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“Tell me, Professor—is this how you conduct all your research?” I step closer, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Or am I a special case study?”

“No,” he says quietly, eyes holding mine with unexpected intensity. “Most research doesn’t make me question everything I thought I knew about myself.”

We reach a circular reading area. A massive table occupies the center, inlaid with a shifting map of Fae realms. Territories expand and contract, borders blur then reform like living tissue.

My head spins watching it.

“The realms are constantly in flux,” Finnian explains. “What seems solid is often... negotiable.”

“Like truth?” The question tears from me, from a place I didn’t know existed.

His eyebrows lift in surprise. Something flashes in his eyes—recognition. “An astute observation for someone new to our world.” He gestures toward the chairs. “Please, sit. These texts can be... demanding.”

The books arrange themselves, one ancient volume settling before me. Its cover has no title, just interlocking symbols that shift when I’m not looking directly at them. The leather feels warm under my fingers, alive—responding with a slight tremor.

“These contain the most comprehensive history of combat traditions across all courts,” Finnian explains, taking the seat beside mine. “Though I notice several Wild Court sections havebeen... relocated over the centuries. Curious gaps in what should be complete historical records.”

Shaking his head, he continues, “The diagrams show not just movements but magical theories behind them—how each form channels specific energies through the body, weaving physical combat with elemental power.”

He opens the book carefully, pages crackling with residual magic. “See here? This sequence isn’t just about striking—it’s about drawing earth magic up through your feet, letting it flow through your stance and into your hands. The combat form becomes the conduit.”

His finger traces a detailed illustration where flowing lines of energy spiral around a warrior’s body, magic and movement inseparable. “Fae combat was never meant to be purely physical. Each form is designed to amplify and channel the warrior’s natural magical affinities.”

Orion flashes through my mind—flame-bright hair, eyes shifting color as we moved together in perfect synchronization. Our bodies speaking a language older than words. So different from Finnian’s warmth or Kieran’s biting cold. Each awakening something different in me, pieces of a puzzle I’m only beginning to glimpse.

“Wild Court Royal Forms,” Finnian translates, finger tracing ancient script that writhes under his touch. “Reserved for those of highest bloodlines. Instinctive rather than learned—encoded in royal Fae essence. The movements flow from the practitioner’s very nature.”

His eyes lock with mine, searching. The air between us thickens, charged with unasked questions.

The symbols on the page pulse once, luminescence responding to my proximity. I jerk back, but where my fingers passed, tiny burn marks appear in the parchment.

“Fascinating,” I force out, voice unsteady. “Though I’m more interested in forms my students might actually use. I doubt royal bloodlines attend my combat classes.”

“You’d be surprised.” His voice drops lower, weighted with meaning. “Many things in the Fae realm are not as they appear. Bloodlines thought extinct have ways of... resurfacing when least expected.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Something violent claws up my throat. For a heartbeat, the thorn patterns flare with heat, fire racing through veins that pulse with memories I don’t possess.

Every nerve ending ignites simultaneously, lightning from the inside out.

Bloodlines thought extinct.

“Speaking of appearances,” I say, changing course with military precision, “I noticed your students fight differently based on court. Care to enlighten me on the philosophical differences?”

His mouth curves slightly—he sees the deflection but allows it. “Seelie students use flowing movements while Unseelie prefer direct strikes.”

“Yes, combat reflects deeper court philosophies. The Seelie value beauty and illusion—making even battle aesthetic. They fight as if the world is watching, creating art from violence.”

“The Unseelie prioritize efficiency,” he continues. “They fight to win, not to impress. Why dance when you can simply destroy? Their forms strip away everything extraneous until only pure function remains.”

“And Wild Court?” The question rips from somewhere deeper than thought, like my bones are demanding the answer. “Not that I have any particular interest in—” My throat closes like a fist. “Fuck. I can’t even pretend I don’t need to know this. What the hell is wrong with me?”

Finnian’s eyes widen, gold flecks expanding. “The truth constraint,” he murmurs with something like wonder. “It’s affecting you faster than it should.”

“They fight like the natural world itself,” he says carefully, studying my reaction with new intensity. “Adaptive, primal, following patterns that seem chaotic but contain deep order. Like a forest fire or hurricane. Devastating but somehow purposeful.”

His fingers brush mine as we reach to turn the page. The contact jolts through me, warmth racing up my arm to settle behind my sternum. The thorn patterns flare with gentle heat, nearly burning through my sleeve—but this time the sensation feels like coming home rather than invasion.

Neither of us moves. His skin is warmer than human-normal. It makes me realize how cold I’ve been since arriving—cold and incomplete.