Raith stood in the center of Selene’s sitting room, arms crossed and mind racing. The Countess lounged with ethereal composure, seeming to almost glow even in the well lit room.

  He shifted his weight from leg to leg uncertainly, but hesitated only a moment longer before speaking.

  “I need to understand more about the dreaming. The gossamer paths, how they work, how to find them. And…" he hesitated, afraid the idea would be too ridiculous to work, "if there's any way I can make my library accessible to others. I have a some ideas, but right now, it's just mine. Locked in my own head.”

  Selene set her teacup down with a quiet clink, regarding him with a look that was equal parts sympathy and curiosity.

  “You carry a great many questions,” she said softly. “It is well you’ve brought them here. Sit, Raith.”

  He obeyed, settling into the seat opposite her. The cushioning was far more luxurious than he was used to. She studied him for a moment before beginning.

  “The gossamer paths are not paths as you think of them, but agreements between belief, place, and memory. Made by my kind in a past too distant for your imagining, to connect points between the fae realm, the mortal realm and the dreaming. Most mortals find them by accident, through dreams, music, or certain threshold moments. But there are ways to court their attention deliberately.”

  Raith leaned forward, trying not to interrupt, but this was already starting to give him a headache.

  “To find a gleaming,” Selene continued, “you must be in a place where the veil between worlds thins. Thresholds are best. Doorways, bridges, or ancient hollowed trees. But also dusk, midnight, and the cusp of waking. These entrances may seem arbitrary, but they are fixed. At least, in their own way. Resonant and waiting to be opened.”

  She smiled faintly.

  “Or simply follow a fae who already knows the way.”

  Raith gave a rueful grin, thinking of Zinny.

  “I'd prefer to figure out how to do this myself, thanks.”

  “To walk the gossamer paths safely,” she went on, “you must keep your thoughts in check. The paths are shaped by memory and desire, in places where the Weave grows thin. If you lose your hold on yourself, the road will change. It may become dangerous, or lead you through places you do not wish to go. You are used to roads being fixed, but the gossamer paths are not roads in the mortal sense. They are shaped by stories, not direction.”

  Raith frowned. This was sort of like what Zinny had been saying, but still every bit as confusing.

  “Forgive me, but this is all way too abstract. Let's start with just finding the doorways, or gleaming or whatever. You said they can be found at thresholds, but if I walked out of here right now and wanted to find one deliberately, what exactly would I do? How would I find the door and then use it to get to a specific destination?”

  Selene didn’t answer immediately. She rose and crossed to the tall windows at the side of the chamber, pulling aside a sheer curtain to reveal the sunlit ocean beyond. Her gaze drifted over it, not focused on anything within the physical world.

  “With your bond to the dreaming, you can learn to feel their threads brushing against your soul. Then quiet your mind, and listen and you will find that the portal will hum. Your ancestry will allow you to feel the tug. Like a pressure behind the center of your forehead, or the smell of a place you’ve never been. That’s the door. Once you find it, you must invite it to open. Mortals use memory and intent, and often carry something of significance to help with focus. Or perhaps sing a song no one else remembers, think of someone you’ve lost, burn lavender, or sleep beneath a silver bough. The rituals are varied, but I do not believe you will require such things.”

  She drifted closer, her gown whispering over the floor.

  “When you recognize you have found a gleaming, focus with all your heart on what you seek, be it a truth, a person, or a place. Your connection to the dreaming will make the process far easier than it would be for most mortals. If you wish to find a path, you must start with why you walk it.”

  Raith’s brow furrowed.

  “So it’s not about where I want to go, but why?”

  “That is a part of it,” she said. “A gossamer path from this castle might take you through the ruins of a childhood memory. The scene of a tale dreamed but never written. Or to a field where someone once waited for their lover under starlight. You cannot open the entrance without understanding what the destination means to you.”

  Raith was silent for a moment, digesting the strange fae logic.

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  “And if one appears?”

  “It will be hard to mistake for anything else,” Selene said. “It may look like a tunnel of golden branches, or a staircase carved from obsidian. It may appear as a sudden door in a brick wall that wasn’t there before. But it will feel right, and you should step through with certainty.”

  Raith’s frowned. This all hovered right on the edge of his understanding, falling just short of coalescing into real comprehension.

  “How do I know where it goes to reach my destination? Do you have like a map or something showing where these roads go?”

  “These roads do not follow maps, they follow stories, memories and dreams. Which are all much the same thing.”

  Raith leaned back, the strangeness of her words settling in. It wasn’t the answer he’d hoped for, but it was starting to make sense in its own enchanted way.

  “As for making your library accessible,” Selene’s voice grew more thoughtful, “that is a far trickier task. With the Weaver’s Gifts, you have created something extraordinary. An inward vault of lore and dream, shielded and singular. Your heart betrays the wish of every artist, to share their creation with the world. Truly a noble goal. But if you want others to enter it…”

  She trailed off, brow furrowing in elegant frustration.

  “…you would need more than just your Gifts. You would need a conduit. A mirror designed to reflect in both realms, similar to the one you came through in the Earl’s throne room. More than that, it would require enormous power to maintain.”

  Raith’s heart sank a little. He had hoped for something simpler. Some sort of spell or a ritual. Not another tangle of confounding theory and metaphor.

  “There is one,” Selene said after a moment, eyes distant. “A sage among the Unseelie, though she walks her own crooked road. Moira of the Hundred Sails. She built a ship that can sail the seas which flow between the dreaming and mortal realm, and may have insights I lack.”

  “Where can I find her?” Raith asked.

  “I will write you a letter of introduction, of a sort. Something she will recognize.”

  She rose and moved to her great trunk. With a the gentle touch of a knot in the wood, it opened, revealing its vast and impossible contents. She retrieved a thin slip of birch bark paper, its surface inked in curling symbols that shimmered faintly between languages. She folded it precisely and handed it to Raith.

  “Speak her name while holding this, near the edge of the dream mists. She will hear the words and come. I have an inkling of what she seeks on the endless seas. Offer to share knowledge of your [Skill] and I am confident she will be inclined to bargain.”

  It seemed like every answer she provided raised a dozen more questions, but he wasn’t sure he could take any more of this faerie logic right now. Besides, they already had more than enough on their plate without chasing down crazy fae pirate witches at the edge of the dreaming. He looked back up at Selene.

  “Thank you.” he said, turning the birch slip over in his fingers.

  She smiled just slightly.

  “I am not without curiosity myself. You, Raith, are a door. And I would very much like to see what’s on the other side.”

  Selene’s eyes drifted to Raith’s side as he tucked the birch slip into his satchel. Her gaze lingered on the rope dart coiled at his waist. More specifically, on the blade affixed to the end. It was chipped, dull steel, the edges worn from too many hard fights and too little care. She frowned delicately, as if the sight offended some deeper aesthetic law.

  “That blade is unworthy of you.”

  Raith looked down, feeling a little embarrassed and defensive.

  “It’s seen better days, sure, but it works well enough.”

  “Barely,” she murmured, almost to herself. Then she turned her head. “Sir Imrien.”

  The knight who stood by the door had not spoken once since Raith entered. Raith had half convinced himself there was no one actually inside the moonsilver armor. That it was simply an enchanted suit, silent and watchful. But at Selene’s call, the helm turned slowly, deliberately, toward her.

  “My lady,” came the voice, like wind over a frozen lake.

  Selene extended one hand, palm up.

  “Give me your sword.”

  Imrien hesitated. The stillness in the room deepened, like a held breath.

  “My lady,” the knight said again, more slowly, “this blade was gifted to me by your own hand, at the end of the Mourning War. It is bound to…”

  “It is mine to reassign,” she interrupted, her tone edged with cutting grace that could be a blade itself. “I will provide you with another.”

  Imrien did not move.

  Raith took a step forward, alarmed.

  “Selene, that’s not necessary. Truly. I can make do.”

  Selene’s eyes flicked to him, crystalline and cold.

  “You will not ‘make do,’ Raith. Not with what lies ahead.”

  A beat passed. Then, with a slow rasp of moonsilver, Imrien drew the sword from his side. He held it out with both gauntleted hands, offering it with the dignity of a funeral rite. Selene accepted it and stepped toward Raith.

  The blade in her hands shimmered. It was long and slender, but even as Raith looked, the hilt flowed and bent slightly, becoming something more curved. Then a glimmer of twin edges, then back again, shifting like water as though it had no single form.

  Selene offered it to him.

  “It is a dreamforged blade,” she said. “It will take whatever shape you require: dart, sabre, axe, hammer. So long as you ask it with clarity and need.”

  Raith hesitated.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I do not give gifts lightly, Raith. Nor do I bestow weapons without purpose. This will serve you better than a thousand chipped knives.”

  He reached out slowly and took it, glancing nervously towards Imrien. When the knight didn't strike him down instantly for daring to touch the precious weapon, he returned his attention to examine his new prize.

  It felt warm in his palm and something within him recognized an energy that resonated into the heart of his being. The blade shimmered once more and began to coil, reshaping itself into a long, needle-pointed dart with a ringed end. Perfect for the tethered grace of his rope. He affixed it at the end, feeling a strange, seamless bond as it secured into place.

  The weapon no longer felt like an attachment. It felt like an extension of his will.

  Selene stepped back, watching him with quiet satisfaction. Raith bowed slightly, unsure of what words could possibly suffice.

  “Thank you,” he said, voice rough. “I’ll try to be worthy of it.”

  Selene’s expression softened.

  “I would not have given it to you, Raith, if I didn’t think you already were. The giant kin must be stopped.”

  Raith looked at the knight whose blade he had just been given. Even though he could see nothing through their helm, he could not help but feel an ice cold hostility emanating from the fae warrior. He hoped he was just imagining it.