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“To realities that may prove more familiar than she currently understands.” His eyes hold mine with ancient knowledge. “Your expertise in human-Fae relations makes you uniquely qualified for such... revelations.”

“And if these revelations prove dangerous to her?”

“Then your expertise in protective scholarship will serve her well.”

“Unusual in what way?” Orion asks, stepping forward with sudden intensity.

Valeborn studies him with unnerving intensity, his eyes shifting from silver to midnight blue. “The Balance has maintained peace for millennia. Some would say imperfect peace is preferable to perfect chaos.”

“And you, Headmaster?” I dare to ask. “What would you say?”

He turns, the movement too fluid to be natural. For a moment, I glimpse something beneath his carefully maintained appearance—something ancient and not entirely Fae.

“What exactly constitutes ‘the Balance’ beyond political rhetoric?” I press, sensing this may be my only chance for clarity.

Valeborn’s expression grows grave. “Imagine magical forces as an equation, Professor Willowheart. Seelie light plus Unseelie shadow equals a stable neutral space where humans exist safely. Each court’s power checks the others.”

“And Wild Court magic?”

“Doesn’t add to the equation—it rewrites it entirely.” He gestures to the Academy’s shifting walls. “Raw creation force that transforms fundamental reality rather than simply influencing it. This building exists in contained magical flux. Imagine that affecting all of reality.”

My blood chills as understanding dawns. “Dimensional instability. Magic bleeding into the human world until both realms become unrecognizable.”

“Precisely. And some changes,” his silver eyes hold mine, “cannot be undone.”

The weight of his words settles over me like a physical mantle. “That’s... rather more responsibility than a simple liaison position suggests.”

“Nothing about this situation is simple, Professor Willowheart.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “When you recognized what she might be, you placed yourself at the center of events that have been prophesied for centuries. I merely made it official.”

He moves to the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. “Professor Morgan begins her teaching assessment tomorrow. I suggest you be present to observe.” His eyes meet mine one final time. “And Finnian? Remember that observation goes both ways. The Academy itself watches.”

After he departs, silence hangs in the air for a moment before Orion breaks it.

“Well,” he says, whistling low. “That was about as subtle as a thunderstorm in a library.”

“Indeed.” I move to my desk, vertebrae cracking as tension releases. “He knows something about her.”

“Or suspects something that makes him nervous enough to assign official supervision.” Orion runs a hand through his flame-red hair, actual sparks dancing between his fingers.

“Can we discuss the fact that he basically admitted she might be exactly what that book described? And assigned you to spy on her?”

“I’m not assigned to spy—I’m assigned to observe and guide,” I correct automatically.

“I think I should meet this unusual human myself,” Orion announces, stretching to his full impressive height. “Maybe see if she prefers the wild, natural type to stuffy academics who overthink everything.”

Every cell screams to go to her. Guard her door.

Keep Kieran away. The urge is almost painful.

“She’s not a curiosity for your recreational amusement,” I warn, suddenly protective.

My voice emerges sharper than intended, hands flattening against my desk with enough force that the wood creaks in protest.

“Relax, professor.” He grins, but there’s seriousness beneath his teasing. “I know what’s at stake. But admit it—you’re worried I’ll charm her more effectively than your professor seduction techniques.”

“You’ll overwhelm her is what you’ll do.” I sigh, knowing there’s no stopping him once he’s decided. “She’s already processing fundamental reality shifts. Adding your particular brand of enthusiastic chaos might be counterproductive.”

Orion moves to the door, his expression shifting to one of rare solemnity. “Be careful, scholar. If others suspect what we do, she’s already in danger. And anyone close to her will be equally targeted.”

“I’m aware of the risks.” I think fleetingly of those who challenged the established order before, of prices paid for seeking change. “But if there’s even a chance...”

“That the prophecy is true? That the dividing of courts could be healed?”

“Then the risk is necessary,” I say firmly, making my decision. “I’ll accept the liaison position. I’ll guide her. And I’ll watch for the signs.”

Orion clasps my shoulder, his grip conveying both support and warning. “Just remember, scholar—if she is what we think, every court will want to claim her. Or eliminate her.”

“I’m aware of the political implications.”

“I’m not talking about politics.” Orion’s expression turns serious. “I’m talking about the way you haven’t stopped touching that spot where she grabbed your arm. The way you’re unconsciously arranging books by color instead of subject.”

“My organizational habits aren’t relevant to?—”

“They are when they reveal that your legendary scholarly objectivity has just met its match.”

If Ashlyn Morgan is what I suspect, she represents the culmination of centuries of searching.

That makes her invaluable. That makes her dangerous.

And perhaps, most troublingly of all, exactly what I’ve been longing for myself.