Page 64

Those silver eyes meet mine with uncomfortable directness. “Where does the Shadow Prince stand when boundaries blur? With father’s command or personal judgment?”

Dangerous question. To acknowledge division invites suspicion of disloyalty. To deny it concedes authority I’ve preserved for centuries. Kestra watches me with an intensity that makes my chest tight—waiting to see if her brother has learned to choose something worth protecting over something easy to follow.

“I stand with the Balance,” I respond, selecting truth calibrated to reveal nothing while concealing everything.

Her knowing smile makes me want to retreat into shadow. “Thorns have their own wisdom, sweet prince,” The Morrigan murmurs, silver eyes gleaming. “They grow where the earth calls them, regardless of what pretty walls men build to contain them. The question is—will you tend the garden, or burn it down when the roses bloom wild?”

Three points. Three courts. Prophecy hovering just beneath the surface of seemingly simple statements.

“You know,” Kestra says quietly, arranging herbs with deliberate precision, “I’ve learned something interesting about balance. Sometimes the thing that threatens to destroy it is actually what’s needed to save it.” Her violet eyes meet mine with that ethereal directness. “The question is whether you’re brave enough to let yourself fall.”

The parallel to her own situation hangs unspoken between us. I chose to protect her when it threatened everything our father built. Now she’s asking if I’ll make the same choice again.

“Philosophy can wait until she stabilizes,” I deflect, unwilling to engage with implications that could reshape everything. “Will she recover?”

“From this? Certainly.” The Morrigan’s attention returns to her patient, voice dropping to a murmur perhaps not meant formy hearing. “For this? Perhaps. The changeling awakens despite all efforts to keep her sleeping. The question remains,” she pauses to look up at me, “whether she’ll recognize herself when fully conscious.”

Kestra moves to prepare additional supplies, but I catch the way she glances between Ash and me, processing the undercurrents with uncomfortable accuracy. My sister always was too perceptive for her own good.

I should leave now. Report to father. Maintain position. Optimal risk-reward ratio.

Instead, I linger—ostensibly observing treatment while my supposedly dead heart pounds with betraying intensity. Something about her unconscious form creates responses I’ve suppressed for centuries.

Protectiveness. Curiosity. Interest beyond strategic value.

And most disturbing, something dangerously close to desire. Frost spreads from my fingertips while my chest burns with unfamiliar heat—ice and fire warring for control of veins that have known only cold for centuries.

A flash of memory tries to surface—mother’s face crumbling as father’s guards surrounded her lover, the taste of betrayal bitter in my ten-year-old mouth. I slam the thought down, ice crystallizing around it until it freezes into nothing.

I eliminated desire for a reason. It makes people do stupid things. Get other people killed.

Yet here I stand, ice melting around something I refuse to name.

“You should go, Shadow Prince,” The Morrigan suggests without looking up. “Before watching shadows report your unexplained absence. I’ll ensure she recovers... appropriately.”

Subtle emphasis on the final word carries clear implication—recovery under Wild Court influence rather than Academy neutrality.

Kestra steps closer, her voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. “Whatever Father ordered you to do, remember—some chains, once broken, can never be reforged.” Her ethereal features carry ancient wisdom. “And some freedoms are worth any price.”

Her words hit like a blade between my ribs. She knows. Somehow, she knows about the seven-day deadline, about the impossible choice bearing down on me like an avalanche.

“She returns to Academy custody when stabilized,” I state, my voice hardening with authority I rarely display, ice forming with each word. “Her position remains under Velasca protection.”

The Morrigan inclines her head—neither agreement nor refusal. “Thorns grow where they will, regardless of garden walls.”

Kestra’s hand briefly touches my arm—the first physical contact we’ve shared since arriving at the Academy. The gesture carries weight of shared history, understanding born of mutual sacrifice.

“Choose wisely, brother,” she whispers, violet eyes holding depths beyond her years. “Some people are worth saving, even from ourselves.”

I turn to leave, pausing at the threshold to glance back. The vines have faded, retreating beneath skin. Without their presence, she appears almost human again—almost believable as a cultural exchange instructor rather than the fulcrum upon which court politics might pivot.

Almost.But not quite.

Now that I’ve seen truth, I can’t unsee it. Can’t pretend she’s merely an interesting anomaly rather than something that could reshape everything.

I place a shadow-mark near the entrance—a connection that will alert me when she regains consciousness. Not for protectionor concern, I tell myself. Prudent monitoring of an intelligence source.

The justification rings hollow even in my own mind.