“Invite me in your dreams if you can’t come here.”

Who doesn't need a little more magic in their life? FaerieTales is FREE to read on both Patreon and Fables dot pro. Just search Viciousvenison on either platform, and I'll pop up as the creator. Links are also in my profile!

I just dropped Chapter 4, and… whew. This one is tender, mythic, and a little bit devastating in the best way.

Anemone steps deeper into the Veil. The Vioress cracks. The child stirs. And somewhere beyond the threshold, a Witcher is already moving.

If you’ve been following the cosmic sisterhood rupture, the legacy threads, or the slow‑burn gravitational pull between Anemone and Geralt — this chapter is for you.

And because I love you all and I’m running on pure story adrenaline right now:

Chapters 5 and 6 are coming soon. They’re already humming in the back of my mind, and I’ll be working on them while we wait for ONC/Hollywood Round 2 announcements.

Thank you for reading, screaming, theorizing, and sending me the sweetest messages. This little oneshot‑turned‑epic has become such a joy to write.

Stay sovereign. Stay curious. Stay in the Veil with me a little longer.

In the shadows is where I dwell,

a woman cloaked in gargoyle skin,

sworn to the unseen. I made an oath long ago.

I do not blink.

I witness.

I guard what others abandon.

My silence is an orbit.

My gaze, an incantation.

I do not sleep.

In all her living memory, across the endless ages, she'd never had a captive thought escape its thorny cages.

Her solemn task was not to guard, nor tend the thornbound seed. She watched the Keepers, every one, and tended every need.

So how was it that on one count one Briarheart was bare? No captive thought had ever gone, and yet one was not there.

"I sang the songs I always sing, as Keepers always do. I closed my eyes to hear it breathe, for just the count of two."

"It vanished and I don't know how. I'm sorry, Mistress Vole." But something heavy settled then inside the Mistress' soul.

She touched the corner of her eye. Her fingers came back red. "That's no excuse," she softly sighed, though fear filled her instead.

A doorway that waits. A moment that listens. A world that shifts when the hour turns strange.

From The Watch of Re‑Made Time.

Not every door is what it seems to be. Some are waiting.

In the Wovenverse, certain thresholds don’t open into rooms at all, but into moments that were changed. They listen. They remember. And sometimes, when the hour turns strange, they choose who may cross.

From The Watch of Re‑Made Time, Round Table Library.