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The assault recedes enough for me to drag air into starving lungs. He supports me with surprising strength, one arm around my waist, his other hand against my forehead. His touch is warm and steady, grounding me.

Where his skin meets mine, the agony recedes.

“Your skin is like ice,” he murmurs, fingers brushing my temple. “And burning up at the same time. How is that possible?”

I should be fighting to break his hold—I’ve never let anyone this close without a reason. But something tense in my shoulders finally releases.

“I’m fine,” I lie, then curse as my throat tightens. “Okay, I’m not fine. I haven’t slept properly since I got here, and apparently my body has opinions about ancient Fae texts.”

The truth slips out before I can stop it, raw and unfiltered.

“This was not sleep deprivation,” he says softly, helping me back to my chair. “Your reaction to the text was... specific. Visceral. Like recognition.”

I start to make an excuse, but my throat tightens in warning. Instead, I choose a partial truth.

“I’ve been having weird symptoms since arriving,” I admit, watching his reaction. “Probably just... adjusting to all the magic here. Or maybe all the magic is adjusting to me.”

He studies me, something shifting behind his expression. The gold flecks in his eyes expand until they seem to glow.

“The Academy affects everyone differently,” he finally says, each word carefully chosen. “Particularly those with... unacknowledged sensitivities.”

His words hang between us, loaded with meaning neither of us directly addresses. I pick up the fallen book, breaking the intense eye contact.

“You mentioned these show magical theories,” I say, steering us back toward safer ground. “How does court affiliation affect magical expression?”

“Court magic reflects philosophical differences,” he explains, “but it’s also tied to seasonal domains and power sources. Seelie magic draws from spring and summer’s solar energy, channeling light and growth magic to create beauty and enchantment. They make others see what they wish to see because their power comes from life force itself.”

He demonstrates with a simple gesture, and the light around us shifts subtly. I blink, and the effect fades, but I swear I can still taste it in the air, like honey and summer afternoons.

“Unseelie magic commands fall and winter through lunar and underworld connections,” he continues. “They wield shadow and decay, forcing truth and controlling what others hide. Where Seelie creates controlled illusion, Unseelie strips away deception, but the corruption comes from touching death magic repeatedly.”

“And Wild Court?” The question escapes despite knowing the tactical error of showing such specific interest.

His expression grows thoughtful, almost protective. “Wild Court magic flows from all seasons, drawing directly from earth’s ancient rites. It’s raw, unpredictable, grants animalistic gifts and wild shapeshifting, but it’s chaotic. That’s why the other courts outlawed it. They fear power they can’t control or contain.”

Something flickers across his face—caution mixed with calculation. His shoulders square slightly.

“Wild Court magic is... primal. Elemental. They don’t channel magic so much as embody it. They don’t cast spells—they remember them, like a body remembers how to breathe. It flows from their very essence.”

Like my body remembered combat forms I’d never learned. Like something deep inside me recognizes patterns I’ve never seen.

“Most people ask about court politics or magical theory,” Finnian says, amber eyes brightening with genuine fascination. “You’re asking about combat applications and bloodline magic. It’s like you’re trying to solve a puzzle that involves you personally.”

“Is that wrong?”

“It’s remarkable.” He leans closer, excitement replacing careful politeness. “No one’s ever approached Fae studies from a tactical perspective. You’re seeing patterns even I missed. Making connections I never considered.”

When our hands brush reaching for the same text, electricity sparks between us.

“Centuries of research,” he murmurs, voice soft with wonder, “and you just taught me something new.”

The book turns another page, revealing a glimpse of something circular and golden. Before I can see more, Finnian’s hand covers it. His eyes meet mine, assessing.

“There are certain artifacts,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “that transcend court affiliations. Objects of immense power that are... guarded carefully. Some say hidden, others say forgotten. A few believe they’re simply waiting.”

My heart pounds so hard my vision pulses with each beat. This is what I’ve been seeking—information about the Four Treasures.

“You mean the Four Treasures,” I say, words bursting out without conscious thought.