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Her violet eyes glitter. “You’ll find the Court remarkably conducive to clear thinking.”

Words form halfway then dissolve before reaching my tongue. Clear thinking—right. If by clear thinking she means thoughts that... thoughts that... what was I thinking about?

I catalog exits despite the growing fog clouding my thoughts. Three doorways, but the pathways blur together in geometric patterns designed to confuse. My military training keeps trying to engage, but each tactical assessment feels more distant, less urgent than it should.

“This is betrayal with perfume and silk sheets,” I mutter, though even my anger feels muted now, like shouting underwater.

Amarantha’s crystalline laugh echoes off marble walls. “Such refreshing directness. We’ll train that out of you soon enough.”

The magical restraints pulse again, and this time I feel my thorns retreat so deeply I can barely sense them. Not just blocking my power—making the idea of resistance feel foolish, unnecessary. Why fight when everything here is so... comfortable?

The thought terrifies me precisely because it doesn’t terrify me enough.

I try to remember Kieran’s face—those ice-blue eyes that see through every lie. I reach for the memory and find only empty air where it should be, like grasping for smoke.

Kieran, I need you.But the thought dissolves before it can become anything real, swallowed by the magical haze that makes even my own mind feel foreign.

We approach the main palace through courtyards that stretch endlessly in all directions, each one more elaborate than the last. Marble statues pose in moments of eternal beauty, their faces too perfect to be human, too cold to be alive. The air shimmers with magic that makes each breath require effort, like breathing through silk.

My military training kicks in despite the magical fog—catalog exits, assess threats, plan escape routes. But every tactical instinct feels muffled, thoughts moving like... like... what was I trying to remember?

The pathways blur together in endless geometric patterns that hurt to follow with my eyes. I’ve survived seven years of black ops missions. Torture training. Psychological warfare. But this slow dissolution of my own mind might be the thing that finally breaks me.

They want me soft.

Safe.

Easy to mold into something palatable.

But I am not soft. I am not safe. And I’ve never been fucking easy.

Even if I can’t quite remember why that matters anymore.

My stomach drops like a stone despite the magical haze when I see the familiar figures waiting on the palace steps.

Colonel Graves stands in full dress uniform, looking like he belongs here. Behind him, his tactical team has traded combat gear for formal attire that somehow makes them appear more dangerous, not less. They’re not restrained. They’re not guarded.

They’re guests.

“Agent Morgan,” Graves greets with paternal warmth that makes bile rise in my throat even through the suppression magic. “Welcome to your temporary accommodations. I trust Lady Amarantha has explained the situation?”

“What situation?” I demand, though the suppression magic makes even anger feel distant, unimportant.

“The verification trial, of course. The Seelie Court has graciously agreed to host the proceedings.” His steel-blue eyes hold mine with familiar authority—the voice that means someone is about to follow orders whether they want to or not. My spine tries to straighten automatically before I catch myself. “All three courts will witness your attempt to prove royal Wild Court heritage.”

“And if I refuse?”

Amarantha’s laugh sounds like breaking crystal, each note perfectly pitched to cut. “Oh, my dear, refusal was never an option. The courts have formally requested verification. Such requests carry the weight of ancient law.”

The trek through the palace interior feels endless—corridor after corridor of impossible beauty that makes my head spin. Tapestries move in ways that make my eyes water if I stare too long, their scenes shifting between pastoral perfection and something that might be warning. Paintings watch us pass with eyes that track movement, their subjects too beautiful and too empty to be truly alive.

Every step echoes despite the thick carpets, sound bouncing off walls that seem to stretch higher than physics should allow. The suppression magic grows stronger the deeper we go, making each breath feel like drowning in honey. Each exhale takes effort I shouldn’t need to spend.

I try to remember Finnian’s lesson about bonded souls working in harmony. Four treasures. Four guardians. I reach forthe knowledge and watch it slip through my fingers like water, leaving me grasping at fragments that dissolve before I can hold them.

Finn, please. I can’t remember what you taught me. I can’t remember how to save myself.

“Your quarters have been specially prepared,” Amarantha explains as we climb a staircase that seems to stretch longer with each step. The effect might be magical, or it might be the suppression enchantments making distance feel fluid and uncertain. “Enchanted for optimal rest and mental clarity. The trial requires your fullest attention.”