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A bloodline believed extinguished. Not confirmed dead. Just... believed.

Even unconscious, she carries herself like a soldier—muscles tense with ingrained vigilance. I recognize the stance.

It’s exactly how I sleep.

Father made me into his perfect son. Graves made her into his perfect soldier. The difference is—she’s still fighting back.

I kneel beside her, my breath catching as her scent reaches me. Earth and lightning and something essentially herself. My carefully controlled heartbeat stutters, then hammers against my ribs with betraying intensity.

Here mere existence undoes all my discipline.

Her scent reaches me clearly now—warm where I’m cold. Alive where I’ve learned to be empty.

Two options. Leave her here, report to father, allow events to progress without my interference. Or complicate an already impossible situation by taking personal risk for uncertain gain.

The thought of her defenseless while my father plans her execution sends heat through my veins hot enough to crack the frost forming on my skin.

Something worth defying a king for.

I place my hand against her forehead, my naturally cold skin drawing excess heat from her overloaded system. The contact creates feedback I never expected—shadow magic responding to wild energy, opposite forces not conflicting but completing each other.

Like finding the missing half of an equation I didn’t know was incomplete.

Her breathing steadies.

“Inconvenient,” I whisper against her hair, my breath crystallizing in the space between us. “You’re becoming remarkably inconvenient, troublesome thing.” Her scent—earth and lightning and something essentially her—makes my chest ache with wanting I can’t afford.

With my decision made, I gather her against me—one arm behind her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. She settles against my chest like she was fucking made for this, her head finding the hollow between shoulder and throat that’s been empty my entire life without me realizing it.

Her weight presses into me like recovering something long lost. The warmth of her spreads through perpetually cold flesh, melting barriers I’ve reinforced for decades. My heart—that carefully controlled organ—skips, then hammers against my ribs with betraying intensity.

The sensation terrifies me more than any enemy I’ve faced.

The way holding her feels like finally coming home instead of claiming something new.

“Sleep well, troublesome thing,” I whisper against her hair, allowing myself this one moment of honesty. “You’re safe now. Whatever else happens, you’re safe.”

The journey back requires shadow-walking with unconscious cargo—faster than physical travel but significantly more demanding.

I wrap us both in protective darkness, her vulnerable form shielded against transition trauma.

Her body instinctively curls closer, seeking relief from fever against my cold skin.

For one unguarded moment, a fundamental shift occurs inside me.

Ice cracks under spring pressure, revealing depths beneath surface composure.

My frozen heart beats with forgotten intensity, sending unfamiliar heat through veins that know only cold.

Without permission, my arms tighten around her, protective instinct overriding tactical sense.

She smells like earth after rain, like lightning and wildflowers and something essentially herself that makes my chest ache with wanting.

Unacceptable, my rational mind insists.

Undeniable, everything else argues back.

We emerge near the infirmary, materializing where shadows pool beneath decorative arches. The transition leaves me drained—shadow-walking with cargo always does—but she’s safe. Unconscious but breathing steadily, the vines retreating beneath her skin like secrets being buried.

I adjust my grip, her weight settling more comfortably against my chest. At this hour, Rowan should be on duty. Wild Court healer, no political agenda beyond helping people recover. Simple. Clean.

The infirmary doors swing open before I reach them.

The Morrigan stands in the doorway like she’s been waiting for me.

My step falters. Of all the complications I didn’t need tonight...

She stands beside a preparation table, ancient hands sorting herbs with methodical precision. Silver-streaked black hair falls forward, partially obscuring features that have watched empires rise and fall.

A soft sound from the preparation area draws my attention. From behind a curtain of hanging herbs steps a figure I know better than my own reflection.

Kestra.

My sister moves with quiet confidence, her dark hair braided with small silver charms that catch the lamplight. She’s grown into herself here—no longer the frightened girl I rescued from our father’s marriage trap, but a young woman with purpose lighting her violet eyes.

She carries a basin of steaming water, moving to The Morrigan’s side with practiced ease. When she sees me, she doesn’t startle—just raises one eyebrow in a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache.

“Hello, Kieran.” Her voice carries that otherworldly calm Anya Taylor-Joy brings to royal characters. “The Morrigan mentioned you’d find your way here eventually. She has a gift for seeing what others miss.”

Her gaze shifts to Ash, taking in the fading vine patterns with interest rather than fear. “The markings are extraordinary,” she says softly, studying Ash with fascination. “I’ve been researching the genealogies—what little survived the purges. She’s not just royal blood, Kieran. She’s the last.”

The weight of her knowledge settles between us. My sister—safe, brilliant, free—studying the very bloodlines our father helped destroy.

The Morrigan is beautiful in the way ancient things are beautiful—not young, not old, but existing outside time itself. Silver streaks through raven hair like starlight, and her face holds the kind of classical perfection that makes mortals weep for all they’ll never be.

The Morrigan doesn’t appear for routine healing. She emerges for wars, for prophecies, for moments when the world tilts on its axis. Her presence here means tonight changed everything.

Kestra continues preparing healing supplies, her movements efficient despite the tension crackling between her brother and their ancient mentor. She’s learned to navigate powerful personalities—a skill our father never intended her to develop.

The Morrigan continues sorting herbs without looking up, silver-streaked fingers moving with confidence. When she speaks, her tone carries the casual indifference of someone discussing the weather.

“How deliciously unexpected,” her voice purrs like silk over steel. “The ice prince melting for a sleeping rose. Even I didn’t foresee this particular plot twist.”

The words hit like ice water. She knows exactly what I did out there.

Kestra’s hands still for just a moment before resuming their work. She’s heard the implication too—understands that I’ve done something that surprised even The Morrigan.

Her voice carries echoes of languages predating court division, rhythm and cadence belonging to when magic flowed differently through realms. My skin prickles with automatic defensive response, cold spreading through my veins as protection against her penetrating assessment.

“Academy guest instructor had an encounter with boundary hunters.” My voice stays level despite the ice crystallizing along my fingertips. “Seelie and Unseelie, operating with unprecedented coordination. Someone wants her dead badly enough to unite enemies.”

Kestra moves immediately to assist, her hands hovering over Ash’s unconscious form as she assesses the magical aftermath. “The vine patterns are retreating but not dying,” she murmurs, more to herself than to us. “They’re settling deeper, finding permanent anchor points.”

The Morrigan finally looks up, silver eyes cutting through centuries of masks to whatever truth I’m hiding. Her gaze shifts between myself and the unconscious form with knowing intensity that makes frost form along my spine.

“Coordination,” she repeats, her words carrying smoky amusement. “Like ice and flame finding common cause against growing thorns. How perfectly predictable of them.”

“Her awakening threatens the established order,” Kestra adds quietly, already processing implications. “If the courts are working together against her, it means they recognize what she represents.”

I ignore the cryptic implications, focusing on immediate concerns. “She requires medical attention. Magical backlash from defensive response to dual-court assault.”

“She requires more than medical attention,” The Morrigan moves to examine the fading vines with hands that hover without touching. Energy flows between her fingers and the patterns—diagnostic magic I don’t recognize. “She requires truth. Protection. Purpose beyond false identity.”

Kestra catches my expression—the way my jaw tightens, how frost spreads involuntarily along my fingertips. Her understanding hits me like a physical blow to the chest.

My patience evaporates, frost forming along my fingertips. “What the troublesome little weapon requires immediately is stabilization before those patterns burn through her remaining systems.”

The words slip out—revealing more attachment than I intended. The Morrigan’s expression shifts to something resembling amusement—a disturbing sight on features more accustomed to battle-fury.

Kestra’s eyes widen slightly. She’s never heard me use that tone—protective, possessive, territorial in a way that has nothing to do with duty and everything to do with something I refuse to name.

“Troublesome weapon, is she?” The Morrigan’s smile turns knowing. “How delightfully protective of you, sweet prince.”

I fight the anger rising inside me at her calm. I hate it. “Her human system?—”

“Not human systems,” she cuts me off, voice hypnotic as falling water. “Fae systems awakening beneath human conditioning. Thorns remembering nature despite centuries of forced forgetting.”