Page 14

Orion stiffens, all traces of humor vanishing. The temperature rises several degrees, his natural magic responding to sudden emotion. “Those texts were declared destroyed during the Sundering. Possessing them is?—”

“Treason, technically.” I adjust my spectacles, affecting complete calm. “Though I prefer to think of it as aggressive historical preservation.”

“This isn’t a joke, Finn. If the courts discover you have these...”

“Then it’s fortunate I trust your discretion implicitly.” A pressed leaf marks the page I need—still green, impossibly vibrant despite the centuries. It shouldn’t exist. Not here. Not now. But it does.

From the Grove of Findias, if the preservation charm is accurate. A place lost since the Sundering.

“I used to dream of a girl like this,” I murmur, more to myself, my fingers tracing the ancient illustration. “Covered in vines. Standing in flame. She smiled like she remembered every death she ever caused—and every life she could save.”

I clear my throat before focusing.

“Among the documented characteristics of those carrying royal blood, even when diluted through generations...” I begin reading, then pause as the floor cracks under my feet.

Books tumble from shelves. The Academy’s foundation stones remember these words.

They’re afraid. “Resistance to iron’s touch, affinity for wild places, recognition of glamour without subjugation. ..”

I look up at Orion’s suddenly pale face. “Sound like anyone we’ve recently met?”

The freckles across his nose stand out in sharp relief against his skin. “By the ancient roots,” he whispers. The wood of my floors actually creaks in response, roots beneath the foundation stirring. “You think the human?—”

“I think nothing yet,” I interrupt, raising a hand in the traditional gesture for caution. “But I find it academically curious that her assigned quarters adapted to her preferences immediately, that her reaction to Fae contact was... unprecedented.”

“The Wild Court royal lineage was extinguished a millennium ago,” Orion says, but uncertainty colors his voice. “The last heir disappeared during the Shattering of the Courts.”

“Disappeared,” I emphasize, tapping the ancient page. “Not confirmed dead. There’s a significant distinction.”

“If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, this goes beyond curiosity, Finnian.” He uses my full name, something he rarely does except in moments of gravity. “This would be...”

“Politically explosive,” I finish.

“Does she know? Has she shown any signs of awareness?”

“Not explicitly,” I admit. “But there’s something about her... a way she holds herself, as if she’s containing something she doesn’t fully understand.”

“Like magic trying to awaken,” Orion murmurs. “Like Wild Court royalty coming into power.”

“Precisely.”

I’m halfway through explaining the implications when shadows thicken in the corner. Temperature drops five degrees. Someone’s watching through Unseelie magic. Only one person has that level of power.

Someone is watching.

My wards haven’t triggered, which means whoever observes possesses magic powerful enough to bypass centuries of protective spells.

Only one person at the Academy wields that level of shadow manipulation.

Fucking Kieran.

“So what’s the plan?” Orion asks, oblivious to our surveillance. “Do we tell her? Help her awaken? Hide her from the courts?”

The question hangs between us, weighted with centuries of consequence. I rise, moving to the window where moonlight spills across the Academy grounds. Shadows move below—some belonging to nocturnal creatures, others to beings that exist only in darkness.

“Telling her outright would be dangerous—for her and for us,” I say carefully, positioning myself to block the shadow’s line of sight to the ancient text.

“If she truly is of Wild Court royal lineage, she’s been hidden among humans for a reason.

Someone powerful went to extraordinary lengths to conceal her identity. ”

“Graves,” Orion mutters, joining me at the window. “Her military handler. You think he knows?”

“I think he suspects something, at minimum,” I reply, my fingers tracing the ancient symbols etched into the windowsill—protection spells I’ve maintained for centuries.

With a subtle gesture, I activate one specifically designed to disperse unwanted observation.

The shadow in the corner evaporates like mist under summer sun.

“Why else send a human operative to an institution renowned for its hostility to mortals?”

I pause at a particular passage about Wild Court population records, my blood running cold. The numbers don’t match. Census reports from the past decade show systematic... discrepancies. Villages that should exist, people who should be accounted for.

Disappeared.

I close the book quickly, as if the knowledge itself might be dangerous.

My gaze drifts to the Eastern Tower where I left her, its windows glowing with subtle light. Even from this distance, I can sense the energy emanating from her quarters—different from the ambient magic of the Academy, more volatile, untamed.

And then I see him.

Kieran Nightshade, Prince of the Unseelie Court, stands on the observatory balcony of the North Tower, his profile sharp as a blade against the night sky. His gaze is fixed on the same windows I’ve been watching, predatory focus unmistakable even at this distance.

“That’s not casual observation,” I murmur, studying his stance—perfectly still, predator-patient. “He’s... assessing.”

“For a coffin, perhaps?” Orion suggests, only half-joking.

Rage hits like lightning. The window glass cracks under my hands. I’m losing control. A possessive fury floods my veins, hot and cold simultaneously.

“Nightshade,” I bite out, the name tasting bitter on my tongue.

Orion studies my reflection, his eyes widening slightly. “Well now, that’s interesting. I haven’t seen that particular look on your face since the Starlight Ball incident three hundred years ago.”

“This is entirely different from that regrettable social miscalculation,” I snap, though my treacherous body betrays me with another surge of magic that cracks the glass. “This is concern for a potentially vulnerable newcomer.”

“Like a shadow hunting light,” Orion confirms, following my gaze. “The way he watches her isn’t curiosity, Finn. It’s recognition. He knows something we don’t.”

“Then your reaction isn’t just academic concern, old friend. That’s jealousy crawling across your face like winter frost.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But even as I deny it, I cannot tear my gaze from Kieran’s distant figure.

“No, we cannot simply tell her. Not yet.” I turn back to Orion, the decision crystallizing. “The shock alone could trigger an awakening she’s not prepared for.”

“So we wait?” Orion’s disappointment manifests physically—a small flame dancing between his fingers. “While the Unseelie circle like wolves and that pendant slowly strangles her power?”

“We observe. We protect. We guide.” I move to my desk to pull fresh parchment from a drawer. “There is a more systematic approach.”

The plan crystallizes as I speak it aloud. “I’ll use my position as her liaison to stay close, earn her trust gradually. You can approach from a different angle. Offer to spar with her. Test her combat abilities.”

Orion’s eyes light up—literally, gold flecks brightening like embers. “You want me to fight the potential royal heir? Now that’s a plan I can enthusiastically support.”

“Spar,” I correct firmly. “Not fight. We need comprehensive data, not incident reports.”

“And Nightshade?” Orion’s expression darkens, the temperature around him dropping. “If he’s watching her already...”

“You saw him?” I crush the quill to splinters. Ink splatters across three centuries of notes. My hands shake with barely contained violence.

“I did.”

“We keep her away from him as much as possible,” I say, voice tight. Golden light flickers beneath my skin, the ancient symbol against my chest burning with answering heat. “The Unseelie would use her as a weapon if they knew. Or eliminate her as a threat.”

Light explodes from the lamp. Glass rains down on my desk.

Three books catch fire. I can’t control my magic anymore.

The image of Kieran’s cold eyes studying her flashes through my mind again, sending another surge of protective rage through me so powerful that the lamp nearest me flares to painful brightness before shattering.

A knock at my door interrupts—three precise taps followed by two lighter ones. The Headmaster’s signature. The sound pattern sends a prickle of apprehension down my spine.

“Enter,” I call, quickly closing the ancient text and returning it to its shelf.

Valeborn moves like he’s not entirely solid.

His feet don’t quite touch the floor. His shadow falls wrong—too many angles.

He steps into my quarters with the fluid grace that has always marked him as something other than purely Fae.

He moves as if partially untethered from physical laws.

His hair has shifted to deep midnight blue—a sign of serious matters.

“Professor Willowheart,” he acknowledges before nodding to Orion. “I trust the welcoming festivities met with your approval?”

“Entirely,” I respond, recognizing the pleasantry for the formality it is. “What brings you to my quarters at such an academically unproductive hour, Headmaster?”

Valeborn’s eyes—currently silver with hints of gold—fix on mine with uncomfortable intensity. The air between us thickens slightly with his power. “I’ve made a decision regarding our new faculty member. You will serve as Professor Morgan’s primary liaison during her... adjustment period.”

Not a request. An assignment.

My pulse jumps, a flutter beneath the skin of my wrist. Blood rushes to my face. “An interesting choice of words. Adjustment to what, specifically?”