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“Your Highness.” Master Valeborn approaches with diplomatic precision, though I catch the tension in his jaw as he notes the blood staining my collar. “I believe we need to discuss recent developments.”

Around us, court representatives fan out across Academy grounds with military efficiency that makes the threatimmediate and visceral. Each movement calculated for maximum tactical advantage rather than diplomatic impression.

“Indeed,” I agree, though my attention remains fixed on the advancing delegations. Shadows pool deeper around my boots as protective instincts override political training, darkness responding to emotional commitment before conscious thought. “Though I suspect discussion may prove... limited.”

Three figures break away from the main groups, approaching our position that makes nearby students instinctively back away. Lady Amarantha for the Seelie—light bending around her form in ways that hurt to look at directly. Lord Malachar for the Unseelie—shadows that move independently of his body, reaching toward potential threats. And someone I don’t recognize bearing Wild Court colors, bark-textured skin and eyes like deep forest pools that reflect starlight.

“Prince Kieran.” Lady Amarantha’s voice drips honey over poisoned steel, each syllable precisely weighted to cut through defenses. Light pulses around her in patterns that speak of offensive spells held barely in check. “How fortunate to find you here. Your father mentioned you had been conducting... research... at the Academy.”

Research. As if twenty years of emotional suppression and careful political maneuvering could be reduced to curiosity. As if the woman standing beside me represents data to be collected rather than someone worth protecting.

“Lady Amarantha.” I incline my head with precisely calculated respect, though frost spreads outwards from my footsteps. Blood continues trickling from my nose in thin streams that several court representatives note with professional interest. “Lord Malachar. I was not aware the courts had planned a joint... educational visit.”

“Circumstances evolved,” Lord Malachar responds, his voice like grinding stone that makes Academy walls vibrate inresponse. Shadows flicker around his form—not true darkness like mine, but the pale imitation of courtiers who’ve never bled for their power. “As does our understanding of Academy... curriculum.”

His gaze shifts to Ash with calculating hunger that makes wildfire detonate through my sternum—ancient, primal, completely at odds with centuries of royal training. My shadows respond violently, reaching toward her with protective desperation that I barely manage to contain.

He reaches for her. Casually. Like she’s his property to examine.

I move before conscious thought, slipping between them on instinct and strategy both. Frost explodes outward from my position, covering Academy stones in patterns that speak of barely controlled violence.

“Touch her,” I say, voice dropping to silk wrapped around steel, “and I will tear your arm from its socket and feed it to the Academy’s protective spirits.”

The words carry more than threat—they carry absolute certainty backed by power that makes the air itself recoil.

He laughs. Nervous. A brittle sound meant to test whether I’m bluffing about committing violence against a fellow court representative.

I’m not.

I don’t look at him. I look at her, memorizing the way light catches in her eyes, the defiant tilt of her chin that speaks of royal bloodline finally awakening to its own authority.

Someone behind me mutters, “She is not yours to guard.”

“No,” I say, gaze still fixed on Ash while shadows writhe around my ankles like supportive chains. “She is mine to destroy if I want to.”

A pause. A breath. A choice that will define everything that comes after.

“And I do not want to.”

I see it—the way she absorbs the words like a blade between her ribs, recognition flashing across her features before royal composure reasserts itself. The way her pulse jumps in her throat as she processes what I’ve just declared publicly.

It should feel like protection.

It doesn’t.

Not to her. Not when spoken like ownership rather than alliance.

And gods help me, that might be the only reason I said it exactly that way.

“Professor Morgan,” Lady Amarantha continues with false warmth, though I notice her step back slightly as my magical pressure builds to levels that make breathing difficult. Light wavers around her form as she recalculates threat assessments. “What an interesting demonstration you provided. So... illuminating.”

Ash meets their attention with soldier’s composure, but I catch the way her pulse jumps in her throat as she recognizes predators circling for the kill. Her own power responds to the threat, thorn patterns beneath her skin flaring brighter in preparation for combat.

“Gentlemen. Lady.” Her voice stays level despite the magical pressure bearing down on her from three directions. Royal training surfacing without conscious thought. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Questions,” the Wild Court representative speaks for the first time—a woman whose voice carries the sound of wind through ancient forests, earth magic that makes Academy foundations hum in recognition. “About bloodlines. About heritage. About claims that require... verification.”

The wordverificationmakes ice crystallize in my veins, freezing blood that’s still flowing from my nose and ears. Courteuphemism for psychological torture designed to break minds and extract truth from the wreckage. The same procedures that destroyed my mother.