Page 13

FINNIAN

The moment I close her door, the Crown burns through my ribs. Metal searing flesh. It’s never reacted to humans before. Never responded this violently to anyone.

“Impossible,” I breathe, but the artifact’s heat doesn’t lie.

The memory of her touch brands me deeper than expected. Her warmth still lingers on my skin—not just physical contact, but recognition. Like a magical bond trying to reawaken.

I stop walking and lean against a stone that pulses with its own heartbeat.

I want more. More contact. More of the wildness I saw flickering behind her eyes.

This stopped being professional the moment she walked into the dining hall, and I saw her for the first time. I knew— knew —she isn’t just my ending but my beginning as well.

My quarters occupy the western section—privacy away from court politics. Spelled lamps ignite with warm amber light, recognizing my magical signature.

I move through my familiar rituals—setting water to boil, selecting chamomile and valerian root, arranging research materials in concentric half-circles. My fingers sort through stacks of parchment while my mind analyzes every moment with Professor Morgan.

Her handshake—firm, no tremor most humans display when encountering Fae. None of the typical fear responses.

Most intriguing—her stillness upon entering her quarters. Recognition. The quarters shouldn’t have adapted so quickly unless... they didn’t need to adapt at all.

The sudden pounding on my door carries a familiar signature—heavy, impatient, distinctly lacking in courtesy. The wood actually flexes inward with each impact, preservation spells shimmering visibly.

“It’s open, Orion,” I call, hastily blotting the spilled tea. “Though I should note that my door’s preservation spells weren’t designed to withstand what amounts to a siege engine with enthusiasm.”

The door swings open to reveal a mountain of a man with hair that actually flickers with flame when he’s excited. His grin splits his bearded face, revealing teeth slightly too sharp for human standards.

Orion Wildfire—officially listed as visiting lecturer in naturalistic combat, unofficially my oldest friend and most consistent headache.

“If you wanted delicate tapping, you should’ve befriended a librarian instead of a Wild Court barbarian,” he announces, dropping onto my reading chair with casual disregard for the ancient texts beside it.

“I did befriend a librarian. Unfortunately, he turned out to be catastrophically boring compared to barbarians who set things on fire for recreational purposes.”

“You’re taking your sweet time delivering the report. I’ve been waiting for hours.”

“It’s been precisely forty-three minutes since the welcoming dinner ended,” I correct, handing him tea I know he’ll likely forget to drink. “Some of us have duties beyond lurking in gardens and teaching students to hit each other with progressively larger sticks.”

“Lurking? Me?” He presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. His pupils shift from round to vertical—not entirely human. “I was conducting official Wild Court reconnaissance. Very different from lurking.”

“Ah yes, the subtle distinction between observation and lurking. I should have recognized such sophisticated tactical nuance.”

The familiar rhythm of our banter anchors me back in routine when everything else feels suddenly uncertain.

“Now stop deflecting with sarcasm and tell me everything about this human soldier,” he says, leaning forward.

His eyes actually brighten with curiosity—a Wild Court trait that never fails to unnerve me.

“Is she as dangerous as they say? Did she challenge anyone to a duel yet? Did she bring one of those explosive devices humans are so fond of?”

“Must you always assume violence is everyone’s first instinct?” I sigh, straightening a quill he’s disturbed.

“Says the man who once turned a philosophy debate into a three-hour dissertation on the strategic applications of ancient warfare tactics.”

“That was entirely different. The philosophical implications of military strategy are academically?—”

“Stop evading, scholar. You’re being suspiciously vague, which means she’s either terribly disappointing or exceptionally interesting.”

I sit across from him, fingers automatically steepling beneath my chin. I consider how much to share. Orion’s Wild Court allegiance makes him reasonably trustworthy, but his enthusiasm sometimes outpaces his discretion.

“Professor Morgan appears to be exactly what her credentials claim. A combat specialist with unusual experience in paranormal operations.” I keep my tone neutral, though my thumb rubs obsessively against my forefinger where I can still feel the phantom warmth of our contact.

“By the ancient roots, you’re boring when you’re being evasive.” He throws his head back dramatically. “I didn’t race across the Academy for a personnel file summary. What’s she really like? Did she swoon when you did that thing with your voice?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re implying.” But heat creeps up my neck.

“That scholarly seduction routine.” He adopts a ridiculously formal posture and speaks in an exaggerated version of my accent. “‘Observe, dear lady, how ancient wisdom illuminates the mysteries of modern existence.’“

“I do not—” My hand betrays me, rising to touch my cheek and finding it traitorously hot. “That’s a completely inaccurate representation of academic discourse.”

“Is it? Because you’re blushing like you’ve been caught reading romance novels in the restricted section.”

“I am engaging in no such activity.” My voice emerges more strained than intended.

“But really, what did you make of her?” he asks, growing slightly more serious. “Not every day we get a human combat instructor who doesn’t faint at the welcoming feast.”

“She is... observant. Adaptable.” I pause, then add reluctantly, “And remarkably composed for someone thrust into a completely foreign environment.”

“Too composed?” His expression sharpens with sudden interest. “For a human, I mean.”

“There is typically a strong fear or fascination response when humans first encounter concentrated Fae magic. She demonstrated neither.”

“So what did she do?” He leans forward, actually interested now.

“She seemed... curious. Vigilant but not fearful.” My voice drops slightly. “Almost as if...”

“As if what?”

“As if she found us strange but not unfamiliar.” The words feel dangerous once spoken aloud.

Orion lets out a low whistle. “Now that is interesting. Did you touch her? Any reaction to Fae contact?”

Heat slams through me at the memory. The moment our skin connected, the world shifted—not just around me but through me. Vision whites out.

“Finn?” Orion’s voice seems to come from very far away. “You’ve gone completely still.”

“She didn’t...” I force words through suddenly thick air. “The typical human response to glamour contact is fear or fascination. She experienced neither.”

“What did she experience?”

“Recognition.” The word comes out barely above a whisper. “As if she’d been expecting exactly what she felt.”

My vision briefly blurs. The tea service rattles as my magic responds unconsciously, Seelie light flickering beneath my skin in golden patterns I haven’t displayed since youth.

“Sweet ancient powers,” Orion breathes, pointing at my face with something approaching awe. “Your pupils are blown wide, your skin’s practically conducting sunlight, and you’re gripping that teacup like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.”

I blink rapidly, forcing my features back into composure. “Don’t be absurd,” I mutter, reaching for a handkerchief to blot the newest tea spill. My hands shake so violently that I knock over a small inkwell, black liquid pooling across parchment.

“If you must know,” I interrupt his continued observation, “there was a reaction. But not the typical human response to glamour.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she didn’t become either fearful or entranced.” I adjust my collar again, fighting the urge to pace. “She simply... noticed it. As one might notice the quality of light in a room.”

Orion abandons all pretense of casual interest. “That’s not possible. Humans either feel our glamour or they don’t. There’s no middle ground.”

“Apparently there is.” I finally give in to the urge to stand, moving to adjust books that need no adjustment.

“You’re holding something back, scholar. I can tell by the way you’re arranging books by color instead of subject—you only do that when you’re deeply unsettled.”

I am sorting books by color instead of subject. A childhood habit.

Only happens when I’m terrified. I glance down—indeed, I’ve unconsciously begun sorting by binding color rather than content, a reversion to childhood habits.

I am withholding, not just from him but from myself, the full extent of my reaction to Ashlyn Morgan.

The way time seemed to slow, the air between us thickening with potential energy.

And worst of all, the unwelcome surge of possession that flared when I noticed Kieran watching her from the shadows, his ice-blue eyes tracking her every movement with predatory intent.

“It’s too early to form theoretical frameworks,” I hedge, returning to my desk.

“Bullshit.” Orion’s grin returns, sharper than before. “You’re not just intrigued by an academic anomaly. You’re captivated by the woman herself.”

“I should show you something.”

I withdraw a slim volume from my private collection, bound in silvery material that shifts like something half-alive. Ancient magic recognizes mine.

“Records of the Wild Court royal lineage.” I place the text carefully on the reading stand. “Complete genealogies dating back to the First Awakening.”

The book hits the stand and every candle dims. The air goes dead still. Even the Academy’s background hum stops. Something’s listening.