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“Your human specialists have a term,” he interrupts, his face now inches from mine. I can see individual flecks of silver in his otherwise light eyes. “Need to know basis. You weren’t told everything you needed to know, Professor Morgan.”

He switches languages suddenly, the words flowing with cold precision. “An bhfuil a fhios agat cé tú féin, iníon na cuirte fiáine?”

Do you know who you are, daughter of the wild court?

Understanding hits before I can mask it. My body responds before my mind catches up. The foreign words slam into my brain with the clarity of my mother tongue. His eyes narrow, victory flashing briefly.

“Interesting.” His voice drops to dangerous satisfaction. “No amount of human linguistics training explains that level of comprehension.”

“I’m a quick study,” I counter, the excuse weak even to my own ears.

“You’re a beautiful liar.” He steps closer, our bodies almost touching. “But your body tells the truth even when your mind won’t.”

His hand suddenly presses against the wall beside my head, arm forming a barrier that further restricts my movement.

With his other hand, he reaches toward my arm, fingers stopping just short of touching the glowing patterns beneath my sleeve.

The thorns respond to his proximity, tendrils of green-white light visibly reaching through the fabric toward his fingers like iron filings drawn to a magnet.

I’m not at all unaffected by his presence. I can feel my breath becoming shallow. My stomach twisting and heat pulsing through my body.

“What are you?” he asks, genuine curiosity breaking through his controlled demeanor.

The question reverberates through my skull like a bullet ricocheting inside bone, fragmenting into a thousand smaller questions that tear through gray matter.

“I’m Specialist Ashlyn Morgan,” I reply, but for the first time, the name feels false in my mouth. Incomplete.

Something flickers in his expression—frustration mixed with unexpected interest. “Not entirely,” he says softly. “Not anymore. Perhaps not ever.”

His hand moves to my face again, this time so close that a strand of my hair drifts in the minute space between his skin and mine, caught in some electrical charge that emanates from him. I feel the cold of his almost-touch against my cheek like a physical caress.

My breath catches as his fingers finally, deliberately make contact. The touch is feather-light against my jawline, but the effect is cataclysmic—like plunging into ice water while lightning courses through my veins.

Every nerve ending fires simultaneously.

The thorn patterns beneath my sleeve flare with painful brilliance, their glow visible even through the fabric, spreading in delicate fractals up my neck and across my collarbone.

His eyes widen in fascination as the patterns respond to his touch, watching as they climb higher until they trace the edge of my face. His finger follows their path, trailing cold fire everywhere he touches.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs, so close now that his breath chills my lips.

His shadows deepen around us, wrapping around my limbs with proprietary weight that should terrify me but instead sends shivers cascading through my body.

Where the shadows touch, ice forms in delicate patterns that mirror the thorns beneath my skin, creating an external manifestation of the connection between us.

But as his shadows claim more territory, something unexpected happens—they begin to pulse with their own heartbeat, synchronizing with mine.

Where shadow meets skin, tiny silver stars appear within the darkness, like a private constellation mapped across my body.

The effect is mesmerizing, nothing like the purely tactical shadow manipulation I’d read about in briefing materials.

This is intimate, artistic—something I suspect few ever witness.

Something uniquely Kieran.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I manage, though my voice emerges breathier than intended.

“Your body remembers what your mind has forgotten,” he says, hand sliding from my jaw to my neck, fingers finding my racing pulse. “Just as it remembered combat forms it shouldn’t know. Just as it understands languages it was never taught.”

With startling swiftness, his other hand catches my wrist, fingers circling where the thorn patterns throb most violently. The direct contact sends a shock wave of sensation so intense that my knees nearly buckle.

The collision creates visible energy that crackles in the air around us, sending sparks of blue-black light dancing across my vision.

But more extraordinary still—his touch creates music.

Crystalline notes that shiver through my consciousness.

His fingers against my wrist and neck form haunting melodies so achingly familiar they bring unexpected tears to my eyes.

I’ve heard this before. Somewhere. In dreams, perhaps. Or in another life entirely.

For just a moment, his carefully constructed mask slips. The shadows around us flicker, revealing something raw and unguarded in his eyes—not just fascination or assessment, but a flash of recognition so profound it borders on anguish. His grip on my wrist spasms, fingers trembling against my skin.

“Impossible,” he whispers, voice cracking on the word. “They said all the bloodlines were—” He cuts himself off, cold mask slipping back into place, but not before I glimpse the depth of emotion he’s desperately trying to conceal.

My free hand instinctively rises to push him away from whatever spell he’s casting. But when my palm contacts his chest, something unexpected happens—power surges from my fingertips, a flash of green-white energy that collides with his shadows.

My lips part on a gasp.

The impact pushes us apart with enough force that he actually takes a step back, surprise evident in his normally controlled features.

“You’re not as defenseless as you appear,” he says, something like appreciation coloring his tone. The shadows around him writhe with increased agitation, as if excited by the display of power, but the tiny stars within them continue to pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat.

My hand tingles where it touched him, the sensation spreading up my arm to join the thorns that now pulse visibly across my skin. I stare at my palm in disbelief, seeing tiny filaments of light dance between my fingers like living electricity.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Professor,” he says, formal mask returning as he finally steps back. “Especially since you don’t know all the rules—or all the players.”

“I’m not playing anything,” I respond, a flash of genuine irritation breaking through. “I’m doing my job.”

“And if your job threatens the Balance?” he asks, eyes hardening. “If your mission endangers the Academy?”

“Is asking questions dangerous now? Exploring gardens?” I counter, surprising myself with the direct challenge. “Or is breathing while human the real offense?”

His eyebrows rise slightly at my shift in tone. A test of his own boundaries, perhaps—seeing how far I can push before consequences follow. The pendant in my pocket grows cold enough that it burns through fabric against my thigh.

“Breathing while human is merely unfortunate,” he responds coldly. “Breathing while pretending to be human is... potentially treasonous.”

The accusation hangs between us, clear despite its indirect phrasing.

Only problem is, I don’t know anything more. Speculation isn’t fact.

“I’m not pretending anything,” I say, meeting his gaze directly.

The words taste like broken glass in my mouth.

“I was sent here as a combat instructor, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Your students seem to learn something valuable from me, even if it wounded your Unseelie pride that a human could match your court’s techniques. ”

His eyes widen fractionally—the most unguarded reaction I’ve seen from him. For a moment, I think I’ve pushed too far.

Instead, he steps forward again, closing the distance I thought he’d surrendered.

This time when he reaches for me, there’s nothing gentle in his approach.

His hand captures the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair with a grip that should feel threatening but instead sends molten heat pooling low in my abdomen.

Where his fingertips press against my scalp, the ethereal music intensifies—each point of contact creating a distinct note that combines into a haunting melody. The sound resonates through my skull, a symphony only I can hear. This is unique to him, a signature as personal as fingerprints.

“If I were threatening you,” he says, voice a dangerous whisper against my ear, “you would know it.”

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, our faces now inches apart.

His gaze drops briefly to my lips, a flash of hunger crossing his features so quickly I might have imagined it.

The air between us thickens with possibility, with tension that has everything to do with an entirely different kind of surrender.

His shadows twine more tightly around my legs, climbing higher until they wrap my waist in bands of living darkness. The cold burn of their touch seeps through clothing, creating a counterpoint to the heat building within.

“We will finish this conversation, Professor. Soon.” His voice carries a dual resonance that vibrates through bone and tissue.

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.” His free hand rises to my face, thumb brushing across my lower lip in a touch so deliberate it can only be interpreted as possession.

The moment his skin contacts mine, the ethereal music swells, creating a perfect chord that lingers in my mind like a remembered lullaby.

“And there’s nowhere in Velasca—nowhere in any realm—that I cannot find you. ”

“Maybe I don’t want to be found.”

“Maybe you’re lying to yourself as skillfully as you lie to me.” His grip loosens, though his shadows maintain their hold for several heartbeats longer, tiny stars still pulsing in rhythm with my own heartbeat before gradually fading.

With that, he steps backward into darkness and begins to dissolve—not moving away but literally merging with shadow, particles of blackness absorbing his physical presence until nothing remains but a lingering chill and the scent of winter forest.

I remain against the wall, legs trembling like I’ve run twenty miles in full combat gear.

My skin tingles where his fingers traced my face, where his thumb brushed my lip, where his shadows claimed territory.

The places where he touched leave ghostly imprints that ache with cold while my core blazes with unfamiliar heat.

I replace the pendant around my neck, feeling the immediate dampening effect as it touches my skin. The world dims instantly—colors less vivid, sounds less distinct, scents muted. Like viewing everything through frosted glass. Like drowning in slow motion.

Yet the ghost of his touch remains.

And it takes everything inside of me not to rush after him.