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“Of course,” Amarantha continues, her nails—filed to surgical points that could open veins with casual touches—drumming against crystal with deliberate rhythm, “such extraordinarily prestigious appointments arrive with certain... expectations. Duties that transcend personal preference. Absolute loyalty to interests that matter.”

“What precisely are you requiring of me?” The words escape before I can craft them more carefully.

Amarantha’s expression transforms to something infinitely more dangerous. Beautiful predator finally dropping the mask that pretended civilization. “I’m not requiring anything, darling cousin. I’m simply... explaining new realities.” She produces aslim black folder, placing it before me like a poisoned chalice offered with loving hands. “Professor Morgan will receive appropriate guidance toward suitable Seelie alignment. Her magical development will serve our court’s enduring interests. Her political inclinations will naturally favor our positions.”

“And should she prove... resistant to such guidance?”

“Resistance becomes irrelevant when the guidance feels like her own authentic choices.” Amarantha’s voice drips honey laced with something that could stop hearts. “Consort bonds are such elegant solutions, cousin. Love that binds more thoroughly than chains ever could.”

The words crater my chest like artillery striking undefended ground. “You’re asking me to manipulate her thoughts. To corrupt her mind.”

“I’m asking you to serve your court with the same dedication your family has demonstrated for centuries.” Her smile could cut diamonds into powder. “Emotional manipulation disguised as devotion, magical suppression presented as protection, strategic guidance that feels like the whispers of her own heart. You’ll become her thoughts before she thinks them. Her choices before she makes them.”

My throat closes completely around words that won’t form. “You want me to control her.”

“I want you to love her so completely that she loses herself in your affection. I want you to serve your court and honor your family’s legacy.” Amarantha’s perfume intensifies, becoming suffocating rather than seductive. “Because the alternative would prove... catastrophically regrettable for everyone involved.”

The folder snaps open like a trap springing shut. My mother’s handwriting stares back at me—elegant script I helped burn twenty years ago to protect her memory. My father’s research notes, supposedly lost forever to fire and time. Detaileddocumentation of treasonous work that should have been ash for millennia.

“Your beloved parents’ revolutionary research into court reunification,” she says with conversational lightness, as though discussing weather while holding loaded weapons. “Such fascinating theories about healing the ancient divisions that keep us safely separated. Revolutionary ideas that certain traditionalist parties might consider... fundamentally seditious.”

My parents’ names carved from official history like tumors excised from healthy flesh. Their life’s work branded heretical by courts that feared change. Their graves forgotten by generations that never learned their contributions.

Ice floods my veins as understanding crystallizes. “Those texts were sealed by royal decree. Declared permanently lost.”

“Nothing remains truly lost forever, dearest cousin. Documents simply... relocate to more secure storage until circumstances require their resurrection.” Her smile turns absolutely predatory. “I’ve been carefully preserving our family’s intellectual legacy. Protecting you from the consequences of inherited revolutionary tendencies.”

“What do you want?”

“Complete compliance disguised as willing cooperation. Professor Morgan develops according to precise Seelie specifications. You report her progress exclusively to me. You ensure her loyalties align with our court’s requirements rather than her own instincts.” Amarantha closes the folder with movements calculated for maximum psychological devastation. “Accomplish this successfully, and our family’s unfortunate political history remains safely buried. Refuse...”

She doesn’t need to complete the threat. Exposure of my parents’ work would trigger execution for inherited treason. Not just for me, but posthumous condemnation that would erasetheir names from every record, brand their research heretical, obliterate their memory from Seelie consciousness forever.

“You have three days to establish the consort bond properly,” Thornweave adds, his voice like mountains grinding against each other during earthquakes. “The Unseelie are undoubtedly preparing their own blade for her throat. We cannot afford to lose this particular race.”

Amarantha’s nails drum against crystal in deliberate patterns. Three measured taps that echo like nails being hammered into coffin wood. “Three days, beloved cousin. Bond her, break her will, or watch your family’s memory burn to ash while you follow them into darkness.”

“Three days,” I repeat, my voice hollow as wind through abandoned burial chambers.

“Three days to secure the Seelie Court’s glorious future,” Amarantha corrects, stepping back with a predator’s satisfaction after successful intimidation. “And your family’s continued honor, of course.” Her eyes glitter with malicious anticipation. “I have such profound faith in your abilities, cousin. You’ve always been so... thorough in your research methodology.”

The threat beneath her praise burns like acid injected directly into my bloodstream.

“You’re dismissed, Professor,” Brighthaven announces with diplomatic finality that offers no appeal. “Do remember—the Academy exists purely at the pleasure of the courts. Certain... inappropriate behaviors might jeopardize that carefully maintained arrangement.”

The chamber dissolves around me like a nightmare ending, depositing me back in the corridor with the black folder clutched in hands that shake like autumn leaves in winter wind. Strength bleeds from my bones like water through sand as the full weight of impossible choices crashes down.

Three days to betray the woman I’m falling for. Three days to corrupt a consort bond into an instrument of control. Three days to become everything I’ve sworn never to be.

Or watch my family’s legacy burn and take me with it.

I stumble toward my quarters on legs that feel like water, gravity seeming to double against shoulders that can barely support the weight of breathing. The Academy corridors feel like a maze designed specifically to trap me, each step echoing with the weight of Amarantha’s ultimatum. But I’ve barely reached my door when familiar footsteps approach—Orion, returning from whatever Wild Court business demanded his attention through the dark hours.

His amber eyes catalog my pale complexion with uncomfortable accuracy, noting my death-grip on the folder, the way my hands shake like I’m dissolving from the inside out.

“Tell me how it went,” he says quietly, though his expression suggests he already knows the answer will be catastrophic.

“They didn’t summon me for information,” I admit, my voice hollow as wind through empty graves. “They summoned me for orders. Orders that come with consequences I can’t refuse.” I hold up the black folder like evidence of my own execution warrant. “Orders that will destroy everything I believe in.”