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“Court magic reflects philosophical differences,” he explains, “but it’s also tied to seasonal domains and power sources.

Seelie magic draws from spring and summer’s solar energy, channeling light and growth magic to create beauty and enchantment.

They make others see what they wish to see because their power comes from life force itself. ”

He demonstrates with a simple gesture, and the light around us shifts subtly. I blink, and the effect fades, but I swear I can still taste it in the air, like honey and summer afternoons.

“Unseelie magic commands fall and winter through lunar and underworld connections,” he continues.

“They wield shadow and decay, forcing truth and controlling what others hide. Where Seelie creates controlled illusion, Unseelie strips away deception, but the corruption comes from touching death magic repeatedly.”

“And Wild Court?” The question escapes despite knowing the tactical error of showing such specific interest.

His expression grows thoughtful, almost protective.

“Wild Court magic flows from all seasons, drawing directly from earth’s ancient rites.

It’s raw, unpredictable, grants animalistic gifts and wild shapeshifting, but it’s chaotic.

That’s why the other courts outlawed it.

They fear power they can’t control or contain. ”

Something flickers across his face—caution mixed with calculation. His shoulders square slightly.

“Wild Court magic is... primal. Elemental. They don’t channel magic so much as embody it. They don’t cast spells— they remember them, like a body remembers how to breathe. It flows from their very essence.”

Like my body remembered combat forms I’d never learned. Like something deep inside me recognizes patterns I’ve never seen.

“Most people ask about court politics or magical theory,” Finnian says, amber eyes brightening with genuine fascination. “You’re asking about combat applications and bloodline magic. It’s like you’re trying to solve a puzzle that involves you personally.”

“Is that wrong?”

“It’s remarkable.” He leans closer, excitement replacing careful politeness. “No one’s ever approached Fae studies from a tactical perspective. You’re seeing patterns even I missed. Making connections I never considered.”

When our hands brush reaching for the same text, electricity sparks between us.

“Centuries of research,” he murmurs, voice soft with wonder, “and you just taught me something new.”

The book turns another page, revealing a glimpse of something circular and golden. Before I can see more, Finnian’s hand covers it. His eyes meet mine, assessing.

“There are certain artifacts,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “that transcend court affiliations. Objects of immense power that are... guarded carefully. Some say hidden, others say forgotten. A few believe they’re simply waiting.”

My heart pounds so hard my vision pulses with each beat. This is what I’ve been seeking—information about the Four Treasures.

“You mean the Four Treasures,” I say, words bursting out without conscious thought.

His eyes widen, gold flecks expanding like molten metal. “You’ve heard of them?”

“Fragments,” I admit, the truth constraint loosening my tongue. “Mentions in passing. Nothing substantial. But every instinct I have says they’re important. Maybe the key to everything that’s happening to me.”

My throat doesn’t close completely, but I feel a warning pressure.

“Such knowledge is... restricted,” Finnian says, fingers hovering over the concealed page. “Where exactly did you encounter these mentions?”

“Why?” The question tears from me, raw with need. “What makes them so dangerous that just reading about them requires clearance? What makes them worth hiding people like me from the truth?”

“Because most people don’t have the magical stability to process that kind of information. It alters things. Changes fundamental understanding of power, of identity.” His voice grows quiet, serious. “And because some knowledge, once learned, puts you in more danger than ignorance ever could.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re deflecting. Are you always this protective when something scares you?”

“You want honesty?” His voice drops, becoming vulnerable in a way that makes my breath catch. “Everything about this terrifies me. But losing the chance to help you terrifies me more.”

The admission hangs between us, raw and unexpected.

I flip the page he’s guarding and glance sideways. “And yet you’re still here, playing gatekeeper with dangerous knowledge.”

“Because I need that book,” I add, meeting his eyes directly.

“You need me,” he corrects, voice dropping to something intimate and uncertain.

“Only for the book.”

“I hope that’s not true,” he whispers—and the way he looks at me makes it feel like a confession, not a tease.

His expression holds no scholar’s distance now, only quiet intensity that reminds me why Riz Ahmed’s characters always seem to see straight through to your soul.

“Power, Professor Morgan. The kind that reshapes reality. The kind that makes kings of peasants and dust of royalty. The kind wars are fought over.”

“The kind you’re suggesting exists in more... specialized collections?” I question.

He studies me for a long moment, clearly weighing risks against possibilities. Just as he opens his mouth to respond, a tremendous crash shatters the moment—a shelf collapsing across the library. Tadhg’s outraged voice rises above the chaos.

The spell breaks. Finnian leans back, though electricity still sparks in the air between us.

“Perhaps we should continue this discussion somewhere more... private,” he suggests, closing the book. But his fingers linger on mine as he does, the contact sending warmth up my arm that has nothing to do with magic. “The library has many ears, not all friendly to certain types of inquiry.”

A chill runs down my spine.

We’re being watched.

He looks up, meeting my eyes with an intensity that makes my breath catch. “I’ve spent centuries studying texts about connection, about bonds between souls that transcend court politics. I never thought I’d find someone who made those ancient theories feel... possible.”

His thumb traces across my knuckles, the simple touch more intimate than any kiss. “I want to show you knowledge that could reshape everything we understand about court magic. But sharing it means trusting you with secrets that could see me executed for treason.”

The weight of his confession settles between us. He’s not just offering information—he’s offering himself, his safety, his future. All for a woman he’s known for weeks.

“I can’t tonight,” I say, surprising myself with genuine regret. “I need to—” I catch myself before lying, “—review student assessments and try to figure out what the hell is happening to my body before I accidentally burn down your library.”

“Tomorrow, then,” he suggests, gathering the books. “There are sections of the archives not listed in any catalog. Records that might help with your... academic interests. I could show you after the evening meal.”

I should refuse. Should keep professional distance. Should follow mission parameters. Every instinct I’ve been trained to trust screams retreat.

“I’d appreciate that,” I say before I can even think to deny him.

His smile transforms his face completely—relief and anticipation and something deeper.

“Until tomorrow, then.” He hesitates, adding, “The Academy grounds can be dangerous after dark. If you find yourself... exploring tonight, stay within the eastern gardens. The western paths rearrange themselves when the moon rises.”

“Thanks for the tactical advice,” I reply carefully. “Wouldn’t want to get lost.”

“Indeed not.” He places one hand briefly over mine, the touch sending warmth through my arm. “Some who wander the Academy at night never find their way back to where they began.”

With that, he returns the books to their shelves. As I stand to leave, he adds, “One more thing, Professor Morgan.”

His expression grows serious, golden eyes darkening with genuine concern.

“That pendant you’re wearing,” his voice drops, fingers almost touching my throat. “Beautiful piece. Though I wonder—do you know what it’s really designed to do? Or just what you were told it does?”

My hand rises instinctively to where the pendant sits cold against my skin, Graves’ orders embodied in metal. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The corridor outside holds the typical Academy warmth, but something feels different. The air carries a subtle charge, like the moments before a thunderstorm.

Finnian’s warmth still lingers on my skin where he touched me—gentle, safe in ways that make me want to let down guards I’ve maintained my entire life. But there’s something else threading through my thoughts, something cold and sharp that calls to a different kind of hunger altogether.

As I walk, the temperature begins to drop.

Not gradually—abruptly, like stepping from summer into winter between one footstep and the next. My breath mists. Frost forms on the stone walls in delicate patterns that look disturbingly familiar.

They match the thorn designs spreading beneath my skin.

The pendant turns painfully cold against my chest, while the thorn patterns flare with answering heat—my body becoming a battleground between opposing forces.

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

His aristocratic features wear that careful mask I’m beginning to recognize as performance rather than nature.

My body betrays me with a shiver that’s equal parts fear and recognition.

Where he stands, the air crystallizes into geometric patterns that hang suspended like diamonds before shattering and reforming.

“Finding what you’re looking for in our humble archives, Professor?” he asks, voice sharp as breaking glass. “Or perhaps... being found?”

Ice forms on my eyelashes as I meet his gaze. The pendant burns against my skin with cold so intense it feels like acid. The thorn patterns pulse with defiant heat in response—fire meeting ice.

“Research is a journey of discovery, Your Highness.” My voice stays level even as ice and fire tear through my veins. “Though I’m starting to think the real question isn’t what I’m looking for—it’s what’s been looking for me.”

He steps closer. The air between us crystallizes. Where his feet touch the stone, fractal frost patterns spread outward. The temperature drops so rapidly that my exhaled breath forms ice crystals that fall like snow.

“And where exactly,” he murmurs, breath visible in the arctic air, “might it be leading you next?”

I don’t answer. Can’t answer, because suddenly I’m seeing flashes—Orion’s fire calling to something wild in my chest, Finnian’s gentle warmth promising knowledge and safety, and this ice prince whose very presence makes my blood sing with dangerous music.

The paths ahead multiply like fractals, possibilities I’m only beginning to glimpse.

His hand rises, hovering near my cheek without touching. The cold where our skin almost meets intensifies until I can feel individual ice crystals forming in the air. My lips part slightly, an involuntary response that makes him step even closer.

“Choose your guides carefully, Ashlynne,” he murmurs, close enough that his breath frosts my lips. “Some of us know exactly how beautiful you are when you’re dangerous. Others are still pretending you’re safe to touch.”

That name in his mouth sends electricity down my spine. Not Ash. Not Professor Morgan. Ashlynne —a name that tastes like moonlight and thorns, familiar in a way that makes my throat tighten.

“Some lights,” he continues, his thumb tracing the air just above my cheekbone, “lead only deeper into shadow. Trust me—I know what it costs to protect someone you love from people who would destroy them for sport.”

Then he’s gone, dissolved into darkness. Only the frost patterns remain, slowly melting, leaving dark patches that look disturbingly like the mark spreading up my arm.

I stand there for several heartbeats, my body caught between fire and ice. The aftereffects of his presence war with the lingering warmth from Finnian’s touch, creating a storm in my chest.

The mission parameters no longer seem adequate to contain the possibilities that twist and spread like the thorns beneath my skin. Or the growing certainty that the real question isn’t what I’m becoming—but what I’ve always been, sleeping beneath a skin that was never truly mine.

Tomorrow, I’ll let Finnian show me those hidden archives. I’ll follow the path deeper into whatever truth is waiting.

Even if it leads me somewhere I can never return from.