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Amarantha serves tea with movements so precise they could be choreographed, each gesture a small performance of perfecthostess behavior. The liquid steams with colors that shouldn’t exist—purples that shift to gold to silver—and I notice she doesn’t drink from her own cup.

“I imagine you’re feeling apprehensive about the trial,” she begins, settling across from me with predatory elegance. “It’s only natural. Such a momentous test of one’s... authenticity.”

Her voice carries warmth that wraps around my throat like silk, making each breath require conscious effort. The tone mothers use when they’re about to explain why your dreams are unrealistic, why you should accept limitations for your own good.

“I’m prepared to do whatever’s required.”

“Of course you are, darling. That’s what makes this so tragic.” She leans forward with the expression of someone delivering difficult but necessary truth, and the endearment slides off her tongue like honey laced with poison. “You’re going to attempt something that will destroy you, and everyone who claims to care about you has allowed it to happen.”

Her concern wraps around me like suffocating velvet, creating obligation where none should exist. My shoulders unconsciously straighten in response to her attention, body automatically seeking approval despite my conscious resistance.

“What do you mean?”

“The Four Treasures, dear one. Do you truly understand what you’re being asked to manifest?” Her voice carries gentle concern that makes refusing her guidance feel ungrateful, almost cruel. Like rejecting medical advice from someone trying to save your life. “Ancient artifacts of such power that they’ve remained hidden for centuries. Lost, some say. Others whisper they’ve chosen guardians who keep them secret for... personal reasons.”

“I was taught that royal blood?—”

“Oh, sweet child.” Amarantha’s laugh sounds like breaking bells, soft and musical and somehow wrong. “Who taught you such things? The same people who’ve been keeping you ignorant of your true nature for months?”

She reaches across the table to touch my hand, and the moment her skin contacts mine—cold as marble, smooth as silk—something shifts in my mind. I reach for Finnian’s words about treasures and find only shadows where certainty used to live. Important details dissolving like sugar in rain, leaving me grasping at fragments that may or may not be real.

Her touch feels like silk wrapped around steel, gentle pressure that doesn’t hurt but somehow makes resistance impossible. Like being held underwater by someone who keeps telling you it’s for your own good.

“Think carefully,” she continues, her voice taking on hypnotic quality that makes disagreement feel not just wrong but foolish. “Have any of your... companions ever mentioned possessing ancient artifacts? Ever displayed power beyond their stated abilities?”

I try to remember Finnian’s class, his careful explanations about treasure bonding, but the details slip away like water through my fingers. My face must show the confusion because Amarantha’s smile grows more satisfied, more predatory.

“The fact that you must search your memory tells us everything,” Amarantha says with false sympathy that somehow makes me feel stupid for not remembering clearly. “If they truly cared for your wellbeing, wouldn’t they have prepared you properly? Wouldn’t they have ensured your success rather than allowing you to face impossible odds?”

Her words reshape reality with subtle precision, like an artist touching up a painting. My confusion becomes evidence of their neglect. My uncertainty becomes proof of their deception.The gaps in my knowledge become weapons turned against the people I trust.

“Maybe they don’t know?—”

“Or maybe they know exactly what will happen when you attempt solo manifestation.” Her grip on my hand tightens just enough to remind me she’s controlling this conversation, that I’m small and lost and dependent on her guidance. “Magical backlash, dear one. The kind that doesn’t just fail—it destroys. Body, mind, soul. Everything that makes you... you.”

She releases my hand and returns to her tea, violet eyes watching my face with clinical precision. The warmth withdraws like tide going out, leaving me somehow cold despite the chamber’s perfect temperature. The sudden absence of her attention feels like abandonment, making me desperate to earn it back despite every rational instinct screaming warnings.

“You know what I find most heartbreaking about your situation?”

The question hangs in the air, and I realize she’s waiting for me to ask. To beg for her insight like a child seeking approval from the only adult who seems to understand.

“What?” The word emerges smaller than intended, and I hate how desperately I want her answer.

“You believe what you feel for them is love.” Her smile carries maternal disappointment that drives acid through my veins—the same feeling I got as a kid when Margaret looked at me like I was broken beyond repair. “But love without guidance is merely chaos. Love without structure becomes destruction. Love without proper control...” She shakes her head sadly. “Well. Look where it’s brought you.”

The judgment in her voice activates every wound I’ve carried since childhood, settling in my chest like lead weights. The fear that I’m too much, too intense, too broken to deserve real affection. That my feelings are wrong, excessive, inappropriate.

“That’s not?—”

“Isn’t it?” Amarantha’s voice carries the weight of absolute certainty, the kind of authority that makes arguing feel like childish rebellion. “True love, darling, means taking responsibility for someone’s choices when they’re too confused to choose wisely. It means providing structure when they’re drowning in freedom they can’t handle.”

She gestures around the impossible parlor with elegant authority. “The Seelie Court has flourished for millennia because we understand this fundamental truth. Every citizen knows their place, follows proper guidance, accepts that some individuals are simply better equipped to make difficult decisions.”

“That sounds like control, not love.”

“Does it?” Her laugh could freeze fire, and suddenly the warmth I was craving feels like it was never really offered at all. Like touching fool’s gold that crumbles the moment you realize what it really is. “How interesting that you should resist the very thing that’s kept you alive this long.”

“Consider your military service,” Amarantha continues. “Eight years of structure, guidance, clear expectations. You thrived under proper authority, didn’t you? Accomplished things that would have been impossible without someone wiser directing your considerable talents.”