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Several nearby Fae laugh. I wink at a group of giggling apprentices, sending them into a fresh round of whispers and blushes.

“The council awaits, Flame Lord,” says Sorcha, her silver-white hair gleaming in the firelight. Despite her typically playful nature, her expression tonight is serious as winter. “Three more groves went silent this week,” she continues. “No signs of struggle. No bodies. Just... empty.”

The familiar knot forms in my stomach. “How many is that this month?”

“Seventeen settlements. All small, all remote.” Her violet eyes hold fear she’s trying to hide. “Whatever’s hunting us knows to avoid the larger communities.”

I grind my teeth, iron claws closing around my chest.

“They’ve been arguing since the moon crested,” she adds.

“When are they not arguing?” I grin, pushing my emotions back down, ruffling her hair. She swats my hand away with practiced ease. “Let me guess—another territorial dispute about mushrooms?”

“The human at the Academy.” Her violet eyes meet mine directly. “And the signs. Many have seen the omens—thorn patterns blooming in their dreams, ancient markings appearing on sacred stones. The mother oak at the shrine is flowering out of season.”

The blood oath mark on my arm pulses again, warmer than before. “What else?” I keep my voice steady despite the heat crawling up my arm.

Sorcha studies me, head tilted to one side. “You’re doing that thing where you joke to hide that you’re affected. Your hair is literally getting brighter, by the way.”

Fire races up my neck as she calls me out. I reach up reflexively and realize she’s right—my hair is glowing with increased intensity, actual embers flaring at the tips as my internal temperature rises.

A smile flickers across her face. “The Morrigan woke.”

“Well, shit.” The oath mark flares hot enough that steam rises from my skin. “You couldn’t lead with that?”

“I did lead with the human,” she points out. “The two are obviously connected.”

“Witnessed by whom?” I keep my voice casual, though the oath mark continues to pulse like a second heart.

“By me,” says a voice behind us, causing Sorcha to startle visibly.

I turn slowly. The Morrigan stands taller than most Fae—though still a hand’s width shorter than me—her powerful frame draped in battle leathers adorned with raven feathers that somehow move when she doesn’t. Silver streaks cut through herraven-black hair like lightning through storm clouds. Her eyes—ancient, piercing silver—miss nothing and reveal less.

“Young Root-Bound,” she says, voice like whiskey and smoke, rough from centuries of silence. “You... grew. Into quite the mountain of a man.” She blinks slowly, predatory grace replacing confusion. “Save the courtly manners, darling. They hang on you like silk on a wolf—beautiful, but utterly wrong.”

I laugh at that, the sound booming across the encampment. “They always have. Finnian keeps trying to teach me appropriate etiquette. Says I’m a diplomatic catastrophe waiting to happen.”

“Your mark burns, doesn’t it?” she asks, studying me with the intensity of a cat watching prey. “The oath stirs like winter’s end—painful, but necessary.”

“How did you know? Wait, don’t answer that. Ancient mysterious powers, right?”

She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow, lips curving in dark amusement. “Deflecting pain with humor, sweet boy? How... transparent.”

“The pain I can handle,” I say, dropping the deflection. “It’s what the burning means that has me on edge.”

“When the thorn begins to flower, the root must rise to claim its purpose,” she says, voice growing richer, more hypnotic. “Your bloodline has slumbered like seeds in winter’s grip. Mine has waited to witness the spring.”

She gestures toward the council chamber. “Shall we? They’ve been waiting long enough.”

The council chamber is formed from ancient trees that have grown together over centuries, their branches interlacing to create walls and ceiling. As the Morrigan enters, the trees shiver in recognition, sap running visibly through their bark like tears of joy.

At the center burns the eternal fire, brought from the original Wild Court territories during the exile. Eight elders representthe major Wild Court factions—each chosen for wisdom rather than age or power. They rise as we enter, murmurs rippling through the gathered observers.

“The Morrigan honors us,” announces Elder Thornroot, his bark-like skin creaking as he bows deeply.

“The mushroom circles have expanded into berry-gathering territory!” Mossbraid pounds his gnarled staff against the ground. Actual mushrooms sprout instantly where the wood strikes. “The raspberry sprites are threatening to enchant our underwear!”

“Enough.” My voice cuts through the bickering like a blade. “While you’re arguing about territory, families are disappearing. Tell me what matters or I’ll find someone who will.”