Page 30

KIERAN

Humans are predictable in their fucking stupidity.

I track her through shadow paths, consciousness scattered like shattered glass across the darkness between trees. Shadow-walking is controlled dissolution—dying while staying awake for every agonizing second.

Reconstituting hurts like hell, but at least it’s familiar hell.

This marks the third consecutive night I’ve followed her movements.

Each route memorized. Each pattern catalogued.

Each breath counted from a mile away because my magic feeds on her emotional signature like a starving thing, growing stronger with every anxious heartbeat I taste through shadow-paths.

The moonlight follows her—trailing her like a devoted fucking pet. Another impossibility to add to her growing collection. But this one makes ice crystallize in my veins. Dread or anticipation—impossible to distinguish anymore.

Before emerging onto Academy grounds, I compress part of my shadow-consciousness into the roots beneath an ancient beech.

Unseelie magic draws from lunar cycles and underworld connections. We don’t create shadows—we command the decay that already exists, the secrets that want to surface. It’s why we can’t lie but excel at revealing uncomfortable truths. The corruption comes from touching death magic too often.

Communication through darkness—a skill that’s kept me alive thus far

“Report,” Dredge’s voice cuts through shadow like winter wind. Cold. Precise. His impatience bleeds through the connection, making the darkness itself restless. “His Majesty grows weary of incomplete assessments.”

“Subject continues nocturnal exploration,” I select each word like choosing weapons, sharp enough to inform but dull enough to conceal. “Her methods suggest professional training, though her objectives remain... opaque.”

“Combat capabilities?”

I select facts like choosing weapons, each one sharp enough to cut but not deep enough to kill. “Human training. Advanced but ultimately limited. Effective against students, significantly outmatched by faculty.”

The truth, but not the whole truth. I don’t mention how she moves like she remembers combat forms she’s never been taught. How her body flows into defensive positions that haven’t been used since before the courts divided.

“Magical sensitivity?”

Here’s where things get interesting. “The pendant she wears contains significant iron content. Possible protection against influence attempts.”

Not a lie. Though it leaves out my growing certainty that the pendant suppresses rather than protects. The way it burns against her skin when magic rises. How removing it turns her into something that makes ancient trees bend in recognition.

“King Moros grows concerned,” Dredge says, and there’s weight in that phrasing.

Not your father but King Moros —formal distancing that suggests broader court involvement.

“The Council questions whether continued observation serves our interests. They suggest more... decisive action may be warranted.”

Translation: They want her dead. And they’re running out of patience with my reports.

“I require additional time for conclusive assessment.” The words taste like ash, but I keep my voice steady. “Premature action might compromise larger objectives. Her Academy connections create intelligence opportunities we cannot afford to waste.”

The shadow pulses with reluctant acceptance. “His Majesty expects detailed findings at tomorrow’s communication. Prepare to justify continued surveillance over more... decisive intervention.”

The connection dissolves. I withdraw my consciousness, aware that my father’s patience wears thin like ice before spring. Time is running out for both of us.

“Three centuries of perfect control,” I murmur to the gathering shadows as I reform, “and she makes me act like an untrained novice.” The darkness pulses in response—even my magic recognizes the truth I’m trying to deny.

I dissolve back into shadow form, consciousness scattering across the darkness as I seek her familiar signature. The Academy grounds blur past—stone and crystal meaning nothing to my dispersed awareness, only the pull of her emotional resonance guiding me through the night.

There. Moving toward the boundary with purpose that sets my shadows writhing.

I track her approach with predatory focus. The pendant visibly affects her—frost spreading across skin from the contact point, her movements becoming labored as iron fights whatever’s awakening inside her.

Then she does something that sends lightning through my dispersed consciousness.

She removes the fucking pendant.

Power explodes outward like a star being born. Wild magic—raw, ancient, achingly familiar—radiates from her in waves. The patterns beneath her clothing don’t just glow—they live. Actual vines spiral across exposed skin, leaves unfurling, roots extending to anchor in soil.

Wild Court royal markings manifesting in flesh and blood and growing things.

She’s not human. She’s not even Fae in any conventional sense. She’s something the courts destroyed. Something that shouldn’t exist.

Something that makes my dead heart remember how to beat.

She crosses the boundary, retrieves some human device, composes a message with careful precision. Her body language tells the story—tension, controlled breathing, someone navigating impossible loyalties.

Just like me. Orders from handlers. Pressure from controllers. All converging on impossible choices.

The reply arrives fast. Too fast. Her reaction hits me like a physical blow—muscles locking, jaw clenching before she masters herself. Bad news. Accelerated timelines that match my father’s growing impatience.

Two forces closing in on her from opposite sides. And she has no fucking idea.

As she returns toward the boundary, my expanded senses detect movement at the periphery. Multiple signatures converging with mathematical precision.

Boundary hunters. Seelie and Unseelie.

This makes no sense. The courts never coordinate. Yet these move with shared purpose, closing on her like the points of a trap.

Someone with authority in both courts orchestrated this. The timing screams setup—immediately after her cross-boundary communication. Someone monitored her transmission, deployed response teams with impossible speed.

I withdraw from shadow observation, reforming where darkness pools deepest. Reconstituting feels like being turned inside out—scattered consciousness slamming back together, senses realigning with brutal efficiency.

Every instinct I possess screams that I should leave her to whatever’s coming. She’s a subject. A potential threat. Tactical wisdom demands observation without intervention.

My feet are already moving, frost blooming with each stride.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I snarl at the darkness. She makes me act like an untrained fucking novice.

I arrive as the trap springs—coordinated attack from creatures that should be mortal enemies. Her military stance suggests competence, but physical weapons against elemental hunters? She learns quickly how useless that is.

For too long I’ve watched infiltrators meet similar fates. Observed with detached interest as boundary protections eliminated threats.

So why does seeing her backed against that oak, position compromised, send jagged ice tearing through my chest—like someone thrust shattered glass between my ribs and twisted?

The patterns beneath her clothes flare with blinding intensity. Actual vines spiral across skin, pulling nutrients from air itself. Wild Court royal markings—the real fucking thing. Not imitation, but authentic bloodline manifestation. Patterns that were supposed to be extinct.

My throat goes tight. My carefully constructed reality crumbles like old parchment.

The hunters recoil, recognition and terror warring in their elemental forms. But whoever’s controlling them pushes past that recognition. They adjust tactics—light creating blinding radiance while shadow swallows illumination.

For a moment, the vines respond without conscious direction, drawing power from sources older than court magic. Magic that doesn’t choose between light and shadow but predates such simple concepts.

Then the hunters press their advantage. Darkness and light intensify beyond mortal tolerance. She collapses, consciousness failing as her systems overload.

Tactical wisdom demands observation. Let the hunters complete their task.

Instead, something primitive and urgent beats against my ribs. The moment I see her fall, something breaks inside me—ice cracking under pressure, revealing depth I’d forgotten existed.

My shadow magic responds to my emotional state, turning sharper and colder than usual. Temperature plummets as I draw power directly from the void.

“Enough.” The word cuts through chaos like winter wind through flame.

Ice spreads from my feet, canceling both courts’ magic with casual authority.

“The changeling is under my protection.” My eyes find hers even as consciousness fades.

“Touch her again, and I will remind you why the Unseelie do not forgive trespasses.”

The declaration emerges without thought—possessive, territorial, revealing more than I intended. Three hundred years of careful control obliterated by six fucking words.

Shadow coalesces around my hands, condensing into living void that devours rather than conceals. Contact with the nearest light-fox is momentary but sufficient. Its luminous form collapses inward like an imploding star.

The remaining hunters retreat, leaving silence broken only by my ragged breathing.

I turn to where she lies unconscious, living vines still visible but retreating beneath her skin.

Without the pendant’s suppression, the royal markings spread fully across exposed flesh—intricate patterns I’ve seen only in my father’s most restricted archives.

Green vines twisting with thorns trying to break through and flowers budding just beneath the skin.