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“They are already analyzing,” I confess, touching a wall sconce to dim its glow. “Automated systems flag significant magical events for immediate review. Our connection probably triggered priority alerts the precise moment it formed.”

She absorbs this with swift calculation, immediate tactical adjustment. No panic. Just cold assessment of new parameters.

“So much for keeping a low profile.”

“I fear that particular option ended the moment your power manifested completely.” The words emerge gentler than intended. “But we shall determine how to manage the exposure appropriately.”

She nods slowly, filing the information under problems to solve later. “What happens now?”

The question settles like molten lead in my stomach because I lack an answer that won’t terrify her.

Now the courts learn that the last Wild Court heir has manifested. Now they discover she’s already developing magical connections that could reshape political balance. Now they begin choosing between accepting her claim or eliminating the threat she represents.

Now I have to choose between the court that raised me and the woman who’s rewritten my understanding of everything worth protecting.

“Now you rest,” I deflect instead of answering. “Allow your system to process the awakening properly. Tomorrow we shall address the complications.”

Her green eyes search my face with unsettling perception. “How bad are the complications?”

“Manageable.” The lie lodges like broken glass in my throat. “With proper preparation and suitable allies.”

She nods slowly, accepting the deflection though I suspect she recognizes I’m withholding information. “I need to clean up before I collapse. And I probably smell like forest nightmare.” She pauses, hand on the door handle, then looks back at me. “Would you... stay? Just until I process all this?”

The request catches me off guard. Vulnerable. Trusting.

“Are you certain that’s wise? The political ramifications could prove... rather more complex than either of us might prefer to navigate at present.”

“Politics can wait. I need five minutes where I’m not calculating survival odds.” Her voice carries quiet determination. “I need to not be alone while I figure out what the hell my life has become.”

We step inside together. Steam rises from the bathroom—a hot bath drawn before she could think to want one. Herbs I don’t recognize float in water that smells like the forest clearing where she almost died. The Academy somehow knows exactly what her overloaded system needs.

In the bedroom, silk pajamas wait on sheets turned down to precise angles. The fabric shifts color as she approaches—forest green, then midnight blue, settling on deep gold that matches something in my eyes.

“It’s learning your preferences,” I say quietly, noting her stare. “The Academy bonds with royal bloodlines. Eventually, it will anticipate your needs before you recognize them yourself.”

“Take all the time you require.” I watch her walk toward the bathroom.

The door closes behind her.

Control shatters like crystal under pressure.

I lean flat against the stone wall, pressing palms over my eyes as the full weight of tonight’s events crashes down. Heat spreads across my ribs where the invisible thread anchors. Not painful—like lying in perfect sunlight—but impossible to ignore. When she moves deeper into the bathroom, cold seeps through my chest like loss.

Golden light threads between us pulse gently—warm, right, terrifying in their implications.

Because this luminescent rope binding us isn’t a casual romantic connection. Gold flickers beneath my skin—light bleeding through like I’ve been dipped in molten metal. My court mark burns against my ribs, magical resonance rewriting centuries of solitary existence.

The moment this resonance formed, I became a potential Seelie consort to the Wild Court heir.

A political position that makes me either incredibly valuable or incredibly dead, depending on which court gains the upper hand.

Water runs in the bathroom—the sound of her finally allowing herself hot water and soap after hours of forest mud and chaos. I should leave. Should give her privacy to process everything that’s happened.

Instead, I settle into one of her sitting room chairs, listening to water running in the next room and feeling pathetically grateful for the evidence that she’s safe.

The golden thread between us hums with contentment as hot water eases her exhaustion. Whatever connects us flows both directions, carrying her relief, her wonder at the luxurious facilities, her gradual relaxation as the immediate crisis passes.

I’m so focused on the gentle warmth of her emotional state that I almost miss the soft sound of the bathroom door opening.