Page 23

ORION

The forest knows me.

Trees bend as I pass, branches lifting to accommodate my height.

“There’s my beautiful girl,” I rumble against a massive oak’s bark, my palm spreading wide as she shivers under my touch. “You always know exactly what I need, don’t you?”

Home. Not the Academy with its suffocating ceilings. Not the formal courts with their poisonous politics. This—the borderlands between realms, where magic runs raw and untamed.

My skin prickles with awareness. Something’s different tonight. The trees whisper more urgently, their language vibrating through the soles of my feet. The air carries a scent like lightning-struck oak—that distinct combination of char and sap that signals great change.

I touch the spiraling tattoo on my forearm—the blood oath mark of my family line. It burns beneath my fingers like embers awakening, sending pulses of heat through my veins.

“Well, that’s new,” I mutter as the heat spreads up my arm and into my chest, warming me from the inside out like good whiskey.

The encampment materializes suddenly through the trees, hidden by magic rather than distance. Structures woven from living branches arch into temporary dwellings. Fires burn with blue-green flames that release no smoke.

Wild magic doesn’t follow the structured seasonal patterns of the other courts.

Where Seelie magic creates controlled beauty and Unseelie magic reveals hidden truths, Wild magic is raw, animalistic.

It grants shapeshifting abilities, communion with nature, but at the cost of predictability.

The other courts fear us because our power can’t be contained or controlled.

I duck beneath the entryway arch, my shoulders too broad for the opening until I turn them sideways.

“Still building these like you’re expecting hobbits instead of warriors,” I announce, ducking through with deliberate slowness that makes my point without theatrics. My presence fills the space instantly—not asking for attention, commanding it.

Several nearby Fae laugh. I wink at a group of giggling apprentices, sending them into a fresh round of whispers and blushes.

“The council awaits, Flame Lord,” says Sorcha, her silver-white hair gleaming in the firelight. Despite her typically playful nature, her expression tonight is serious as winter. “Three more groves went silent this week,” she continues. “No signs of struggle. No bodies. Just... empty.”

The familiar knot forms in my stomach. “How many is that this month?”

“Seventeen settlements. All small, all remote.” Her violet eyes hold fear she’s trying to hide. “Whatever’s hunting us knows to avoid the larger communities.”

I grind my teeth, iron claws closing around my chest.

“They’ve been arguing since the moon crested,” she adds.

“When are they not arguing?” I grin, pushing my emotions back down, ruffling her hair. She swats my hand away with practiced ease. “Let me guess—another territorial dispute about mushrooms?”

“The human at the Academy.” Her violet eyes meet mine directly. “And the signs. Many have seen the omens—thorn patterns blooming in their dreams, ancient markings appearing on sacred stones. The mother oak at the shrine is flowering out of season.”

The blood oath mark on my arm pulses again, warmer than before. “What else?” I keep my voice steady despite the heat crawling up my arm.

Sorcha studies me, head tilted to one side. “You’re doing that thing where you joke to hide that you’re affected. Your hair is literally getting brighter, by the way.”

Fire races up my neck as she calls me out. I reach up reflexively and realize she’s right—my hair is glowing with increased intensity, actual embers flaring at the tips as my internal temperature rises.

A smile flickers across her face. “The Morrigan woke.”

“Well, shit.” The oath mark flares hot enough that steam rises from my skin. “You couldn’t lead with that?”

“I did lead with the human,” she points out. “The two are obviously connected.”

“Witnessed by whom?” I keep my voice casual, though the oath mark continues to pulse like a second heart.

“By me,” says a voice behind us, causing Sorcha to startle visibly.

I turn slowly. The Morrigan stands taller than most Fae—though still a hand’s width shorter than me—her powerful frame draped in battle leathers adorned with raven feathers that somehow move when she doesn’t.

Silver streaks cut through her raven-black hair like lightning through storm clouds.

Her eyes—ancient, piercing silver—miss nothing and reveal less.

“Young Root-Bound,” she says, voice like whiskey and smoke, rough from centuries of silence.

“You... grew. Into quite the mountain of a man.” She blinks slowly, predatory grace replacing confusion.

“Save the courtly manners, darling. They hang on you like silk on a wolf—beautiful, but utterly wrong.”

I laugh at that, the sound booming across the encampment. “They always have. Finnian keeps trying to teach me appropriate etiquette. Says I’m a diplomatic catastrophe waiting to happen.”

“Your mark burns, doesn’t it?” she asks, studying me with the intensity of a cat watching prey. “The oath stirs like winter’s end—painful, but necessary.”

“How did you know? Wait, don’t answer that. Ancient mysterious powers, right?”

She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow, lips curving in dark amusement. “Deflecting pain with humor, sweet boy? How... transparent.”

“The pain I can handle,” I say, dropping the deflection. “It’s what the burning means that has me on edge.”

“When the thorn begins to flower, the root must rise to claim its purpose,” she says, voice growing richer, more hypnotic. “Your bloodline has slumbered like seeds in winter’s grip. Mine has waited to witness the spring.”

She gestures toward the council chamber. “Shall we? They’ve been waiting long enough.”

The council chamber is formed from ancient trees that have grown together over centuries, their branches interlacing to create walls and ceiling. As the Morrigan enters, the trees shiver in recognition, sap running visibly through their bark like tears of joy.

At the center burns the eternal fire, brought from the original Wild Court territories during the exile. Eight elders represent the major Wild Court factions—each chosen for wisdom rather than age or power. They rise as we enter, murmurs rippling through the gathered observers.

“The Morrigan honors us,” announces Elder Thornroot, his bark-like skin creaking as he bows deeply.

“The mushroom circles have expanded into berry-gathering territory!” Mossbraid pounds his gnarled staff against the ground. Actual mushrooms sprout instantly where the wood strikes. “The raspberry sprites are threatening to enchant our underwear!”

“Enough.” My voice cuts through the bickering like a blade. “While you’re arguing about territory, families are disappearing. Tell me what matters or I’ll find someone who will.”

The jovial atmosphere dies instantly.

“Not here,” Thornroot says quietly. “Not in open council.”

But I catch the way several elders exchange meaningful glances. Fear, carefully hidden.

When no one speaks, Vinecrawl continues, “The Morrigan was not formally announced with the traditional seventeen bird calls and acorn toss!”

“We haven’t used that ceremony in nine hundred years,” sighs Elder Rootsinger.

“TRADITIONS MATTER!” Vinecrawl insists, actual vines sprouting from his agitated hair.

“Enough,” Thornroot cuts him off. “We have more pressing matters than your ritual obsessions.”

He shakes his head. “We must discuss the changeling,” he continues gravely. “The omens are clear—the Academy instructor, the awakening magic, the timing of her arrival.”

Understanding dawns like sunrise. “The human teacher,” I say. “She’s not human.”

Ash’s face appears in my mind—those eyes that held mine across the training arena, sending heat spiraling through my chest. The way her body moved in perfect counterpoint to mine during our sparring match, as if we’d trained together for centuries.

The electric current that shot through me when our skin touched, like finding a missing piece of myself I hadn’t known was lost.

The Morrigan’s silver eyes find mine, dark promise glittering in their depths. “The thorn remains caged beneath flesh that was never truly hers to wear. Royal blood remembers its nature, though her mind swims in borrowed dreams.”

“She moved like she was born knowing every counter I’d throw at her,” I tell the council, my voice roughening. “Like muscle memory older than her human life was taking control. That’s not training—that’s bloodline awakening.”

“Is she pretty?” Elder Dewblossom asks, leaning forward with interest.

“Pretty?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it—just raw hunger.

“She burns hotter than wildfire and twice as dangerous. When she looked at me across that arena, my blood recognized something it’s been starving for.

” My voice drops to gravel. “Every cell in my body knows she’s mine before my brain catches up. That’s not pretty—that’s primal.”

The entire council stares at me, various expressions of shock and knowing smiles crossing their faces.

“Your intensity suggests more than academic interest,” Mistfeather observes dryly.

“Never claimed it was academic,” I reply, forcing lightness back into my tone. “Always been a hands-on learner.”

“Blood calls to blood, sweet boy, and yours has been starving for hers since the day you drew breath.” The Morrigan says, voice like dark honey.

“The changeling stirs despite every chain meant to keep her sleeping. And not a moment too soon—” Her eyes turn ancient, terrible.

“When spring and winter dance without autumn’s wisdom, the world itself begins to starve. ”