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And that’s the truth that cuts deepest. Twenty-four years of guardian training, centuries of Wild Court combat mastery, and I’m useless when she needs me most.

Finnian’s silence stretches too long. When I roll my head along the door’s grain to look at him, his face has gone pale.

“Indeed,” he says quietly. “Perhaps we might take comfort in knowing the Morrigan is with her—though I suppose that raises as many questions as it answers, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp enough to cut. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

We couldn’t have changed her mind anyway. When Ashlynne Moonshadow decides something, mountains move or get moved. It’s one of the things that makes her magnificent.

And terrifying.

“Remember that time you fell into what you thought was a puddle?” I ask, desperate for distraction from the burning in my chest.

“Shut your oaf mouth.” Finn scolds, but there’s a ghost of a smile threatening his lips. “Though yes, I remember your complete failure to warn me properly.”

“There you were, walking beside me, and I told you—clearly told you—not to step in that puddle.” I point at him accusingly. “But did you listen?”

“I fell in,” he admits with a shudder. “Took me nearly two months to find my way out of that siren’s realm.”

“We were eating those fermented berries,” I add, grinning despite everything.

“Fae berries.” His expression turns wry. “Which explains why your warning sounded like ‘Hey Finn, definitely step in that obviously magical water.’“

“The point is,” I say, the humor draining out of me like water through sand, “I feel the exact same way now as I did then.”

Finnian’s head thuds back against the wall. He turns to study me with those amber eyes that see too much. “I didn’t realize the parallel ran quite so deep. Perhaps the helplessness then might offer some perspective on?—”

“Of course you didn’t.” I finally step away from the doors—they’re not letting us in, and the odds of her coming out this way are slim to none. “Come on. Standing here won’t help her.”

“Where are we going?” he asks, jogging to catch up as I stride down the corridor.

I don’t answer immediately, just give him a devilish smirk over my shoulder. “Curious, old man?”

“I am not old,” he grumbles. “And you’re evading my question with characteristic deflection.”

“I’d prefer not to talk about feelings.” Nasty business, those. Especially when they involve admitting that a woman I’ve known for days has managed to crawl under my skin and make herself at home.

“You brought it up,” he points out with irritating logic.

“Because that’s how I currently feel!” The words explode out of me. “Helpless. Useless. Like every instinct I was born with is screaming at me to protect her, and I’m failing spectacularly.”

Finnian’s expression softens. “The Morrigan is with her, which might offer some comfort if we understood what that truly means. Perhaps protection, perhaps guidance—or perhaps something else entirely that we’re not prepared to comprehend.”

I snort. “The Morrigan is hiding something.”

“Of course she is—battle goddesses specialize in concealment, don’t they? Layer upon layer of purpose hidden beneath what appears to be straightforward action.”

“Didn’t think we used those terms anymore. Not since the old ones—” I catch myself, glancing around the corridor. Academy walls have ears, and some conversations are too dangerous for casual spaces.

His brown eyes go wide with the same realization. “The old ones. The last time the four treasures were united...”

“Bite your tongue, Finnian.” I grip his shoulders, lowering my voice. “Not here.”

Recognition flashes between us. Whatever we’re dancing around, it’s bigger than court politics. Bigger than succession disputes.

“Master Tadhg,” I whisper, nearly dragging him toward the library.

But the Academy has other plans.