Page 25

ASH

The Academy library breathes.

It slams into me the second I slip through those doors—walls expanding and contracting like I’ve stepped into the chest cavity of some ancient beast.

Aged leather, shifting ink, and something else—ozone crackling against earth with starlight woven through.

Magic coats my tongue thick as honey and sets my teeth vibrating.

Books float between shelves. Entire rows twist and reform, wood groaning in protest. A tome big as my torso drifts overhead, pages ruffling in a wind I can’t feel.

It’s beautiful, mesmerizing, and after the initial amazement, my jaw locks tight.

This library hates me.

Locate information on the Four Treasures without detection.

Simple words. Clean objectives. But my hands shake now, and sweat slicks my lower back in cold streams. Nothing about this place fits into neat boxes.

I approach what looks like Fae history. The pendant at my throat sits ice-cold against clammy skin, fighting whatever’s clawing its way out. Beneath my sleeve, the thorn patterns have spread, green-white tendrils snaking past my elbow, pulsing hot near anything Wild Court related.

Like right fucking now.

My fingertips brush Court Divisions: The Great Sundering , and the patterns flare with heat that shoots up my arm straight to my heart. Not pain—something worse. Something trying to speak through my skin. My teeth clamp down hard, metallic taste flooding my mouth.

Don’t show it. Lock it down, Morgan. Compartmentalize like your life depends on it. Because it probably does.

Too fucking late.

“Humans rarely find historical texts so... stimulating,” a voice grates behind me.

I don’t flinch—that reflex burned out years ago in a North Korean black site. I turn to find Master Tadhg watching me, mismatched eyes making bile rise. One green, one blue, neither blinking enough.

“Professional interest,” I say, yanking my hand back from leather that still smolders with my touch. “Unless you’re suggesting humans aren’t capable of intellectual curiosity.” I let my smile turn sharp. “Though I notice you said ‘stimulating’—interesting word choice.”

The challenge hangs between us. His mismatched eyes narrow—one pupil expanding while the other contracts.

“The section you want is three shelves down,” he points with a gnarled finger. “This section contains historical accounts too... advanced for human comprehension.”

His dismissal scrapes against something raw in my chest. My spine snaps straight, vertebrae clicking into perfect alignment like a weapon being cocked.

“I’ve found that comprehension has more to do with dedication than—” my voice catches, words thick on my tongue, “—species.”

Something flashes across his ancient face before vanishing behind practiced contempt. “As you wish, Professor Morgan. The library accommodates all seekers, even those who don’t know what they’re truly seeking.”

He shuffles away, but his attention crawls like spiders between my shoulder blades as I move toward the section he indicated.

The books want nothing to do with me.

Three times I reach, three times they slide away. A thin manuscript slams itself shut with a puff of dust that tastes like disapproval. My skin begins to blister where the books reject me—tiny, raised welts forming on my fingertips. The pain is immediate, like touching acid.

“Are you giving the poor books trust issues, Professor Morgan?”

The warm voice hits me low in the stomach, a jolt radiating outward. Not danger—something I’ve never felt before.

Finnian Willowheart stands nearby, mouth curving up at one corner. Linen shirt open at the collar, fitted trousers, vest with rippling patterns. The scent of bergamot and old books drifts from him, mixed with something indefinably green.

But beneath that, something else. Candlelight and honey, sweet warmth making my mouth water involuntarily.

My eyes snag on the hollow of his throat, the pulse visible there. His dark hair falls loose around flushed features.

“Either I’ve personally offended your literature, or your library has commitment issues,” I say, gesturing at the retreating books while fighting the urge to step closer to his warmth. “Though given my track record with making things run away from me, I’m betting on the former.”

“The latter, I’m afraid.” His smile crinkles his eyes, making something in my chest catch and stutter. “The older collections were enchanted during less... diplomatic times.”

He steps closer. Light catches his irises, turning them from brown to molten gold. My body leans toward him—a half-inch betrayal—before I catch myself. I can taste his magic now—honey and sunlight and summer rain on warm earth.

“May I?” He gestures toward the retreating books.

I step aside. He murmurs something that doesn’t sound like any court language I’ve heard—something older, earthier. The sound vibrates through my bones, speaking directly to something in my chest that unclenches with each syllable.

The books respond immediately, settling like scolded pets. One volume actually floats forward, presenting itself with what I can only call eagerness, pages fluttering with purring sounds.

“They respond to intent as much as language,” he explains, voice low enough that I lean closer. “The library protects knowledge from those who might misuse it. Certain texts can sense... desperation.”

“I wasn’t aware research had an emotional signature,” I say, forcing one eyebrow up. “Should I be concerned about my academic aura?”

“Everything has an emotional signature in the Fae realm,” he counters, voice dropping to a register that vibrates in my bones. “Especially things done with purpose.”

“What were you looking for, specifically?” Finnian asks, gaze dropping to my concealed arm before meeting my eyes.

The moment pulls taut between us.

Shit. He’s noticed something. How much?

“Court structures and traditions,” I reply. The half-truth slides out smooth enough, but attempting fuller deception makes my throat constrict slightly. “My students fight differently based on background. Understanding their cultural contexts helps me teach more effectively.”

“A commendable approach.” He retrieves books from shelves I hadn’t noticed. “These provide a foundation on the major courts. Though if it’s combat traditions you’re interested in...”

He pauses, head tilting as if listening to something beyond my hearing.

With a quick glance toward Tadhg, his hand settles gently against the small of my back, guiding me deeper into the stacks.

The warmth of his touch spreads through the thin fabric of my shirt as the shelves rearrange themselves around us, creating a path that wasn’t there before.

“The library sometimes... cooperates with certain researchers,” he explains, close enough that I feel his body heat. “I’ve spent enough time here that we’ve developed an understanding.”

“You’ve tamed it?” I ask with amusement, ignoring how my body responds to his nearness—pulse kicking hard, heat blooming beneath my skin.

His laugh catches me off guard—genuine, transforming his features into something younger, brighter. Something hungry unfurls in my chest.

“No one tames the library. We merely... negotiate temporary alliances.”

“I see. And what exactly are you offering in exchange for safe passage, Professor?” I arch an eyebrow. “Because I should warn you—I drive a hard bargain.”

His hand stills against my back, thumb tracing the smallest circle through my shirt. “Safe passage,” he says quietly, amber eyes holding mine. “Trust. Perhaps...” His voice drops. “Something worth bargaining for.”

“And if I refuse your terms?” The words come out breathier than intended. “Because I should mention—I have a talent for making negotiations... complicated.”

“Then I suppose,” his voice becomes thoughtful, vulnerable, “I’ll have to convince you that some complications are worth the risk.”

The words send heat spiraling through me despite the cool library air. We’re standing too close now, his scent—bergamot and old books and something indefinably warm—filling my senses.

“Tell me, Professor—is this how you conduct all your research?” I step closer, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Or am I a special case study?”

“No,” he says quietly, eyes holding mine with unexpected intensity. “Most research doesn’t make me question everything I thought I knew about myself.”

We reach a circular reading area. A massive table occupies the center, inlaid with a shifting map of Fae realms. Territories expand and contract, borders blur then reform like living tissue.

My head spins watching it.

“The realms are constantly in flux,” Finnian explains. “What seems solid is often... negotiable.”

“Like truth?” The question tears from me, from a place I didn’t know existed.

His eyebrows lift in surprise. Something flashes in his eyes—recognition. “An astute observation for someone new to our world.” He gestures toward the chairs. “Please, sit. These texts can be... demanding.”

The books arrange themselves, one ancient volume settling before me. Its cover has no title, just interlocking symbols that shift when I’m not looking directly at them. The leather feels warm under my fingers, alive—responding with a slight tremor.

“These contain the most comprehensive history of combat traditions across all courts,” Finnian explains, taking the seat beside mine. “Though I notice several Wild Court sections have been... relocated over the centuries. Curious gaps in what should be complete historical records.”

Shaking his head, he continues, “The diagrams show not just movements but magical theories behind them—how each form channels specific energies through the body, weaving physical combat with elemental power.”

He opens the book carefully, pages crackling with residual magic. “See here? This sequence isn’t just about striking—it’s about drawing earth magic up through your feet, letting it flow through your stance and into your hands. The combat form becomes the conduit.”