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“Fascinating,” I remark, ice coating each syllable. Frost forms on my lips when I speak. Ice spreads across the table. Temperature drops ten degrees in seconds.

Several of the lesser fae servitors edge away from my corner of the table, their instincts warning them of predatory magic.

“Small talk with humans.” My eyes lock with Cassius’s, and he flinches. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate discussing the weather right before we discuss how easily they break.”

Shadows spread under the table without my command. Ice forms on my chair arms. Control slips.

“And what qualifications does this human possess that would benefit our students?” I ask, voice precise and cold enough to send a visible shiver through the lesser fae recording the proceedings.

Valeborn glances at the dossier. “Specialist Ashlyn Morgan. Military background, specialized in what humans term paranormal operations. Combat expert with... impressive tactical adaptability.”

Military background. There’s something appealing about efficiency after centuries of this elaborate dance around simple truths.

Lady Shimmerwell, the third Seelie representative, emits a tinkling laugh that sounds like breaking crystal. “How delightfully quaint! A human teaching combat! Next we’ll have them instructing us on longevity!”

I allow myself a single, elegant arching of one eyebrow. “A human soldier. Teaching war. To us.” Each word drops like ice. “I’m fascinated by the arrogance. Almost as much as I’m going to enjoy watching it get her killed.”

“Really, Prince Kieran,” Brighthaven says, touching her hair for the nineteenth time. Nervous tell. Whatever she’s planning, she lacks confidence. “Such violent imagery is hardly constructive. The Seelie Court welcomes this cultural exchange. Different perspectives can only enhance our understanding.”

“I agree with Prince Kieran,” Lord Dredge interjects, earning a sharp glance from me. I need no allies in this farce. “Humans and their tactics last precisely until the moment they encounter actual Fae magic.”

“That’s not entirely accurate,” Elder Thornroot counters. “Humans have shown remarkable... adaptability in recent conflicts.”

“You mean they’ve learned to run away faster,” Dredge snorts.

“That’s enough,” Valeborn declares, rapping his knuckles on the table. The sound reverberates with subtle magic, vibrating through my molars and setting my teeth on edge. “We are not here to debate human combat effectiveness.”

Cassius leans forward eagerly, apparently missing the headmaster’s tone. “I’ve prepared a welcome basket with traditional human foods! Including something called processedcheese product. It comes in the most fascinating aerosol container?—”

“Different perspectives.” My smile shows all teeth. “From something that’ll be dust before I finish this sentence. How... educational.”

A ripple of discomfort passes through the chamber. The temperature drops as my control slips just enough to let my power leak. The shadows under the table deepen and spread like spilled ink.

“The Unseelie position remains unchanged,” I continue, each word precisely weighted. “We will observe. We will evaluate. We will retain our sovereign right to protect our interests as needed.” I run my finger along the obsidian table, frost patterns blooming beneath my touch. “And should this human prove to be a threat to the Balance, well... accidents happen so frequently to their fragile kind.”

What I don’t say? My father considers this human intrusion a direct threat to the Balance.

What I don’t say? Father ordered me to assess whether this human should live to leave the Academy.

What I don’t say? For the first time in centuries, I find myself hoping for something genuinely interesting to assess.

“If there are no further questions, this session is adjourned until the formal introduction tomorrow,” Valeborn announces, clearly eager to end this exercise in futility.

The Seelie delegation rises in perfect synchronization, movements deliberately graceful. I remain seated until they’ve departed, refusing to follow their lead in even this small matter. Only when the chamber has nearly emptied do I allow myself to trace patterns in the shadows beneath the table. They respond eagerly, swirling around my fingers like liquid darkness.

Footsteps approach—lighter than Unseelie, too measured for Seelie. Wild Court, then.

“Your subtlety remains intact as ever, Prince Kieran,” comes a voice like wind through autumn leaves.

I glance up to find Sorrel Moonshadow, the Wild Court’s chief archivist. Eyes like liquid amber—one of the few beings in the Academy I find marginally tolerable. Mainly because she, like me, appears exhausted by the endless political theater.

“Subtlety’s overrated,” I reply, not bothering to rise. “Like diplomacy. And tact.”

She studies me with those unnerving amber eyes. “You’re convinced this human poses a threat?”

“I’m convinced that bringing a human into our sacred spaces resembles inviting a fox into a henhouse.” I allow a cold smile. “Though in this case, the fox might prove more entertaining than I initially thought.”

And more interesting than anything we’ve encountered in centuries.