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Sorrel tilts her head, hair shifting like autumn leaves in wind. “You haven’t even met her.”

“I don’t need to touch fire to know it burns.” My eyes lock with hers. “But I do enjoy watching things burn.”

“Fascinating.” She taps long fingers against the table, releasing tiny puffs of pollen that carry scents older than court politics. “The prince who prides himself on knowing all secrets has already decided what this one contains.”

The barb lands with more precision than I’d like. My shadows flicker in response. “There’s a difference between knowing something and understanding it.” I lean back, shadows curling around my fingers. “Your court collects facts. I collect consequences.”

Something flickers across her face—a knowing that makes my shadows coil defensively. “Perhaps this human will surprise you, Prince of Shadows. Wouldn’t that be refreshing?”

She walks away before I can respond, leaving behind the unsettling feeling that she dismissed me. And the even more unsettling realization that part of me wants surprise.

I exit the council chamber through shadows rather than doors—a small demonstration of power that will be noted and reported. Consciousness scatters. Reality fragments. Darkness. Then solid stone beneath my feet. The shadow-step feels like diving into icy water, consciousness scattering before reforming with needle-sharp clarity.

The Academy’s corridors shift and realign as I navigate them, but I move through them effortlessly, having mapped every possible configuration. The shadows whisper to me as I pass, conveying fragments of conversations and half-glimpsed secrets.

My private quarters lie in the northern tower—the coldest, darkest section. A deliberate assignment meant to isolate the Unseelie prince. Instead, it provides precisely the privacy I require.

On my desk lies the dossier I’ve compiled. Ashlyn Morgan. Found abandoned in forests twenty-five years ago—long after the last Wild enclave burned.

Interesting anomalies for a human. My fingers trace the edges of her photograph, and something stirs—a strange resonance I’ve never felt with human images before.

The Spear burns against my ribs. Hot metal through fabric. It’s never reacted to humans before. Not once in recorded history.

The Academy bells toll eight. The human transport should be approaching.

As if summoned by the thought, a disturbance ripples through our magical barriers—but not the expected pattern for a human crossing boundaries. This is something else entirely.

I move to the observatory window, extending my awareness beyond physical sight.

Ancient oaks bend toward her car, branches reaching. They’ve never moved for humans. Something primitive in my chest answers their hunger.

“Impossible,” I whisper, “unless...”

The forest responds only to Fae presence. Specifically to royal blood. They have never—not once in recorded history—acknowledged a human. Which means either every text in our archives lies, or she is exactly as impossible as she appears.

I dissolve into shadow form. Consciousness scatters across darkness. Reality dissolves. Reforms. The western tower solidifies around me, atoms reassembling with needle-sharp precision.

The black vehicle approaches slowly, headlights cutting through unnatural mist.

It stops at the outer gate. The mist parts eagerly—curling away like courtiers before royalty. The ancient ironwood trees bend their branches toward rather than away from the vehicle.

The forest welcomes this visitor.

A figure emerges—female, medium height, moving with practiced vigilance. Something about her movement makes my breath catch. A fluid grace that doesn’t belong in mortal form.

As she steps onto Academy grounds, the ambient magic pulses in recognition. The Spear screams against my ribs, recognizing something I don’t understand.

I expand my magical senses to taste her energy signature.

My power hits something solid. Bounces back. Pain lances through my skull. I stagger. The backlash feels like liquid fire striking me. This has never happened before.

“Well, well,” I breathe, a smile curving my lips despite the lingering sting. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”

Her face becomes visible as she glances up at the Academy. For the briefest moment, her eyes reflect moonlight like a Fae’s would. Dark chestnut hair frames features too symmetrical to be merely human—severe perfection that whispers of Unseelie bloodlines.

Those blue-green eyes that shift in moonlight capture my attention. Cold eyes that have seen too much. Eyes that don’t quite match the mortality of her form.

She moves like someone accustomed to violence, each step sending ripples through ambient magic. When she pauses at the threshold, her head tilts—not just listening but feeling, sensing magic without training to identify it.