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His hand moves to my face again, this time so close that a strand of my hair drifts in the minute space between his skin and mine, caught in some electrical charge that emanates from him. I feel the cold of his almost-touch against my cheek like a physical caress.

My breath catches as his fingers finally, deliberately make contact. The touch is feather-light against my jawline, but the effect is cataclysmic—like plunging into ice water while lightning courses through my veins.

Every nerve ending fires simultaneously.

The thorn patterns beneath my sleeve flare with painful brilliance, their glow visible even through the fabric, spreading in delicate fractals up my neck and across my collarbone.

His eyes widen in fascination as the patterns respond to his touch, watching as they climb higher until they trace the edge of my face. His finger follows their path, trailing cold fire everywhere he touches.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs, so close now that his breath chills my lips.

His shadows deepen around us, wrapping around my limbs with proprietary weight that should terrify me but instead sends shivers cascading through my body. Where the shadows touch, ice forms in delicate patterns that mirror the thorns beneath my skin, creating an external manifestation of the connection between us.

But as his shadows claim more territory, something unexpected happens—they begin to pulse with their own heartbeat, synchronizing with mine. Where shadow meets skin, tiny silver stars appear within the darkness, like a private constellation mapped across my body. The effect is mesmerizing, nothing like the purely tactical shadow manipulation I’d read about in briefing materials.

This is intimate, artistic—something I suspect few ever witness.

Something uniquely Kieran.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I manage, though my voice emerges breathier than intended.

“Your body remembers what your mind has forgotten,” he says, hand sliding from my jaw to my neck, fingers finding my racing pulse. “Just as it remembered combat forms it shouldn’t know. Just as it understands languages it was never taught.”

With startling swiftness, his other hand catches my wrist, fingers circling where the thorn patterns throb most violently. The direct contact sends a shock wave of sensation so intense that my knees nearly buckle.

The collision creates visible energy that crackles in the air around us, sending sparks of blue-black light dancing across my vision. But more extraordinary still—his touch creates music. Crystalline notes that shiver through my consciousness. His fingers against my wrist and neck form haunting melodies so achingly familiar they bring unexpected tears to my eyes.

I’ve heard this before. Somewhere. In dreams, perhaps. Or in another life entirely.

For just a moment, his carefully constructed mask slips. The shadows around us flicker, revealing something raw and unguarded in his eyes—not just fascination or assessment, but a flash of recognition so profound it borders on anguish. His grip on my wrist spasms, fingers trembling against my skin.

“Impossible,” he whispers, voice cracking on the word. “They said all the bloodlines were—” He cuts himself off, cold mask slipping back into place, but not before I glimpse the depth of emotion he’s desperately trying to conceal.

My free hand instinctively rises to push him away from whatever spell he’s casting. But when my palm contacts his chest, something unexpected happens—power surges from myfingertips, a flash of green-white energy that collides with his shadows.

My lips part on a gasp.

The impact pushes us apart with enough force that he actually takes a step back, surprise evident in his normally controlled features.

“You’re not as defenseless as you appear,” he says, something like appreciation coloring his tone. The shadows around him writhe with increased agitation, as if excited by the display of power, but the tiny stars within them continue to pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat.

My hand tingles where it touched him, the sensation spreading up my arm to join the thorns that now pulse visibly across my skin. I stare at my palm in disbelief, seeing tiny filaments of light dance between my fingers like living electricity.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Professor,” he says, formal mask returning as he finally steps back. “Especially since you don’t know all the rules—or all the players.”

“I’m not playing anything,” I respond, a flash of genuine irritation breaking through. “I’m doing my job.”

“And if your job threatens the Balance?” he asks, eyes hardening. “If your mission endangers the Academy?”

“Is asking questions dangerous now? Exploring gardens?” I counter, surprising myself with the direct challenge. “Or is breathing while human the real offense?”

His eyebrows rise slightly at my shift in tone. A test of his own boundaries, perhaps—seeing how far I can push before consequences follow. The pendant in my pocket grows cold enough that it burns through fabric against my thigh.

“Breathing while human is merely unfortunate,” he responds coldly. “Breathing while pretending to be human is... potentially treasonous.”

The accusation hangs between us, clear despite its indirect phrasing.

Only problem is, I don’t know anything more. Speculation isn’t fact.