. If he feeds too deeply, she will weaken permanently."
A man with pale skin and copper hair shrugged. "Then we ration his feeding."
"On what?" Lorian snapped. "People?"
"No," the man said calmly. "On controlled sources. Spirit wells. Magical reservoirs. Perhaps—" his eyes flicked to us "—a tethered flesh body to keep him grounded."
They wanted to find a host, a body for the hat man to inhabit. They wanted to control the amount of spirit energy he absorbed, something manageable that they could use to keep the hat man to this plane, powerful, but relatively safe.
A body for the hat man to inhabit was suggested. Something enough to keep his spirit stable, but not enough to let him run wild.
The council wasn't cruel. They were pragmatic.
They had spent centuries balancing human politics with fairy magic. They had fought wars humans never knew existed. They had lost kingdoms to creatures worse than the hat man.
They saw him not as a monster, but as a resource.
And I was the only person capable of caging and controlling him.
The rain hammered the manor windows. Candles flickered.
Lorian leaned close, voice low and fierce. "We're not letting them turn you into his keeper."
But the council's eyes told us one thing clearly: They weren't asking.