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“Any particular reason you’re wandering about when most sensible souls are safely tucked away?” he asks, voice suddenly lower, almost serious beneath the affectation.

“Familiarizing myself with the grounds,” I respond, the partial truth coming easily.

“Mmm, yes. Particularly the cosmically restricted sections, if universal rumors are accurate.” He recorks his flask with unnecessary flourish.

“A word of spiritual warning, darling—some boundaries exist to protect rather than restrict. The western gardens, for instance, have been known to rearrange visitors in permanently artistic ways. Mercury retrograde makes them particularly temperamental.”

Despite his dramatic delivery, something in his tone suggests genuine concern.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

“Do.” He rises with liquid grace. “And perhaps consider whether collecting intelligence for your Colonel is worth risking the magnificent transformation stirring in your soul.” His eyes turn serious beneath the theatrical facade. “Some knowledge, once obtained, cannot be unknown. Or unreported.”

Before I can respond to this disturbing insight, he disappears in a whirl of fabric and light, leaving behind only the lingering scent of ozone and exotic spices.

My stomach twists into knots, acid burning up my throat. How much does he know about my mission? About Graves?

I reach into my pocket for the small notebook where I’ve been documenting my observations.

Military habit, ingrained through years of training.

But as my fingers touch the paper, the thorn patterns on my arm pulse with warning.

A strange reluctance flows through me—the thought of documenting the sacred tree for Graves suddenly feels like betrayal.

My hand withdraws empty. Some knowledge isn’t meant to be shared.

A prickling awareness at the base of my skull interrupts my thoughts.

Not the vague feeling of being watched, but a specific, localized cold that drills into my brainstem like an icicle.

Someone is watching me. Not Viel—someone else, hidden in shadows deeper than the moonlight should allow.

The air around me chills so rapidly that moisture crystallizes on nearby leaves.

I move toward the Gardens, my steps measured, deliberately casual despite heightened alertness.

As I pass the central library, movement catches my eye through tall windows.

A familiar figure sits surrounded by ancient texts, golden light dancing around his fingertips as he turns pages with reverent care.

Finnian. Even at this hour, buried in research. Our eyes meet briefly across the distance, and he offers a small nod of acknowledgment before returning to his work. Something in his expression suggests he’s not surprised to see me wandering after midnight.

The gardens at night are a tactical nightmare—plants that move without wind, paths that rearrange themselves, flowers that emit light in patterns suggesting intelligence. I navigate carefully, documenting what I can while maintaining awareness of that persistent sense of being watched.

As I approach a section marked as restricted in the briefing materials, frost forms on nearby leaves despite the mild night. The patterns on my arm pulse in warning, a cold tingling that spreads up to my shoulder. My teeth ache as if the temperature has plummeted below freezing.

“Most humans respect boundaries,” says a cold voice directly behind me, silk over steel. “But you’re not most humans, are you?”

I turn slowly, maintaining the calm demeanor of someone with legitimate business rather than an infiltrator caught in the act.

Kieran Nightshade materializes from shadows that shouldn’t be deep enough to conceal him—not stepping out but forming from darkness itself, like ink bleeding into water but in reverse.

His formal attire absorbs rather than reflects the persistent moonlight.

His presence fills the space between us, turning the simple garden into a claustrophobic arena.

Unlike Orion’s constant motion and heat, Kieran emanates perfect stillness and cold. Where Orion’s hair seemed alive with flame, Kieran’s darkness absorbs light like a black hole, pulling all attention toward him with irresistible gravity.

“I was exploring the grounds for tomorrow’s training session,” I say evenly. “Getting my bearings for outdoor exercises.”

“At two minutes past midnight.” He steps closer, each movement precisely calibrated, ice forming in his wake. “Either you’re remarkably dedicated, or you’re hunting for something specific.”

“Which do you think?”

“I think you’re exactly as dangerous as you are beautiful.” His smile is winter sharp. “And that’s saying something.”

“I work best at night,” I respond with a slight shrug. “Fewer distractions.”

“Indeed. Fewer witnesses as well.” Another step forward, forcing me to either retreat or hold ground. I choose the latter, refusing to yield physical space despite the intimidation tactics. His eyes study my face with unsettling intensity.

“Is there a curfew I should be aware of, Prince Nightshade?” I ask, deliberately using his title.

His mouth curves slightly—not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment of the challenge. “No curfew. But there are boundaries, Professor Morgan. Areas restricted for very specific reasons. Areas you seem determined to approach.”

“Is this section restricted? I don’t see any markings.” Answering a question with a question.

“We don’t typically need signs,” he replies, closing the remaining distance between us. “Most beings at the Academy can sense the wards. Most beings know better than to test them.”

He maneuvers me backward until I’m pressed against an ancient stone wall, his body not quite touching mine but close enough that escape would require physical contact. A classic intimidation technique I’ve been trained to counter.

Instead, I find myself frozen in place, not from fear but from an inexplicable awareness of him—his scent like winter forests and something metallic, the temperature drop that surrounds him, the barely contained power that pulses beneath his controlled exterior.

The air between us crackles with invisible energy, making the fine hairs on my arms rise.

His shadows extend beyond normal boundaries, curling around my ankles like sentient smoke, twining up my calves with a touch that burns cold even through fabric.

My entire body responds with contradictory signals—combat training screaming to break contact while something deeper, more primal urges me to lean into the darkness, to let it claim me completely.

“You’re staring again,” I say without looking up.

Kieran’s voice hums with that infuriating calm. “Can you blame me? You’re standing in moonlight wearing secrets like jewelry.”

I glance at him, arch a brow. “If I had a knife, you’d be considerably less charming.”

“If you had a knife, I’d be considerably more interested.” His smile turns predatory. “I do enjoy a challenge.”

“Gods help us all.”

“The gods aren’t watching tonight.” He steps closer, invading my space completely. “Just me.”

I pause. That stupid heat climbs into my cheeks, and I curse him for it.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m patient,” he says. “And clearly effective.”

“Keep dreaming, shadow prince.”

“Oh, I will.” His smile turns genuinely predatory now.

“What does your Colonel Graves really want from Velasca Academy?” he asks, voice dropping lower. “What’s his true objective?”

The direct reference to Graves sends adrenaline surging through my veins. I carefully craft my response, aware of the truth constraint pulling at my words like barbed hooks embedded in my tongue.

“I’m here as a cultural exchange instructor,” I say, maintaining eye contact despite the growing unease. It’s not a complete answer, but it’s not false either.

“How elegantly you dance around deception.” His smile becomes winter sharp. “Speaking truths while strangling their context. It’s almost... artistic.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you? Because that heart rate suggests otherwise.” His eyes narrow. “You believe part of it yourself, which makes your evasion more... elegant than most. Like an elder fae, not a human.”

His hand suddenly rises to my face. I flinch instinctively, but he ignores my reaction, fingers hovering just above my cheek without touching.

The cold radiating from his skin makes my eyes water, frost forming on my eyelashes.

But then something flickers across his features—not the calculated prince, but something raw and desperate.

“I’ve spent three centuries perfecting control,” he whispers, his voice cracking slightly.

“Never wanting anything I couldn’t have, never feeling anything I couldn’t suppress.

And then you...” His hand trembles, frost patterns shifting erratically.

“You make me want things that could destroy everything I’ve built. ”

The admission hangs between us, vulnerable and dangerous. For just a moment, I glimpse the man beneath the prince, someone who’s been as caged by duty as I’ve been by lies.

“Tell me, what did they tell you about us before sending you here?” he asks, fingers hovering above my collarbone. “About what we are?”

“That you’re Fae,” I respond, forcing my voice to remain steady despite my racing heart. “Divided into courts with different abilities and traditions.” I sound breathless and not at all like my usual composed self.

“And what did they tell you about yourself?” His hand moves to my concealed arm where the thorn patterns pulse beneath my sleeve.

He doesn’t touch the fabric, but the patterns respond anyway, brightening enough that their blue glow seeps through the material.

“About why you were chosen for this mission?”

“My combat experience,” I say automatically. “My adapta?—”