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His finger traces a detailed illustration where flowing lines of energy spiral around a warrior’s body, magic and movement inseparable. “Fae combat was never meant to be purely physical. Each form is designed to amplify and channel the warrior’s natural magical affinities.”

Orion flashes through my mind—flame-bright hair, eyes shifting color as we moved together in perfect synchronization.

Our bodies speaking a language older than words.

So different from Finnian’s warmth or Kieran’s biting cold.

Each awakening something different in me, pieces of a puzzle I’m only beginning to glimpse.

“Wild Court Royal Forms,” Finnian translates, finger tracing ancient script that writhes under his touch. “Reserved for those of highest bloodlines. Instinctive rather than learned—encoded in royal Fae essence. The movements flow from the practitioner’s very nature.”

His eyes lock with mine, searching. The air between us thickens, charged with unasked questions.

The symbols on the page pulse once, luminescence responding to my proximity. I jerk back, but where my fingers passed, tiny burn marks appear in the parchment.

“Fascinating,” I force out, voice unsteady. “Though I’m more interested in forms my students might actually use. I doubt royal bloodlines attend my combat classes.”

“You’d be surprised.” His voice drops lower, weighted with meaning. “Many things in the Fae realm are not as they appear. Bloodlines thought extinct have ways of... resurfacing when least expected.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Something violent claws up my throat. For a heartbeat, the thorn patterns flare with heat, fire racing through veins that pulse with memories I don’t possess.

Every nerve ending ignites simultaneously, lightning from the inside out.

Bloodlines thought extinct.

“Speaking of appearances,” I say, changing course with military precision, “I noticed your students fight differently based on court. Care to enlighten me on the philosophical differences?”

His mouth curves slightly—he sees the deflection but allows it. “Seelie students use flowing movements while Unseelie prefer direct strikes.”

“Yes, combat reflects deeper court philosophies. The Seelie value beauty and illusion—making even battle aesthetic. They fight as if the world is watching, creating art from violence.”

“The Unseelie prioritize efficiency,” he continues. “They fight to win, not to impress. Why dance when you can simply destroy? Their forms strip away everything extraneous until only pure function remains.”

“And Wild Court?” The question rips from somewhere deeper than thought, like my bones are demanding the answer. “Not that I have any particular interest in—” My throat closes like a fist. “Fuck. I can’t even pretend I don’t need to know this. What the hell is wrong with me?”

Finnian’s eyes widen, gold flecks expanding. “The truth constraint,” he murmurs with something like wonder. “It’s affecting you faster than it should.”

“They fight like the natural world itself,” he says carefully, studying my reaction with new intensity. “Adaptive, primal, following patterns that seem chaotic but contain deep order. Like a forest fire or hurricane. Devastating but somehow purposeful.”

His fingers brush mine as we reach to turn the page. The contact jolts through me, warmth racing up my arm to settle behind my sternum. The thorn patterns flare with gentle heat, nearly burning through my sleeve—but this time the sensation feels like coming home rather than invasion.

Neither of us moves. His skin is warmer than human-normal. It makes me realize how cold I’ve been since arriving—cold and incomplete.

“Your hands are always cold,” he observes, thumb brushing across my knuckles. “Even when the room is warm.”

“Poor circulation—” The lie dies in my throat like poison, choking me. “Fuck.” The curse tears out as I claw at my neck. “What the hell is happening to me?”

“Easy,” Finnian murmurs, pulling my hands away from my throat with gentle firmness. “Fighting it only makes the constraint tighten.”

His fingers find my pulse point while his other hand rests against my back. “This is a Fae truth constraint,” he says quietly. “But humans usually have more time before it manifests this strongly.”

The constraint finally releases. Air rushes back into my lungs in painful gasps.

“What do you mean?” I croak.

His golden eyes meet mine with new understanding. “Extended exposure to Fae magic gradually affects human physiology. The realm protects itself—eventually, no one within these borders can speak direct falsehoods.”

He pauses, studying my face with growing concern. “Though the constraint typically takes months to develop, not days. Your... sensitivity to Fae influence seems particularly acute.”

Of course it fucking does. “Go on,” I gesture to the table, voice still rough.

“Some artifacts transcend individual combat traditions,” he says softly, watching my reaction.

“Though I notice the Wild Court sections of these texts have significant gaps. Entire chapters that should exist, but...” He frowns, flipping through pages that end abruptly.

“It’s as if someone’s been systematically removing knowledge about Wild Court magic and bloodlines. ”

His expression darkens with frustration and something deeper. “Or perhaps someone’s been removing the people who would know such things.”

The page turns once more.

“Oh, here’s a curiosity,” Finnian says, finger tracing an ornate passage in ancient script. “Listen to this— In cases of royal succession dispute, the heir may invoke autonomy protocols to choose their own fate, binding themselves willingly to a court of their choosing. ”

He laughs, the sound carrying amusement. “Completely archaic. No one’s used trial law in centuries. The magical price of willing binding is supposed to be enormous.”

“What would that accomplish?” I ask, filing the information away without knowing why it feels important.

“Theoretically? It would allow someone to reject external judgment and create their own terms. But the cost...” He shakes his head. “Ancient magic demands significant sacrifice for that level of autonomy.”

Ancient knowing hums in my bones at his words.

“Fascinating historical footnote, but utterly impractical in modern politics,” he continues, turning to the next section.

On the yellowed parchment, a seed appears on the page. Before my eyes, beneath the seed, roots appear to almost rip through the parchment, slowly covering the seed.

“What’s this?” My fingers trace over the patterns.

“I...” Finnian pauses, his brows pulling low over his eyes. “I’m unsure.”

Vines wrap around the seed and slowly it begins to grow in size, pulsing like a heartbeat.

The patterns beneath my sleeve flare with sudden, searing heat that races from wrist to shoulder. I can’t swallow the hiss that escapes between clenched teeth. The pain is like molten metal poured directly into my veins.

The pendant turns arctic cold against my skin. The opposing sensations tear through me—cold iron versus wild growth, restraint against freedom. I taste copper as I bite my cheek.

My vision narrows to pinpricks, then expands to take in impossible detail—I can see individual threads in the paper, count dust motes in the air.

The room spins. Something buried inside me claws toward the surface. The thorn patterns spread, reaching my collarbone, my fingertips, mapping my veins with green-white fire that pulses with my heartbeat.

Books begin to flutter, pages turning in a windstorm only I can feel. Ink swirls like it’s come alive. The very air thickens, pressing against my skin until I can barely breathe. Every surface begins to glow, responding to whatever’s awakening inside me.

I try to stand but my legs fold beneath me.

I’m falling?—

Strong arms catch me. Old parchment and herbal tea fill my senses as Finnian pulls me against him. He says something urgent in that ancient language, syllables vibrating through his chest against my ear. Each word presses against the chaos inside me, creating pockets of calm.

The assault recedes enough for me to drag air into starving lungs. He supports me with surprising strength, one arm around my waist, his other hand against my forehead. His touch is warm and steady, grounding me.

Where his skin meets mine, the agony recedes.

“Your skin is like ice,” he murmurs, fingers brushing my temple. “And burning up at the same time. How is that possible?”

I should be fighting to break his hold—I’ve never let anyone this close without a reason. But something tense in my shoulders finally releases.

“I’m fine,” I lie, then curse as my throat tightens. “Okay, I’m not fine. I haven’t slept properly since I got here, and apparently my body has opinions about ancient Fae texts.”

The truth slips out before I can stop it, raw and unfiltered.

“This was not sleep deprivation,” he says softly, helping me back to my chair. “Your reaction to the text was... specific. Visceral. Like recognition.”

I start to make an excuse, but my throat tightens in warning. Instead, I choose a partial truth.

“I’ve been having weird symptoms since arriving,” I admit, watching his reaction. “Probably just... adjusting to all the magic here. Or maybe all the magic is adjusting to me.”

He studies me, something shifting behind his expression. The gold flecks in his eyes expand until they seem to glow.

“The Academy affects everyone differently,” he finally says, each word carefully chosen. “Particularly those with... unacknowledged sensitivities.”

His words hang between us, loaded with meaning neither of us directly addresses. I pick up the fallen book, breaking the intense eye contact.

“You mentioned these show magical theories,” I say, steering us back toward safer ground. “How does court affiliation affect magical expression?”