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It wants her safe, even if it means turning on everything I’ve ever served.

My body wants to bow while my hands clench into fists—twenty years of conditioning warring with something newer.

“Of course,” I manage through a throat gone desert-dry.

“Excellent. The trial begins in two days at the dark moon. Your final assignment under the old contract.” His smile could freeze hellfire itself. “And the first test of our new arrangement. Plenty of time for desperation to properly... ripen.”

The dismissal hits like a physical blow, shadow magic ejecting me from the throne room with brutal efficiency. My last image is of the enslaved woman’s terrified eyes—a preview of what he plans to do to Ash, dressed in the language of salvation and political necessity.

The Spear’s outline burns beneath my skin as ancient magic screams against injustice. For seven centuries, this weapon has been content with measured truth, careful revelation, surgical precision in its justice.

Tonight, it wants blood.

The artifact doesn’t whisper—it roars. Every lie my father just spoke, every manipulation disguised as strategy, every moment he’s treated her like a chess piece rather than the woman who’s become the center of my existence.

She doesn’t deserve this,the Spear pulses against my ribs.And neither do you.

The truth it reveals isn’t about her—it’s about me. About the choice I’ve been avoiding since the moment I saw her.

Duty to my father’s crown, or loyalty to something that feels more real than any throne.

My shoulders drop as something I’ve carried for twenty years finally lets go.

I materialize in the Academy’s restricted archive, expecting empty silence and the familiar comfort of ancient texts. Instead, I find Finnian hunched over research materials, but something’s wrong. Hair falls across his forehead in uncharacteristic disarray while his fingers drum against the table in patterns that spell out anxiety.

Interrogation equipment glints on a side table—truth serums that glow with malevolent light, compulsion crystals designed to shatter mental defenses, devices created specifically to extract information through magical coercion. The metallic scent of blood lingers in the air like an accusation.

“Kieran?” He looks up with startled guilt, hastily covering the implements with a cloth that can’t hide what I’ve already seen. “I was not?—”

“You tortured Davis.” The realization hits me like ice water, not a question but recognition of shared moral compromise.

His face crumbles completely, composure shattering to reveal something raw and desperate underneath. “I had to know about the trial. Had to understand what they would do to her.” He meets my gaze with desperate justification. “He was poisoning her for three years, Kieran. Three years of systematic magical suppression while pretending to love her.”

I settle into the chair across from him, leaning forward until the space between us becomes charged with shared conspiracy. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding his breath for hours. The Spear’s burning finally begins to ease, as if proximity to someone who shares my moral destruction provides some kind of relief. “How far did you go?”

“Far enough to break him. Far enough to learn things I wish I could forget.” His voice carries self-recrimination that cuts deeper than any blade. “Far enough to discover that everything we do to protect her might be destroying who she actually is.”

The admission hangs between us like a confession neither wanted to make but both needed to hear.

“I crossed lines I swore I would never cross, boundaries I believed were fundamental to who I am as both scholar and man,” he says, staring at his hands like they belong to someone else. “I have always believed knowledge should illuminate—not destroy. But when it comes to her…” He swallows hard. “I did not just want answers. I wanted vengeance. And that—” he breaks off, voice raw, “That terrifies me more than anything I found in Davis’s mind.”

“Join the club,” I say grimly, shadows writhing. “Because I just learned my father saved her at the trial specifically to own her. And at the next trial, he plans to collect on that debt.”

Finnian’s head snaps up, mind already processing implications with devastating speed. “What do you mean?”

“The Trial of Power. In two days. They are forcing her to manifest all four treasures or face magical backlash that couldkill her.” I meet his horrified gaze, letting him see the complete scope of the trap. “Father created a life debt when he intervened, and he plans to use it to bind her to Unseelie service when she fails.”

“That is...” His amber eyes go wide with understanding. “That is not execution. That is slavery. Political enslavement disguised as rescue.”

“Exactly. He showed me what it looks like—an enslaved human woman, magically compelled, no will left in her eyes. That is what he wants to do to Ash.” The Spear flares again at the memory, ancient power recognizing the absolute wrongness of what I witnessed. “And the only way to save her is to expose everything we have been hiding.”

Finnian stares at me for a long moment, processing the magnitude of what I’m suggesting. Then he deliberately pushes the interrogation equipment aside, amber eyes hardening with resolve I’ve never seen before.

“Then we expose everything.”

“You understand what that means? Treason charges. Exile. Losing everything we have built our identities around?” I study his face, looking for any hesitation. “Your position, your research, your standing in the Seelie Court—all of it gone.”

“I understand that I tortured a man to protect her, that caution becomes meaningless when someone you love faces enslavement, that some choices reshape your soul whether you make them or not,” he says with quiet determination that carries more weight than any royal decree. His amber eyes burn with newfound resolve. “I understand that we can either act with courage or live with the knowledge that we chose comfort over her freedom.”