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What if she knows exactly what he’s planning?

What if her calm isn’t acceptance...

What if it’s anticipation?

“You look troubled, my son,” my father observes, attention sharpening like a blade finding its target.

“Just wondering if you’ve considered all the variables,” I say slowly, shadows coiling tighter as suspicion crystallizes into something approaching hope—dangerous, desperate hope that tastes like rebellion.

His smile falters by degrees, perfect composure developing hairline cracks. “Meaning?”

“Meaning Ash isn’t exactly what you’d call... predictable.” I let my gaze meet his with steady composure, ice spreading from my feet in patterns that claim territory, that mark boundaries he’s spent decades teaching me never to cross. “She’s survived three years of systematic poisoning, infiltrated an Academy designed to expose her, and bonded with three of the most dangerous men in the Fae realm.”

“Your point?”

“My point is that assuming she’ll react like a typical political prisoner might be... optimistic.”

For the first time since entering the archive, something shifts in his expression—uncertainty, barely perceptible, but I’ve studied his micro-expressions for three centuries of learning to survive his moods.

“The trial parameters are absolute,” he says with slightly less confidence, shadows retreating fractionally from his presence. “Solo manifestation, life debt activation, binding through magical compulsion. There are no variables to consider.”

“Aren’t there?” I step closer, frost advancing with each movement like an army claiming ground. “Because the woman I’ve come to know doesn’t accept impossible situations. She finds ways to win even when winning shouldn’t be possible.”

“You’re grasping at hope that doesn’t exist.”

“Am I?” I let my smile turn sharp enough to cut glass, shadows writhing around me with violence that makes the air itself recoil. “Or are you about to discover that trapping someone who’s spent her entire life turning disadvantages into weapons might not be as simple as you think?”

The silence that follows tastes like barely contained violence. My father’s ice-blue eyes narrow as he studies my face with focused attention, and for the first time, I watch frost crack across his perfect composure.

“What do you know?” he asks quietly, voice dropping to something intimate and lethal.

“Nothing,” I admit with complete honesty. “But I’ve learned to trust her judgment even when I don’t understand it. And right now, she feels like someone who’s exactly where she wants to be.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Is it?” I gesture toward the unsigned letter still sitting on the table, parchment crackling with frost that spells out my growingcertainty. “Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Ash, it’s that she’s always three moves ahead of everyone who thinks they’re manipulating her.”

My father stares at the renunciation for a long moment, political calculations clearly racing behind eyes that have spent centuries reading advantage in every situation. The silence stretches until it becomes a living thing, predatory and patient.

“Sign it,” he says finally, command layered with threat.

“No.”

The word hangs between us like a blade poised to fall.

“Sign it, or I’ll ensure tonight’s trial becomes execution rather than binding.”

Arctic fire crystallizes through my chest as understanding crashes over me like breaking waves. “You won’t.” The certainty in my voice surprises us both, shadows rising around me like extensions of my nervous system. “Because you need her alive for your plan to work. And threatening her just proved you’re not as confident about tonight’s outcome as you pretend to be.”

“Perhaps.” His smile turns calculating, but I catch the flash of something beneath—concern, quickly masked. “But I wonder... how confident are you about Kestra’s continued wellbeing if you fail me now?”

The name detonates through my spine like liquid lightning. Twenty years. Twenty years of perfect service in exchange for my sister’s freedom. Twenty years of believing that contract would expire in weeks, not months.

“The bargain stands,” I whisper, though my voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

“Does it?” He steps closer, shadows pooling around his feet like spilled ink eager to serve. “Because I find myself wondering if your... attachment to this changeling might supersede your commitment to family.”

Images flood my mind—not memories, but threats. Kestra in her tower study, surrounded by books about court unification. Her absolute faith that the courts can heal. Her dreams of teaching at the Academy once she’s free.