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The mental voice burns through my consciousness like molten metal, each word carving fresh channels of pain through my skull. My hands shake violently as I think of the calendar in my private quarters—weeks, not months, until the twenty-year mark. Until the bargain that bought her life expires and she walks free.

Students near enough to see step backward instinctively, recognizing the specific symptoms of forced psychic contact. Master Valeborn’s eyes narrow as he catalogs my physical deterioration—blood loss, tremor patterns, the way shadows respond to magical distress.

Report status on the Wild Court target,Father’s voice continues, searing through neural pathways like acid.Your term of service nears its end—do not risk everything now.

The changeling’s identity is confirmed,I respond through the link, each word feeling like razor wire sliding through my throat. Dark blood flows faster as the connection tears through unprepared neural pathways.Wild Court royal markings manifested during magical revelation. Academy neutrality compromised.

More images flood through the connection: Kestra laughing at something she’s reading, planning presentations she hopes to give at the Academy once she’s free. She doesn’t know how close she is to liberation. Doesn’t know that her dreams of freedomhang on my willingness to deliver another woman to the torture chambers.

Excellent.His satisfaction bleeds through the connection like poison flooding my veins, making my stomach lining burn with supernatural acid.The other courts moved faster than anticipated. Secure her before they complete their own preparations.

Images flash through the link—not words but memories burned directly into my consciousness.

The interrogation chamber where my mother died. Iron restraints designed to burn Fae flesh while magical implements extracted memories piece by bloody piece. The sound of her screaming my name—my child’s name—before consciousness finally fled and mercy claimed her.

But now I see Kestra’s face superimposed over the memory, her gentle features contorted in the same agony. Her research scattered and burning while she takes my mother’s place on those tables.

My knees nearly buckle as understanding crashes over me like an avalanche. Joint court interrogation. The same procedures that slowly destroyed my mother’s mind before executing her body.

They want me to deliver Ash to that.

Sweat beads across my forehead despite the supernatural cold radiating from my skin. My shadows recoil from the memory images, darkness writhing away from my feet like living things in pain. Several students notice the unusual behavior—shadows that normally respond to my will now fleeing from whatever’s happening inside my head.

Twenty years of perfect obedience, Kieran. Do not throw it away for momentary conscience when your sister’s freedom is finally within reach.

I can see her through his eyes now—Kestra sketching diagrams in the margins of ancient texts, planning her future while I decide whether to shatter it. She doesn’t know how close she is to liberation. Doesn’t know that her dreams hang on my willingness to feed someone else to the machine that killed our mother.

Your service is nearly complete. Weeks, my son. Mere weeks until she walks free and you both have everything you’ve sacrificed for.

The command hits like liquid nitrogen flooding my arteries. My hands shake with more than magical backlash as muscle memory responds to royal authority—twenty years of perfect submission warring against something fundamental fracturing between my ribs.

Do not risk it all now for a stranger. Not when you are so close to victory.

“Kieran?” Ash’s voice cuts through my internal horror like a lifeline. “What’s wrong?”

I glance at her, taking in the way thorn patterns still pulse beneath her skin with blue-green light, the defiant set of her shoulders despite being surrounded by enough magical firepower to level cities. She has no idea what those words mean. No concept of what joint court interrogation actually entails.

The memory of my mother’s final scream echoes in my ears like a bell that won’t stop ringing.

Father,I respond carefully, though the words feel like molten copper sliding down my esophagus.The Academy still maintains certain... protective protocols. Immediate extraction might prove... challenging.

Blood drips steadily from my nose now, dark drops creating a small pool at my feet. My usual perfect posture wavers as the psychic intrusion burns through my consciousness, leaving charred neural pathways in its wake.

Then overcome the challenges.His voice turns glacial. Each word carries the weight of absolute authority backed by centuries of fear.Twilight approaches quickly, my son. Do not disappoint me.

The connection cuts off with brutal finality, leaving me standing in Academy sunlight with blood coating my lips and my father’s expectations burning like brands in my skull.

But something has fractured completely between my ribs. Twenty years of conditioning wage war against recognition that’s rewriting my understanding of everything worth protecting. My shadows dance erratically around my feet, responding to emotional chaos I can’t fully control.

Duty screams compliance. Loyalty demands obedience.

But the thought of Ash strapped to those same tables, of her mind being systematically destroyed the way my mother’s was, makes my magic respond with violent protective hunger that overrides decades of training.

And beneath that—the terrible knowledge of what Kestra would say if she knew the price of her freedom was another woman’s torture. My sister, who believes in healing and hope and finding better ways, would rather remain captive than know I’d fed someone else to the machine that killed our mother.

Every lesson about honor and hierarchy crumbles in the face of one simple truth: I cannot do this to her.

The realization should terrify me. Instead, oxygen floods my lungs like I’ve been drowning for decades.