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“They’ve been operating openly all this time?” I ask. Voice barely a whisper.

Graves nods, studying my reaction with microscopic attention. “More openly than most humans comprehend. And they’ve established this... academy... as neutral territory between their courts.”

“Courts?” The word stirs something primal inside me. A half-remembered dream surfacing like a drowning person clawing for air.

He slides another photo across the desk—this one showing three distinct symbols: a radiant sun, a crescent moon, and what appears to be a tree with sprawling roots.

“Seelie, Unseelie, and Wild,” he says, pointing to each in turn. “Light, shadow, and nature. Three factions with a complicated history of alliances and betrayals.”

The symbols stir something deep within—not memory exactly but knowing. Cellular recognition that bypasses conscious thought. I find myself tracing the tree symbol with my finger before realizing what I’m doing. The pad of my finger following lines of root and branch.

My fingertip burns where it touches the image. Static spark. Or something else entirely.

“And what exactly am I looking for at this academy?” My voice sounds wrong. Hollow and distant.

“Artifacts,” Graves says. “Four specific artifacts of immense power. We believe at least one hides within the academy grounds.”

My mind flashes to the stone altar. The object that whispered thoughts directly into my consciousness. My body remembers the sensation before my mind fully processes—the way itreached inside me. The way it spoke without words. “Like what Litvak had?”

“Similar, but far more significant. The four treasures of the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

The name reverberates through me like a struck bell, setting every atom vibrating at a frequency I shouldn’t recognize but do.

“Your mission is complex. The Four Treasures aren’t stored in vaults—they’re guarded by fae. These guardians can summon their treasures at will, making traditional theft impossible. Your objective: identify the guardians, document their capabilities, and report their locations. The treasures themselves cannot survive separation from their bearers without killing them.”

We’ve worked with Fae assets before—interrogations, isolated strikes. But this is different. This isn’t covert diplomacy. It’s going behind the glamours. Inside their world.

“Why me?” The question tears from my throat before I can stop it. Raw and desperate. “Why—why now? What’s really happening to me?”

Graves’ expression remains granite, but something shifts behind his eyes—something calculating and cold as midwinter. “Because you’re uniquely qualified.”

“How?” I press, leaning forward. Needing answers like oxygen. Words tumbling faster than I can regulate. “How am I qualified? What do you know about me? What am I?” The final question emerges as barely breath.

“You’ll discover that soon enough.” Which isn’t an answer at all. “Your transport leaves in thirty minutes. Everything is prepared—clothing, documentation, equipment. I want updates every seventy-two hours, precisely. If we don’t hear from you after one missed cycle—75 hours—we will come for you.”

His tone constructs fortress walls I’ve crashed against for twenty-five years without finding entrance.

“Thirty minutes?” I stand, incredulous. Chair screeching against the floor. “I haven’t even debriefed from Litvak. My arm is?—”

“Your arm will be fine,” he cuts me off. “Better than fine. It’s waking up.”

The words send a primal surge through my spine that has nothing to do with cold. My body trembles violently, not from chill but from the overwhelming force of ancient growth. Like seedlings cracking stone. I clench my jaw against the sensation.

“I need to call my mother,” I say. Request sounding foreign even to my ears. I rarely make personal calls. But suddenly it feels imperative.

Like if I don’t speak to her now, something will change irrevocably.

Graves’ expression hardens. Something like alarm flickering behind eyes before his mask slams back into place. “That’s not protocol for deep cover assignments.”

“Five minutes. Secured line.” My voice turns flat, dangerous. “Unless you want to explain to your superiors why your asset went dark because she couldn’t handle personal concerns.”

He hesitates. Eyes boring into mine as if mining for secrets. Then nods curtly. “Five minutes. Observation room three. I’ll have the equipment gathered while you make your call.”

I get up and rush to the room, uncaring how that looks to him or anyone else.

The small observation room offers the illusion of privacy—though I’m certain they record every word. Every microexpression cataloged.

I dial with shaking hands, misdialing twice.