#jesminda

He reaches the gape of a cave.

A heretofore sure-footed step hesitates at the threshold. A boundary. The beat of his heart echoes through him; blood rushes at his ears. His eye, the metal-wrought, raises a cautionary click.

To most, it would appear an unassuming entrance—a cave-mouth like any other. But he catches what most would not: spiderwebbed threads of spellwork shining gossamer where they enmesh the entrance. Netting eager to make catch.

Disentangling them one at a time, he sets them aside, careful not to break them. Warm and cool in equal measure against the tips of his fingers, the magic has a frayed quality that suggests an agedness beyond any other he has encountered. He finishes with ease; it is quick work for him these days.

Rough of canvas against hands as he reaches into his pack. Rummaging. He withdraws a bouquet of marigolds, long-stemmed and freshly gathered. Deft fingers pluck a silk-smooth petal, then drop it at the threshold. Then, with an inhale and a tight nod, he steps inside.

And enters Autumn-Beneath.

The shift ripples through him, inverts darkly around him. In some ways it is not so different from the sensation of crossing the boundaries between courts—a marked change in the power that imbues all things. But this new magic, a sinistral twin to what lies above, holds in its aspect something festering and hungry. It crawls cold over his senses, unholy and untouched by the Mother. He disregards the fae instincts that urge him to turn back.

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