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The truth drives a needle into my solar plexus, and her eyes glitter with satisfaction at my flinch. She sees the recognition, the doubt, and feeds on it like a vampire tasting blood.

“And when that structure was removed? When you were thrown into Academy chaos with no proper guidance?” She tilts her head with false concern that somehow makes my pain feel like entertainment. “Truth trials. Political manipulation. Dangerous attachments to individuals who care more about their own secrets than your survival.”

There’s something beneath her sympathy—a hunger that makes alarm bells shriek through my nervous system. She doesn’t just want to help me. She wants to consume what I have with them, to prove that authentic connection is impossible, that people like us are meant to be alone.

“They’re not?—”

“Aren’t they? Then where are they now, dear one? Where are these great protectors while you face the most dangerous trial of your life?” Her voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries more force than shouting, and I can feel the envy bleeding through her composed mask like poison through silk. “They’re protecting themselves. Their positions. Their precious secrets.”

The words burrow into my mind like parasites because part of them rings true. I am facing this alone. They haven’t told me about the treasures Finnian hinted at. They are keeping secrets that might save my life.

But underneath her manipulation, something in me recognizes the psychic poison for what it is. My vision sharpens like a blade coming into focus, and suddenly I see the wounded predator trying to make me as broken as she is.

“But I’m not going to let you face this unprepared,” Amarantha announces, rising that somehow makes her generosity feel like the greatest gift anyone has ever offered me. “Despite everything, I find myself... fond of you. Protective, even.”

Obligation settles on my shoulders like lead weights. She cares when others don’t. She protects when others abandon. How could I possibly reject such rare and precious attention?

She moves to an ornate cabinet across the parlor, her steps deliberately unhurried. I watch her open the carved doors with ceremonial care, withdrawing something that makes ice crystallize in my veins despite the chamber’s heat.

A sword. But not any sword—the blade gleams with sickly pale luminescence that makes shadows recoil, its edge clearly forged from bone embedded with fragments of corrupted crystal that pulse with malevolent energy like a diseased heartbeat.

She returns to the table with the weapon cradled like an offering, setting it between us with the casual elegance of someone presenting tea cakes.

“Insurance,” she explains, violet eyes watching my reaction with predatory intensity. “The trial will take place in a circle of protective wards. If the magical backlash becomes too severe, if the treasures’ rejection threatens to destroy you completely...” She shrugs elegantly. “A quick end is more merciful than divine suffering.”

“You want me to kill myself?”

“I want you to have options, darling.” Her voice carries such genuine concern that refusing feels ungrateful, almost selfish. “The bone blade will cut through magical backlash like a knife through silk. One swift stroke, and the pain ends immediately.” Her violet eyes hold mine with terrible sincerity. “It’s what someone who truly loves you would provide—an escape when the alternative is agony beyond imagining.”

The offer sits between us like a loaded gun disguised as mercy. Death as kindness. Suicide as the ultimate expression of love.

“Of course,” Amarantha continues with casual elegance, settling back into her chair like someone who’s just solved a difficult puzzle, “there is another possibility.”

“What?”

“You could choose not to attempt the trial at all.” She examines her perfectly manicured nails with studied indifference, and suddenly all her care feels like calculation. “Acknowledge that perhaps your... advisors have been less thanhonest about your chances. Accept that royal blood might not be enough without proper preparation and guidance.”

“And then?”

“Then you accept a different kind of bond. The Seelie Court has use for someone with your particular talents. Under proper guidance, with appropriate structure, you could accomplish remarkable things.” Her smile turns absolutely predatory, and finally I see what’s been hiding beneath all that maternal concern. “All it requires is the wisdom to accept that some people are simply better equipped to make important decisions.”

The offer hangs in the air like poison disguised as medicine. Surrender my agency, accept Seelie control, become exactly what Davis wanted—a weapon pointed by someone else’s will, but this time wrapped in silk instead of steel.

“Think carefully, dear one,” Amarantha says, rising to indicate breakfast has ended. The warmth disappears like it was never really there, leaving me somehow smaller, more uncertain than when I arrived. “The trial begins tomorrow evening. You have an entire day to consider your options, to truly examine whether those you trust have prepared you for success... or failure.”

She moves to the bone sword still resting on the table, producing silk cloth from somewhere and wrapping the weapon with movements that somehow make the gesture feel like gift presentation. The fabric muffles the corrupted energy but doesn’t eliminate it entirely—warmth seeps through the silk like fever heat, making my palm sting where I accept the bundle.

“Take this with you. Consider it... insurance.”

My fingers spasm around the silk-wrapped blade, muscles cramping against the wrongness that pulses through the fabric like a diseased heartbeat. The weapon’s corruption makes my thorns withdraw so deeply I can barely feel them, magical nature recoiling from whatever dark power it represents.

I can’t bring myself to speak. What words exist for accepting what might be your own execution device wrapped in silk?

“Think nothing of it, darling. What else is family for?”

Family. The word crashes into my sternum like a sledgehammer, creating instant belonging and obligation. She’s not just manipulating me—she’s adopting me, claiming me, making her control feel like love.

Guards appear in the parlor’s archway as if summoned by thought—probably were, given the level of coordination in this place. They fall into formation around me with the same practiced efficiency as before, but now I’m carrying a bone sword and the weight of Amarantha’s psychological poison.