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The Morrigan doesn’t appear for routine healing. She emerges for wars, for prophecies, for moments when the world tilts on its axis. Her presence here means tonight changed everything.

Kestra continues preparing healing supplies, her movements efficient despite the tension crackling between her brother and their ancient mentor. She’s learned to navigate powerful personalities—a skill our father never intended her to develop.

The Morrigan continues sorting herbs without looking up, silver-streaked fingers moving with confidence. When shespeaks, her tone carries the casual indifference of someone discussing the weather.

“How deliciously unexpected,” her voice purrs like silk over steel. “The ice prince melting for a sleeping rose. Even I didn’t foresee this particular plot twist.”

The words hit like ice water. She knows exactly what I did out there.

Kestra’s hands still for just a moment before resuming their work. She’s heard the implication too—understands that I’ve done something that surprised even The Morrigan.

Her voice carries echoes of languages predating court division, rhythm and cadence belonging to when magic flowed differently through realms. My skin prickles with automatic defensive response, cold spreading through my veins as protection against her penetrating assessment.

“Academy guest instructor had an encounter with boundary hunters.” My voice stays level despite the ice crystallizing along my fingertips. “Seelie and Unseelie, operating with unprecedented coordination. Someone wants her dead badly enough to unite enemies.”

Kestra moves immediately to assist, her hands hovering over Ash’s unconscious form as she assesses the magical aftermath. “The vine patterns are retreating but not dying,” she murmurs, more to herself than to us. “They’re settling deeper, finding permanent anchor points.”

The Morrigan finally looks up, silver eyes cutting through centuries of masks to whatever truth I’m hiding. Her gaze shifts between myself and the unconscious form with knowing intensity that makes frost form along my spine.

“Coordination,” she repeats, her words carrying smoky amusement. “Like ice and flame finding common cause against growing thorns. How perfectly predictable of them.”

“Her awakening threatens the established order,” Kestra adds quietly, already processing implications. “If the courts are working together against her, it means they recognize what she represents.”

I ignore the cryptic implications, focusing on immediate concerns. “She requires medical attention. Magical backlash from defensive response to dual-court assault.”

“She requires more than medical attention,” The Morrigan moves to examine the fading vines with hands that hover without touching. Energy flows between her fingers and the patterns—diagnostic magic I don’t recognize. “She requires truth. Protection. Purpose beyond false identity.”

Kestra catches my expression—the way my jaw tightens, how frost spreads involuntarily along my fingertips. Her understanding hits me like a physical blow to the chest.

My patience evaporates, frost forming along my fingertips. “What the troublesome little weapon requires immediately is stabilization before those patterns burn through her remaining systems.”

The words slip out—revealing more attachment than I intended. The Morrigan’s expression shifts to something resembling amusement—a disturbing sight on features more accustomed to battle-fury.

Kestra’s eyes widen slightly. She’s never heard me use that tone—protective, possessive, territorial in a way that has nothing to do with duty and everything to do with something I refuse to name.

“Troublesome weapon, is she?” The Morrigan’s smile turns knowing. “How delightfully protective of you, sweet prince.”

I fight the anger rising inside me at her calm. I hate it. “Her human system?—”

“Not human systems,” she cuts me off, voice hypnotic as falling water. “Fae systems awakening beneath humanconditioning. Thorns remembering nature despite centuries of forced forgetting.”

Kestra leans closer, her violet eyes brightening with excitement. “The markings match illustrations in the restricted genealogy texts. Royal Wild Court—the Moonshadow line specifically. I’ve been studying the gaps in our historical records, trying to understand what was deliberately erased.”

Her words hit like ice water. My sister has been researching the very bloodlines our father helped destroy. The irony tastes bitter as winter wine.

Confirmation should bring satisfaction. Instead, complications multiply exponentially, each implication spawning others in endless cascade. Ice sharpens in my veins with growing apprehension.

“The courts cannot know.” The words escape before I can stop them, ice crystallizing around my fingers as I realize what I’ve just admitted. “Not until proper assessment. Not until—” I cut myself off before revealing too much.

The Morrigan’s smile sharpens. She heard exactly what I didn’t say. Kestra’s expression grows troubled—she recognizes the protective edge in my voice, understands its implications.

“The courts already suspect,” The Morrigan traces the vines with ancient fingertips. “Shadow and light converge when the wild threatens to reclaim what was taken. Old fears drive old enemies toward common purpose.”

“Amarantha,” I conclude, pieces aligning with unpleasant clarity. The coordination, timing, specific targeting—all bear her signature. “Potentially with High Council support.”

Including my father. The thought sits like poison in my chest.

Kestra’s face pales. “If Father discovers what she is...” She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to. We both know what happens to threats our father can’t control.