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The thought of her defenseless while my father plans her execution sends heat through my veins hot enough to crack the frost forming on my skin.

Something worth defying a king for.

I place my hand against her forehead, my naturally cold skin drawing excess heat from her overloaded system. The contact creates feedback I never expected—shadow magic responding to wild energy, opposite forces not conflicting but completing each other.

Like finding the missing half of an equation I didn’t know was incomplete.

Her breathing steadies.

“Inconvenient,” I whisper against her hair, my breath crystallizing in the space between us. “You’re becoming remarkably inconvenient, troublesome thing.” Her scent—earth and lightning and something essentially her—makes my chest ache with wanting I can’t afford.

With my decision made, I gather her against me—one arm behind her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. She settles against my chest like she was fucking made for this, her head finding the hollow between shoulder and throat that’s been empty my entire life without me realizing it.

Her weight presses into me like recovering something long lost. The warmth of her spreads through perpetually cold flesh, melting barriers I’ve reinforced for decades. My heart—that carefully controlled organ—skips, then hammers against my ribs with betraying intensity.

The sensation terrifies me more than any enemy I’ve faced.

The way holding her feels like finally coming home instead of claiming something new.

“Sleep well, troublesome thing,” I whisper against her hair, allowing myself this one moment of honesty. “You’re safe now. Whatever else happens, you’re safe.”

The journey back requires shadow-walking with unconscious cargo—faster than physical travel but significantly more demanding. I wrap us both in protective darkness, her vulnerable form shielded against transition trauma. Her body instinctively curls closer, seeking relief from fever against my cold skin.

For one unguarded moment, a fundamental shift occurs inside me. Ice cracks under spring pressure, revealing depths beneath surface composure. My frozen heart beats withforgotten intensity, sending unfamiliar heat through veins that know only cold. Without permission, my arms tighten around her, protective instinct overriding tactical sense.

She smells like earth after rain, like lightning and wildflowers and something essentially herself that makes my chest ache with wanting.

Unacceptable,my rational mind insists.

Undeniable,everything else argues back.

We emerge near the infirmary, materializing where shadows pool beneath decorative arches. The transition leaves me drained—shadow-walking with cargo always does—but she’s safe. Unconscious but breathing steadily, the vines retreating beneath her skin like secrets being buried.

I adjust my grip, her weight settling more comfortably against my chest. At this hour, Rowan should be on duty. Wild Court healer, no political agenda beyond helping people recover. Simple. Clean.

The infirmary doors swing open before I reach them.

The Morrigan stands in the doorway like she’s been waiting for me.

My step falters. Of all the complications I didn’t need tonight...

She stands beside a preparation table, ancient hands sorting herbs with methodical precision. Silver-streaked black hair falls forward, partially obscuring features that have watched empires rise and fall.

A soft sound from the preparation area draws my attention. From behind a curtain of hanging herbs steps a figure I know better than my own reflection.

Kestra.

My sister moves with quiet confidence, her dark hair braided with small silver charms that catch the lamplight. She’s grown into herself here—no longer the frightened girl I rescued fromour father’s marriage trap, but a young woman with purpose lighting her violet eyes.

She carries a basin of steaming water, moving to The Morrigan’s side with practiced ease. When she sees me, she doesn’t startle—just raises one eyebrow in a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache.

“Hello, Kieran.” Her voice carries that otherworldly calm Anya Taylor-Joy brings to royal characters. “The Morrigan mentioned you’d find your way here eventually. She has a gift for seeing what others miss.”

Her gaze shifts to Ash, taking in the fading vine patterns with interest rather than fear. “The markings are extraordinary,” she says softly, studying Ash with fascination. “I’ve been researching the genealogies—what little survived the purges. She’s not just royal blood, Kieran. She’s the last.”

The weight of her knowledge settles between us. My sister—safe, brilliant, free—studying the very bloodlines our father helped destroy.

The Morrigan is beautiful in the way ancient things are beautiful—not young, not old, but existing outside time itself. Silver streaks through raven hair like starlight, and her face holds the kind of classical perfection that makes mortals weep for all they’ll never be.