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EIGHT

AERIN

T he Mistwhisper Falls Harvest Festival transformed the town square into something that looked like a fairy tale come to life, if fairy tales included protection wards disguised as decorative bunting and blessing ceremonies that actually worked.

It had been close to two weeks since her arrival in the town.

Aerin moved through the crowded celebration with the careful attention of someone conducting fieldwork, her notebook discretely recording conversations with elderly residents who carried oral histories passed down through generations of founder families.

Leo maintained his protective vigilance from a distance that allowed him to monitor threats while giving Aerin space to work, though his lion was making that increasingly difficult.

Every time another male engaged Aerin in conversation—whether human, shifter, or fae—his animal half responded with possessive instincts that required conscious effort to suppress.

The festival's cheerful chaos provided perfect cover for surveillance, but it also created dozens of potential threats that kept his enhanced senses on constant alert.

"Mrs. Hartwell," Aerin was saying to the elderly lawyer who'd handled her inheritance paperwork, "your family has been in Mistwhisper Falls since the beginning. Have you heard any stories about a fourth founder? Someone who might have been written out of the official records?"

Margaret Hartwell paused in her examination of hand-carved wooden charms, her sharp eyes studying Aerin with the assessment of someone who recognize significant questions. "There are always stories, dear. Though some stories are told less often than others, if you understand my meaning."

"I understand completely," Aerin replied, accepting a cup of mulled cider from a passing vendor while maintaining the casual tone of someone making polite conversation. "Sometimes the most interesting stories are the ones families prefer to keep private."

"Exactly. Though I will say that my great-grandmother used to mention a woman named Mordaine who had a falling out with the other founders over 'matters of the heart and magic.

'" Margaret's voice dropped to the confidential tone used for sharing gossip that might be more than rumor.

"The story goes that she tried to change the founding binding after it was completed, and the others had to exile her to prevent her from compromising their work. "

Aerin made careful notes while maintaining an expression of academic interest rather than personal urgency. "Do you know what kind of changes she wanted to make?"

"Something about protection versus containment, according to the family stories.

Mordaine supposedly argued that just locking something away wasn't a permanent solution, that they needed safeguards against the binding being corrupted from within.

" Margaret selected a charm carved with symbols that made Aerin's fae heritage tingle with recognition.

"Of course, given what happened to her lover, she might have had personal motivations for wanting to change the magical arrangements. "

"What happened to her lover?"

"Kieran Maddox," Margaret said, and Aerin felt her breath catch at the familiar surname.

"Lion shifter, from what the stories say.

Mordaine's magical experiments supposedly drove him mad with visions and phantom pain.

He died screaming about betrayal and corruption, claiming she'd poisoned their bond to save them both. "

Leo appeared at Aerin's elbow with the silent approach that marked him as predator, his enhanced hearing having apparently caught enough of the conversation to trigger protective concern.

"Mrs. Hartwell, that's an interesting family history.

I don't suppose there are any written records of these stories? "

"Captain Maddox," Margaret said with the warm familiarity of someone who'd known Leo since childhood.

"I should have guessed you'd be interested, given your family connection to the tale.

And no, dear, the written records were deliberately destroyed generations ago.

Too dangerous to leave evidence of magical workings lying around where the wrong people might find them. "

"Family connection?" Aerin asked, though she was beginning to suspect she already knew the answer.

"Kieran Maddox was Leo's great-great-grandfather, or some such distant relation," Margaret explained cheerfully. "The family resemblance is quite remarkable, actually. Same golden eyes, same protective instincts, same tendency to brood when they're worried about something."

Leo's jaw clenched at the casual confirmation of genetic connections he'd been trying not to think about too deeply. "Mrs. Hartwell, do the family stories mention anything about curses or magical marks passed down through bloodlines?"

"Well, now that you mention it, there were always whispers about the Maddox line carrying some kind of burden from the founding days.

Nothing specific, mind you, just the usual superstitions about inherited magical obligations.

" Margaret's expression grew more serious as she studied Leo's face.

"Though given recent events, perhaps those weren't just superstitions after all. "

Before either of them could respond, the festival's main ceremony began with the sound of bells and the scent of burning herbs that carried more magical potency than theatrical effect.

The crowd gathered around a raised platform where Elder Ruth and several other council members were preparing to conduct the traditional harvest blessing—a ritual that had supposedly been performed every year since the town's founding.

"We should observe the ceremony," Aerin said, her academic instincts sensing opportunity for research. "Traditional rituals often preserve magical practices that have been lost from written records."

Leo nodded, though his protective vigilance increased as they moved through the crowd toward the platform.

The festival's cheerful atmosphere couldn't disguise the fact that they were still dealing with enemies who'd escalated to direct threats, and large gatherings provided perfect cover for attacks disguised as accidents.

The blessing ceremony itself was more elaborate than Aerin had expected, involving the use of artifacts that were clearly much older than the town's official founding date.

Elder Ruth held a carved wooden bowl that radiated magical energy, while Councilman Bradford carried an ancient blade whose metal gleamed with inner light.

Other council members arranged offerings of harvest produce around a central altar stone that looked suspiciously like the same black granite used for the founder runes.

"Citizens of Mistwhisper Falls," Ruth announced, her voice carrying the formal cadence of ritual speech, "we gather once again to honor the bonds that hold our community together and the sacrifices that ensure our continued prosperity."

The crowd responded with words that sounded like a traditional blessing but carried harmonic frequencies that made Aerin's fae senses tingle with recognition.

This wasn't just ceremonial theater—it was an active magical working designed to reinforce whatever protections had been woven into the town's foundations.

"We remember the founders who gave their power to protect this place," Ruth continued, lifting the carved bowl toward the sky. "We honor their wisdom, their sacrifice, and their continued guidance through the bonds they forged in love and magic."

But it was when Ruth placed an ornate silver chalice on the altar stone that everything changed.

The moment the metal touched the black granite, Aerin felt the world shift around her like a photograph coming into focus.

The festival crowd remained, but overlaid with it was another gathering from centuries past—the same location, but wilder and more primal, with fires burning in stone circles and figures in robes conducting magic that made reality bend.

She was Mordaine again, standing beside the altar stone while Kieran waited in the shadows beyond the firelight.

The other founders were completing their great work, binding something vast and hungry beneath the earth, but Mordaine could see what they couldn't—the binding was flawed, designed to contain but not to prevent corruption from seeping back into the magical matrix.

"The entity learns," she said to Helena and Silvane, desperation making her voice sharp. "It adapts to magical signatures, mimics them, turns them against themselves. Lock it away like this and it will spend centuries figuring out how to corrupt the seal from within."

"The binding will hold," Helena replied, her chaos magic crackling with certainty. "We've planned for every contingency."

"Every contingency except the one where it convinces our descendants that they're helping by weakening the very defenses we're dying to create," Mordaine shot back. "You're not just binding an entity—you're creating a weapon it can use against future generations."

But the others weren't listening. They were too focused on their immediate success, too committed to their solution to consider that it might contain the seeds of its own destruction. The binding reached its crescendo, and something vast screamed as it was forced into containment beneath the earth.

Mordaine stepped forward, her decision crystallizing into terrible clarity. If the others wouldn't create safeguards against future corruption, she would do it herself. Even if it meant?—

"The blood price must be paid," she declared, her magic shifting into patterns that made the air itself recoil. "The binding requires sacrifice, but not the kind you think."