Chapter Text
Caisleán Caladh, Three Months After Jacen’s Birth…
The last light of evening filtered through the arched windows, casting soft amber shadows across the nursery walls. A carved mobile spun gently overhead, with woodland creatures chasing each other in slow circles above the crib. Sarah stood beside it, humming faintly, her hand resting on the edge as Jacen slept soundly beneath a woven blanket. She stayed a moment longer, watching the rise and fall of his tiny chest. Then, with practiced care, she tiptoed back into her bedchamber and closed the nursery door behind her, leaving an opening just wide enough to be able to hear him.
With a soft ‘pop’, Jareth materialized before her, cloak damp from the frosty evening air. He carried the weight of a long day in his shoulders but smiled when their eyes met.
“The Runner’s gone?” Sarah asked when he gave her a kiss before removing his gloves.
“Yes, finally. He didn’t have much in the way of friends or family, so wiping the child’s existence from Above was easy.” He stepped to the doorway of the nursery, a soft expression on his face as he gazed at their sleeping son.
Sarah moved to the sideboard and poured him a cup of tea from the still-warm pot. “Another single father?” she asked softly, handing him the cup.
He accepted it with a murmur of thanks and took a slow sip before answering. “Not this time. Older brother. Their parents are dead. He wasn’t about to give up college to take care of his sister.” He sat down with a sigh. “I don’t know why he even bothered to make the Run. He should have just taken his dreams and saved us both the time.” He took another sip of his tea, savoring it on his tongue before continuing. “His sister has been transformed. Her new parents arrive tomorrow to take her back to Ardalon.”
Sarah sat beside him on the low couch, tucking her legs beneath her. “It still puzzles me. That you’d hand over children to the Fae. After everything.”
He looked into the steam of his cup, quiet for a moment. “It wasn’t a kindness,” he said. “Not at first. It was leverage.”
She raised her brows slightly, “You’ve said that before. And I have to admit… I still don’t get it. If they’re dying out, giving them children just keeps them going for longer.”
“I didn’t see that I had much choice,” he said with a shrug. “They hated us for the Rebellion and would’ve come again. And again. War after war, until there was nothing left of us, as well as them. We couldn’t win that way. Not forever. But... the children. They needed them. Natural born Fae children were very rare, and their courts were crumbling. Offering them what they couldn’t get on their own bought us something we couldn't conjure with magic or fire.”
“Peace,” she said.
Jareth nodded. “Terms. Borders. A promise, however fragile.”
Sarah frowned slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But how did they even find you? After all that time in hiding?”
Jareth’s eyes lifted to hers, the echoes within deep and still. “That,” he said, “is a longer story.”
“Tell me.”
And so, he did.
-*-
Caisleán Caladh, 502 Years After the Rebellion…
The wind curled high above the Labyrinth, whispering through the carved stone walls and fluttering the banners that crowned them. From the tallest spire of the castle, Jareth stood in silence, one hand resting lightly on the polished balustrade as he looked out over the city his people had built.
Five hundred years had passed since the Goblins had first thrown off their chains. This castle was the final piece. It wasn’t just architecture or stonework, but a symbol of a promise made long ago to a people once hunted, broken, and scattered. The Labyrinth had grown with them, stone by stone, as the city rose from the wild ground like a song rising to crescendo.
Below, the city of Caladh sprawled in a thousand directions. Spiraling stairways, winding alleys, market plazas bright with banners and song. The rooftops gleamed in the morning light, a patchwork of tile, lead, and moss, and even from this height Jareth could hear the hum of life: voices, laughter, the clatter of cart wheels over stone. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened.
This was the sound of survival. Of sovereignty. The Goblins had made their stand, centuries ago, but it was here, in this place of stone and will, that they had made a home.
Jareth opened his eyes and let his gaze drift outward, past the winding streets and bright towers, toward the Labyrinth’s living walls. They pulsed faintly with ancient magic, protective and inscrutable. It had been his companion as much as his kingdom. Together, they had watched over a city that had grown into something greater than he could ever have imagined.
And it was no longer just a Goblin city.
That had been his choice, from the beginning. When they first arrived in this wild, unclaimed land, he had been asked by the Labyrinth to provide shelter to the many refugees that sought it in good faith. Jareth took it a step farther… anyone cast out or hunted by the Fae, any soul who sought sanctuary and offered peace, would find a home behind these walls.
And they had come… by ones and twos at first, then by the dozens. Dwarves without a clan, Elven outcasts, varieties of furred and winged and scaled folk who had once hidden in the cracks of the Underground. Families fleeing the Fae. Artisans, smiths, and musicians.
Now, the city thrived with their voices.
In the market square, an Othánas girl sold bread beside an Elven potter whose wares sang lullabies when touched. At the public fountain, a trio of Dwarven masons joked in four different dialects. Children darted through alleyways and over balconies, their laughter ringing through the air—some Goblin, some not, all raised together.
The streets bore the marks of every culture that had chosen to stay. At the border between the Elven and Dwarven districts, a lunar temple built of twisted glass and living bark stood beside a workshop etched with ancient Dwarven sigils. Lanterns flickered with warm, enchanted flame, illuminating hand-painted signs in a dozen scripts.
None of it had been easy. But it was theirs.
Jareth felt a quiet pride stir in his chest. This city was the proof that the Fae had been wrong. They had said Goblins could never rule themselves. That they were beasts. That they would turn on each other without their masters. But here, in this place of mingled tongues and linked hands, they had built something far more enduring than vengeance.
They had built a future.
-*-
Jareth walked the streets of the city as he often did, dressed in simple clothes and without escort. He had never seen the need for pomp or a trailing guard, and the people had long since grown used to seeing their King among them. Here, he was simply Jareth, a tall figure with watchful eyes, always inclined to pause for a chat or settle a dispute with a few well-chosen words.
From the moment he had taken the crown—not much more than a boy, really—he had worked beside them. He’d lifted stone, dug trenches, slept on dirt floors when the shelters were overcrowded. He had bled with them, starved with them, fought beside them. More than once, he had stood between danger and his people when no one else could.
He had almost died for them. And they had never forgotten it.
So, when they saw him now, their smiles came naturally. Their bows were brief, respectful but not fearful. He belonged to them, and they to him.
The streets were already awake with energy. A vine-draped kiosk sold feathered ink that shimmered as it dried. A Firey cook shouted about spiced skewers while a group of Othánas boys squabbled over a game of skystones nearby. An old woodcarver bowed as Jareth passed, and he gave a quiet nod in return, earning himself another smile.
In a shaded courtyard, an Ughlánas child and a willowy owlkin girl played a handclap rhyme together. Their mothers, seated on a nearby bench, were deep in conversation—one with tufted ears and a shawl of river-pearl beads, the other with smooth green skin and a baby strapped to her back in a sling.
"Morning, Sire," called a familiar voice.
Jareth turned to see Merriday, the spry, sharp-tongued clothier who ran one of the best tailoring shops near the South Gate. She was an Othánas widow who had survived the Rebellion, the Great War and the Great Escape, and now specialized in clothing that could adapt to wings, horns, or extra limbs.
“Checking if we’ve polished the bricks properly, are you?” she teased, brushing her hands on her apron.
“Guilty as charged,” he said with a smile. “I heard your new apprentice dyed Garthan’s robes blue instead of indigo.”
“Accident, he swears. I think he’s just color-blind and too proud to admit it.”
He chuckled. “Give him a second chance. We all get something wrong the first time.”
Merriday’s expression softened. “Aye, well. So long as he’s willing to fix it.”
Jareth continued down the winding path through the Elven quarter, exchanging nods and quiet greetings. They respected him here… not out of fear or awe, but because he had never demanded anything from them that he would not give himself.
That was how you kept a kingdom. Not with walls or weapons, nor with fear or intimidation.
But with trust.
-*-
Jareth’s study at the heart of the castle wasn’t grim or gilded. It was practical. Sturdy stone walls lined with maps and moving charts, and a tactical table carved from stormwood that had been felled in the early days of the city’s founding. It was a room made for work, not ceremony.
Jareth arrived with a small cloth bundle under one arm and the smell of roasted meat and spiced pastry trailing behind him.
“From Halver’s shop,” he said, placing the bundle on the table. “Still warm.”
“Bless you,” said Randel, already reaching for one. The Lord Martial’s broad hands made the pie look small, but he bit into it with obvious satisfaction. “I’ve been living on ration biscuits and boiled turnips all week.”
“And whose fault is that?” came a dry voice from the corner.
Garthan emerged from the shadows near the map wall, where he’d been quietly studying a coded report. His ice blue eyes were cool and sharp, his slender frame appearing almost slight next to Randel’s, but his presence was no less commanding. “I trust your rationing schedules as much as I trust the Fae not to deceive,” he added with a teasing smirk, accepting a pie without breaking his stride.
Jareth sat at the table, leaning back comfortably in his chair. “Try trusting the meat pie. It won’t betray you.”
The three shared a brief, familiar laugh. This wasn’t just duty, it was routine, a rhythm they’d held for centuries. They met like this at least three times a week, rain or sun, festival or not. Together, they watched the horizon for trouble before it could reach the gates.
“Anything new?” Jareth asked as they ate.
Randel slid a packet of parchment forward while reaching for another meat pie. “There’s been activity near the western watchposts. It isn’t any kind of military force, just small movements. Always at the edge of sight. The guards haven’t made contact, and whatever it is, it’s staying just out of reach.”
Jareth leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly. “Could it be another group of refugees?”
Garthan shook his head. “Unlikely. We’ve made it known that we take in the lost. If it were refugees, they’d walk straight up to the outer posts and ask for water and a bed. No need to skulk.”
Jareth set his meat pie down, frowning. “Could be Fae. But it also could be bandits. Seeing how close they can get before they’re noticed.”
“Exactly,” Garthan said. “I’ve dispatched the Ughlánas to investigate.”
Randel leaned over the map, tapping it with his finger. “That’s not all. The wards we placed along the western border flared twice last night. Not an intrusion, more like… something brushed against them.”
“Anyone we know?” Jareth asked, instantly alert.
“Not yet,” Randel said. “They didn’t touch the wards long enough for us to get their signature.”
Jareth’s brow furrowed. “Testing them?”
“Could be,” Randel said as he shrugged. “It wasn’t forceful. Just a presence.”
Garthan gave a low grunt. “Maybe they’re trying to find the seams.”
“Or confirm we’re here,” Jareth murmured. “It might be something innocuous… something that turned away when they detected the wards. But then again, it might not. I’ll fly out there myself tomorrow.” He reached for his tea, then glanced at another report on the table. “What’s the latest from the Steelshanks?”
“Ambassador Greldrak is expected within the next few weeks,” Garthan replied, flipping open a small scroll. “He’s bringing a delegation. More formal than usual. They want to discuss expanded trade routes through the northern pass. Mining rights. And rumor has it that they’re considering mutual defense clauses.”
“That would be a welcome shift,” Jareth said. “They’ve always preferred to stay behind their mountains and grumble into their ale.”
“They still grumble,” Randel muttered with a smile. “But they’re starting to see sense.”
“And the Elves?” Jareth asked.
“Trade’s flowing,” Garthan said with a nod. “Timber, herbs, woven goods. In exchange, we’re sending back healing tonics, foodstuffs, and raw crystal from the southern mines. They still won’t accept coin, mind you—only barter.”
“They do love their traditions,” Jareth said with a faint smile.
“But they respect what we’ve built,” Garthan added. “Especially the way we handled the road construction near the elder groves. That bought us more than a little goodwill.”
Jareth leaned back again, fingers steepled. “Good. Let’s use it.”
They had just finished reviewing the northern trade corridor when a ‘pop’ echoed through the room—sharp and sudden, like air being pulled through a crack in the world. A small figure appeared near the chamber door: no taller than a child, cloaked in patchwork brown and shadow, with keen dark eyes and nimble fingers. It was one of Garthan’s Ughlánas spies, holding the wrist of a tall, mud-spattered Othánas scout, whose cloak was torn and whose boots were still caked with grit.
Garthan rose immediately. “Grik. You weren’t expected for another day.”
The little goblin gave a firm shake of his head. “Didn’t want to waste time. He has something. It’s important.”
The scout stepped forward, eyes grim. “Sire. We encountered a Fae scouting party near the West Veil—three riders, cloaked, moving under glamors.”
“Damn,” Randel muttered.
“And now we have our answer as to what’s been brushing up against our wards,” said Jareth, grimly.
“They were careful,” the scout said with a grimace. “Would’ve passed unnoticed if not for the shimmer of their magic. We engaged them. Two were slain.”
“And the third?” Garthan asked.
The scout’s jaw tightened. “He pulled out a talisman. Silver, etched with highcourt script. Spoke a command word and vanished in a flare of green light. Like he was yanked out of the world. I would have thought he’d transported but that green light…”
Garthan swore under his breath. “Homing talisman. Used by the Fae for long distances. He’s probably back in Ardalon as we speak.”
“A scouting party,” Randel murmured. “And likely not the only one. They’ve probably mapped out the border of our wards and figured out the size of our territory… at least the western part of it. They may even have scried ahead, seen some of our outlying villages.”
“But wouldn’t the Labyrinth have warned us if they’d scried this far?” asked Garthan with some alarm.
“Yes… which means they haven’t…” Jareth’s expression grew distant, his eyes unfocused. He cocked his head slightly, as if he were listening to something the others couldn’t hear. “As I thought… they haven’t scried this far in yet. Apparently, they’ve been damn careful not to tip their hand, at least until now. And the Labyrinth assures me that should they turn their eyes to Caladh, it will bend their Sight away from us. Still, it won’t take much consideration on their part to realize that there’s something here that we don’t want them to see.”
The silence that followed was long and heavy. Jareth leaned closer to the map and placed a hand over the western border, his fingers brushing the inked ridges. For centuries they had lived hidden, grown strong in the shadow of memory. But memory had teeth. And now it had their scent.
“Did you recover the bodies?” he asked.
“We did,” said the scout. “We’re already studying their armor and insignia. Both of them had identical talismans to the one that got away. The Ughlánas have taken them to bring back for magical analysis.”
“Good,” Jareth said. “That’s something.”
Grik, still present despite his usual preference for vanishing, looked up at him and said in a small voice, “They’ll come soon, won’t they?”
Jareth nodded slowly. “Yes. They will.” He turned back to the table. “Begin mobilizing the outer watchposts,” he said to Randel. “Quietly. We don’t want to spark panic.”
He looked to Garthan, his countenance grim. “Alert the Steelshanks. They may want to reconsider sending their emissaries. I hope that they won’t, but… they need to know what they might be walking into.”
Both men gave sharp nods, already moving.
The Ughlánas vanished with a soft flick of air. The scout bowed and left, boot heels sharp against the stone.
Jareth lingered a moment longer, eyes fixed on the map, hand still pressed against the inked western edge.
So. The Fae have finally found us. And soon, they will come for us.
But this time, the Goblins would not run.
-*-
Jareth Watches Over Caladh