First, we saw smoke down the mountain. The farmhouse was burning.

Jack, the shapeshifting watchman… We knew as soon as we saw him, face-down in the field behind the house. Jack's wife managed to drag herself as far as the tree line, despite grievous wounds. In her arms she held their small son, whom I fear may soon be an orphan. High Priests of the Faithful and Discreet Congregation left their spray-painted mark on the door before setting it ablaze. Wyrm Holler is in danger. I can't let them face this alone.

Seneca had mentioned a community of faeries that lives here in The Fray. For all these years, I have held onto my grandmother's peepstone. The time has come for me to use it.

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