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Kestra leans closer, her violet eyes brightening with excitement. “The markings match illustrations in the restricted genealogy texts. Royal Wild Court—the Moonshadow line specifically. I’ve been studying the gaps in our historical records, trying to understand what was deliberately erased.”

Her words hit like ice water. My sister has been researching the very bloodlines our father helped destroy. The irony tastes bitter as winter wine.

Confirmation should bring satisfaction. Instead, complications multiply exponentially, each implication spawning others in endless cascade. Ice sharpens in my veins with growing apprehension.

“The courts cannot know.” The words escape before I can stop them, ice crystallizing around my fingers as I realize what I’ve just admitted. “Not until proper assessment. Not until—” I cut myself off before revealing too much.

The Morrigan’s smile sharpens. She heard exactly what I didn’t say. Kestra’s expression grows troubled—she recognizes the protective edge in my voice, understands its implications.

“The courts already suspect,” The Morrigan traces the vines with ancient fingertips. “Shadow and light converge when the wild threatens to reclaim what was taken. Old fears drive old enemies toward common purpose.”

“Amarantha,” I conclude, pieces aligning with unpleasant clarity. The coordination, timing, specific targeting—all bear her signature. “Potentially with High Council support.”

Including my father. The thought sits like poison in my chest.

Kestra’s face pales. “If Father discovers what she is...” She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to. We both know what happens to threats our father can’t control.

Those silver eyes meet mine with uncomfortable directness. “Where does the Shadow Prince stand when boundaries blur? With father’s command or personal judgment?”

Dangerous question. To acknowledge division invites suspicion of disloyalty.

To deny it concedes authority I’ve preserved for centuries.

Kestra watches me with an intensity that makes my chest tight—waiting to see if her brother has learned to choose something worth protecting over something easy to follow.

“I stand with the Balance,” I respond, selecting truth calibrated to reveal nothing while concealing everything.

Her knowing smile makes me want to retreat into shadow.

“Thorns have their own wisdom, sweet prince,” The Morrigan murmurs, silver eyes gleaming.

“They grow where the earth calls them, regardless of what pretty walls men build to contain them. The question is—will you tend the garden, or burn it down when the roses bloom wild?”

Three points. Three courts. Prophecy hovering just beneath the surface of seemingly simple statements.

“You know,” Kestra says quietly, arranging herbs with deliberate precision, “I’ve learned something interesting about balance.

Sometimes the thing that threatens to destroy it is actually what’s needed to save it.

” Her violet eyes meet mine with that ethereal directness.

“The question is whether you’re brave enough to let yourself fall. ”

The parallel to her own situation hangs unspoken between us. I chose to protect her when it threatened everything our father built. Now she’s asking if I’ll make the same choice again.

“Philosophy can wait until she stabilizes,” I deflect, unwilling to engage with implications that could reshape everything. “Will she recover?”

“From this? Certainly.” The Morrigan’s attention returns to her patient, voice dropping to a murmur perhaps not meant for my hearing.

“For this? Perhaps. The changeling awakens despite all efforts to keep her sleeping. The question remains,” she pauses to look up at me, “whether she’ll recognize herself when fully conscious. ”

Kestra moves to prepare additional supplies, but I catch the way she glances between Ash and me, processing the undercurrents with uncomfortable accuracy. My sister always was too perceptive for her own good.

I should leave now. Report to father. Maintain position. Optimal risk-reward ratio.

Instead, I linger—ostensibly observing treatment while my supposedly dead heart pounds with betraying intensity. Something about her unconscious form creates responses I’ve suppressed for centuries.

Protectiveness. Curiosity. Interest beyond strategic value.

And most disturbing, something dangerously close to desire. Frost spreads from my fingertips while my chest burns with unfamiliar heat—ice and fire warring for control of veins that have known only cold for centuries.

A flash of memory tries to surface—mother’s face crumbling as father’s guards surrounded her lover, the taste of betrayal bitter in my ten-year-old mouth. I slam the thought down, ice crystallizing around it until it freezes into nothing.

I eliminated desire for a reason. It makes people do stupid things. Get other people killed.

Yet here I stand, ice melting around something I refuse to name.

“You should go, Shadow Prince,” The Morrigan suggests without looking up. “Before watching shadows report your unexplained absence. I’ll ensure she recovers... appropriately.”

Subtle emphasis on the final word carries clear implication—recovery under Wild Court influence rather than Academy neutrality.

Kestra steps closer, her voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. “Whatever Father ordered you to do, remember—some chains, once broken, can never be reforged.” Her ethereal features carry ancient wisdom. “And some freedoms are worth any price.”

Her words hit like a blade between my ribs. She knows. Somehow, she knows about the seven-day deadline, about the impossible choice bearing down on me like an avalanche.

“She returns to Academy custody when stabilized,” I state, my voice hardening with authority I rarely display, ice forming with each word. “Her position remains under Velasca protection.”

The Morrigan inclines her head—neither agreement nor refusal. “Thorns grow where they will, regardless of garden walls.”

Kestra’s hand briefly touches my arm—the first physical contact we’ve shared since arriving at the Academy. The gesture carries weight of shared history, understanding born of mutual sacrifice.

“Choose wisely, brother,” she whispers, violet eyes holding depths beyond her years. “Some people are worth saving, even from ourselves.”

I turn to leave, pausing at the threshold to glance back. The vines have faded, retreating beneath skin. Without their presence, she appears almost human again—almost believable as a cultural exchange instructor rather than the fulcrum upon which court politics might pivot.

Almost. But not quite.

Now that I’ve seen truth, I can’t unsee it. Can’t pretend she’s merely an interesting anomaly rather than something that could reshape everything.

I place a shadow-mark near the entrance—a connection that will alert me when she regains consciousness. Not for protection or concern, I tell myself. Prudent monitoring of an intelligence source.

The justification rings hollow even in my own mind.

“She’ll have questions when she wakes,” The Morrigan observes, silver eyes meeting mine with ancient knowledge. “Questions requiring answers beyond the Academy curriculum.”

“Then she’ll need to find someone interested in providing them,” I respond, ice forming around words as shadow gathers.

The Morrigan’s smile deepens. “I believe she already has.”

I step into shadow rather than respond, consciousness scattering as physical form dissolves. Transition brings relief—escape from her knowing gaze, from warmth lingering where Ash touched, from questions I’m not prepared to answer.

Last image before the transition completes: the Morrigan standing protectively over Ash while Kestra arranges healing supplies. Both invested beyond professional duty.

Not the only one with unexplained attachment, apparently.

I rebuild form in my private quarters, consciousness slamming back together like shattered glass finding its pattern.

The disorientation should fade quickly—it always has before.

Tonight, something clings. A warmth that doesn’t belong in my perpetually cold skin.

The echo of her weight against my chest.

I cross to the mirror, studying my reflection for tells. Perfect composure, aristocratic mask firmly in place. Only the frost creeping along my fingertips betrays the storm beneath. I banish the ice with conscious effort.

“Perfect composure,” I tell the man in the mirror. “Just like he trained you.” But frost creeps along my fingertips, betraying the storm beneath. “Except when it comes to her.”

The facade holds for exactly three seconds before the mirror’s surface begins to ripple.

Darkness swallows my reflection. Father’s communication spell, right on schedule.

From within that darkness, a familiar voice emerges—cold as ancient glaciers, sharp as obsidian.

“Kieran.”

My posture straightens automatically, muscles responding to conditioning that bypasses conscious thought. Twenty-five years of this ritual. My body still reacts with a mixture of respect and apprehension.

“Father.” I incline my head precisely twelve degrees—perfect balance between respect and dignity. Neither subservient nor arrogant, calculated through centuries of protocol. “I was preparing tomorrow’s scheduled report.”

“Events have accelerated beyond acceptable parameters,” each syllable drops like ice. “The boundary incident was reported to my council seven minutes ago. Someone bypassed your intelligence networks, my son.”

Seven minutes. My jaw tightens imperceptibly. Someone bypassed my information networks, reported directly to the King. Another power play within the court hierarchy. Another indication that my authority isn’t as absolute as maintained.

“Limited engagement with boundary defenses.” The lie tastes like ash, but centuries of practice keep my voice steady. “Subject displayed unexpected resistance warranting further investigation before final assessment.”

“You intervened.”