Page 203

“But?” Finnian prompts.

“But right now, it feels like it’s burning because I’m missing something. Something important.” I meet their eyes, seeing my own confusion reflected back. “What if she doesn’t need protection?”

The admission sits on my tongue like poison, betraying everything I am.

The guardian bond has been lying to me. Not about the danger—that’s real enough. But about who’s in control of it.

She’s not preparing to survive this trial.

She’s preparing to rewrite it.

And if I’m right, tomorrow doesn’t end with her execution.

It ends with everyone else discovering what happens when you corner a Wild Queen who’s finally done pretending to be anything less than what she is.

“What if she needs something else entirely?”

The question hangs in the air like a blade against our throats.

Through the bond, Ash’s heart beats steady and strong, carrying determination that feels less like fear and more like...

War.

“Six hours,” I repeat, tasting the deadline like blood on my tongue.

Six hours to discover whether being a guardian means saving someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

Or learning to trust someone whose plans might be more dangerous than anything I’m trying to protect her from.

Outside the windows, dawn breaks over the Academy like a blade across our throats.

Beautiful and cold and absolutely final.

And through it all, she feels ready.

Ready for something none of us can see coming.

40

KIERAN

The letter tremblesagainst parchment like a blade poised to carve my own execution.

Formal renunciation of my inheritance, written in desperate hope that removing my political value might somehow derail my father’s plans. The ink gleams wet and black, waiting for me to commit treason with elegant penmanship.

But as my fingers close around the quill, something claws up my throat—not words but instinct, primal as breathing. My hand spasms. The movement sends frost spiraling across the desk in defensive patterns I learned before I could speak.

This tastes wrong. Reeks of trap disguised as escape.

Father’s lessons bleed through muscle memory: “The most dangerous snare is the one that feels like freedom.” Three centuries of surviving his games, and my body screams danger in a language older than consciousness.

My spine liquefies, vertebrae dissolving into arctic fire that burns without heat.

“Whispen,” I call to the chaotic spirit hovering near the ceiling, voice rough with growing dread. “If a prince were to renounce his inheritance during a political crisis, what would that accomplish?”

“Oh! Such a delicious question!” He spins with manic enthusiasm that sends golden sparks cascading through the air. “Renunciation creates the most wonderful vulnerabilities! Political isolation, complete dependence on external protection!”

Something snarls behind my sternum—rage trapped in a ribcage too small to contain it. “And who typically offers that protection?”