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Royalhits my ears and every pattern on my body screams to life—blazing, violent, like touching lightning. The pendant turns arctic, choking off the fire, but for three heartbeats I burn pure and true.

“In theory,” he continues, gaze dropping meaningfully to my neck where the pendant rests, “such children would require specially designed suppressants to maintain the deception. Cold iron worked into... elegant delivery systems.”

My hand rises to the pendant without conscious thought as his eyes follow without comment.

“Why tell me any of this?” I ask, throat dry with sudden fear, with possibility.

“Because knowledge becomes protection when wielded correctly.” He moves the way I’ve seen him handle ancient texts—reverent fingertips, the careful weight distribution of someone carrying irreplaceable knowledge. A small book emerges from inside his robes, bound in material I’ve never seen—silver-white and somehow alive. “And because some questions can only be answered when we’re finally ready to ask them.”

His fingers hover over the silver cover, trembling slightly with what might be anticipation or terror. When our hands brush reaching for the same corner, the book warms like living skin. He jerks back like I’ve branded him.

“This remains between us,” he says quietly, voice carrying undertones of something that might be desperation. “Others might... misunderstand my willingness to share restricted texts.”

“Why risk it?”

His expression softens into something that makes my chest ache with recognition. “Perhaps I’ve found something worth protecting. Someone worth... considerable risk.”

The moment stretches between us, heavy with admissions neither of us can voice directly before he stands and moves toward the door.

“Your mission here,” he says, hand on the knob, “whatever intelligence you were sent to gather... I hope you’ll consider what might be lost if you succeed completely.”

The question I’ve been avoiding slams home—what happens if I complete Graves’ mission? What happens to this place, to these people who’ve started to matter, to whatever I’m becoming?

“Graves wants his intel.” I meet his gaze steadily and for the first time in my career, make a decision completely counter to mission parameters. “Clock’s ticking. But he’s not getting everything.”

The smile that transforms his face lights something inside me I didn’t know existed.

“Sleep well, Ash,” he says softly, amber eyes holding mine for one more heartbeat. “And perhaps... consider what dreams might come when we stop fighting what we’re becoming.”

After he leaves, I sit with the book beside me, my fingers tracing it’s impossible cover that feels like bark and satin all at once.

Shadow shifts wrong outside my window—not following any light source. I drop into a crouch, combat instincts kicking in despite the pendant’s dampening effect. For an instant, forest-green eyes watch from shadows—not threatening but observing. Whispen, the wisp from the hollow tree that birthed me back to consciousness.

“The three paths branch from one root,” comes his whispered voice, carrying that sing-song cadence that makes my teeth ache.“The thorned crown requires triple strength, little queen. Choose wisely—shadows watch with hungry eyes.”

He’s gone before I can respond, leaving me with another piece of the puzzle I’m not ready to fit together.

I ready myself for bed and stare at the pendant on the nightstand. This small piece of silver has defined my experience here. Separating me from what I’m becoming, keeping me anchored to a mission that feels increasingly wrong.

What would happen if I just... stopped fighting it? If I embraced whatever’s awakening inside me?

The thought terrifies me, but for the first time, I recognize the fear isn’t just of change—it’s of discovering that everything I’ve been told about myself was a lie. That Graves knew what I was and kept me controlled, kept me ignorant, kept me weaponized.

Kept me from them.

From Kieran’s cold intensity that matches my own control.

From Orion’s wild protectiveness that calls to something primal in me.

From Finnian’s careful revelations that feed the part of me desperate for truth.

My hand reaches for the pendant. Stops.

Reaches again. Stops.

On the third attempt, I curl my fingers into a fist—yank—and turn my back on twenty-eight years of lies.

Without its cold weight, the patterns emerge fully across my skin—beautiful, terrible, and true.