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“She’ll have questions when she wakes,” The Morrigan observes, silver eyes meeting mine with ancient knowledge. “Questions requiring answers beyond the Academy curriculum.”

“Then she’ll need to find someone interested in providing them,” I respond, ice forming around words as shadow gathers.

The Morrigan’s smile deepens. “I believe she already has.”

I step into shadow rather than respond, consciousness scattering as physical form dissolves. Transition brings relief—escape from her knowing gaze, from warmth lingering where Ash touched, from questions I’m not prepared to answer.

Last image before the transition completes: the Morrigan standing protectively over Ash while Kestra arranges healing supplies. Both invested beyond professional duty.

Not the only one with unexplained attachment, apparently.

I rebuild form in my private quarters, consciousness slamming back together like shattered glass finding its pattern. The disorientation should fade quickly—it always has before. Tonight, something clings. A warmth that doesn’t belong in my perpetually cold skin. The echo of her weight against my chest.

I cross to the mirror, studying my reflection for tells. Perfect composure, aristocratic mask firmly in place. Only the frost creeping along my fingertips betrays the storm beneath. I banish the ice with conscious effort.

“Perfect composure,” I tell the man in the mirror. “Just like he trained you.” But frost creeps along my fingertips, betraying the storm beneath. “Except when it comes to her.”

The facade holds for exactly three seconds before the mirror’s surface begins to ripple.

Darkness swallows my reflection. Father’s communication spell, right on schedule.

From within that darkness, a familiar voice emerges—cold as ancient glaciers, sharp as obsidian.

“Kieran.”

My posture straightens automatically, muscles responding to conditioning that bypasses conscious thought. Twenty-five years of this ritual. My body still reacts with a mixture of respect and apprehension.

“Father.” I incline my head precisely twelve degrees—perfect balance between respect and dignity. Neither subservient nor arrogant, calculated through centuries of protocol. “I was preparing tomorrow’s scheduled report.”

“Events have accelerated beyond acceptable parameters,” each syllable drops like ice. “The boundary incident was reported to my council seven minutes ago. Someone bypassed your intelligence networks, my son.”

Seven minutes. My jaw tightens imperceptibly. Someone bypassed my information networks, reported directly to the King. Another power play within the court hierarchy. Another indication that my authority isn’t as absolute as maintained.

“Limited engagement with boundary defenses.” The lie tastes like ash, but centuries of practice keep my voice steady. “Subject displayed unexpected resistance warranting further investigation before final assessment.”

“You intervened.”

Not a question. Accusation weighted with disappointed expectation.

“Tactical necessity.” Each word builds the wall between what I feel and what I can afford to reveal. “Premature neutralization would eliminate intelligence value and potentially alert hostile networks. Further observation serves multiple strategic objectives.”

Darkness deepens, pressure increasing until the glass creaks. When father speaks again, the temperature drops several degrees.

“The Council believes otherwise. Our sources suggest the markings she manifested match restricted archive records. Wild Court. Royal bloodline.”

Direct confrontation. No subtlety. My father’s patience has reached its limit.

“Preliminary assessment supports that conclusion,” I say, my voice calibrated for professional interest rather than personal investment. “However, manifestation was brief, stress-induced. Further observation is required to determine authenticity versus sophisticated manipulation.”

“The prophecy cannot be permitted activation.” Cold certainty radiates from the void. “If this creature proves authentic rather than constructed deception, the Balance becomes vulnerable to disruption.”

I file this alongside centuries of similar declarations—father’s obsession with the Balance approaching fanaticism. He treats it like religious doctrine, any suggestion of a third influence as an existential threat to everything he’s built.

“Continued observation provides strategic advantage,” I argue, arranging facts to support the desired outcome. “Her Academy connections create intelligence opportunities regarding multiple courts. If she proves authentic, elimination without understanding capabilities could create larger problems with Wild Court remnants.”

Darkness considers, pressure decreasing marginally as tactics override emotion. “Your insight has proven valuable previously.”

I wait, recognizing the structure from centuries of similar conversations. Father’s patterns are predictable as seasons. Acknowledgment before redirection. Praise with conditions.