Page 33

Not a question. Accusation weighted with disappointed expectation.

“Tactical necessity.” Each word builds the wall between what I feel and what I can afford to reveal. “Premature neutralization would eliminate intelligence value and potentially alert hostile networks. Further observation serves multiple strategic objectives.”

Darkness deepens, pressure increasing until the glass creaks. When father speaks again, the temperature drops several degrees.

“The Council believes otherwise. Our sources suggest the markings she manifested match restricted archive records. Wild Court. Royal bloodline.”

Direct confrontation. No subtlety. My father’s patience has reached its limit.

“Preliminary assessment supports that conclusion,” I say, my voice calibrated for professional interest rather than personal investment. “However, manifestation was brief, stress-induced. Further observation is required to determine authenticity versus sophisticated manipulation.”

“The prophecy cannot be permitted activation.” Cold certainty radiates from the void. “If this creature proves authentic rather than constructed deception, the Balance becomes vulnerable to disruption.”

I file this alongside centuries of similar declarations—father’s obsession with the Balance approaching fanaticism. He treats it like religious doctrine, any suggestion of a third influence as an existential threat to everything he’s built.

“Continued observation provides strategic advantage,” I argue, arranging facts to support the desired outcome.

“Her Academy connections create intelligence opportunities regarding multiple courts. If she proves authentic, elimination without understanding capabilities could create larger problems with Wild Court remnants.”

Darkness considers, pressure decreasing marginally as tactics override emotion. “Your insight has proven valuable previously.”

I wait, recognizing the structure from centuries of similar conversations. Father’s patterns are predictable as seasons. Acknowledgment before redirection. Praise with conditions.

“However,” he continues on schedule, “the risk curve has steepened beyond acceptable parameters. If authenticity is confirmed, immediate neutralization becomes imperative.”

The words hit with physical impact, ice spreading through my chest despite emotional discipline.

Something cold settles in my stomach—not fear for myself but for her.

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

I maintain perfect stillness, not even breathing differently despite the hurricane of conflicting loyalties.

“You will assess her power level and potential for containment within seven days,” father commands, darkness pulsing with authority that’s shaped three centuries of my existence.

“If Wild Court royal bloodline is confirmed, you will eliminate her before manifestation progresses. The Council is unanimous.”

Seven days.

Same timeline mentioned in her communication, I note with a distant analytical part not reeling from implications. External pressure from her controllers. Internal pressure from mine. All converging on a narrow window.

“And if investigation reveals an alternative explanation?” My voice betrays nothing of the cold rage building beneath composure.

“Standard intelligence protocols apply.” Already moving past possibilities he considers unlikely. “But make no mistake, Kieran. If she is what the boundary hunters’ reaction suggests, she cannot be permitted continued existence. The Balance requires it.”

Always the Balance. As if the natural world prioritizes political convenience over its own restoration.

The mirror clears abruptly, communication terminated without conclusion. Typical of father’s style—appearing finished once commands are delivered.

I remain motionless, cataloging implications while analyzing my emotional response. The order presents tactical problems beyond the obvious—eliminating Academy faculty violates treaties, risks broader conflict. International incidents have started over less.

But more concerning is my reaction—unexpected resistance to even considering compliance with a direct royal command. Every instinct rebels against the thought of harming her. Growing certainty that protecting her matters more than preserving my political position.

These realizations should terrify me.

Instead, they bring clarity I haven’t felt in centuries.

I cross to the window overlooking Academy grounds, frost forming where my breath touches glass. From this elevation, the infirmary wing is visible where she rests under The Morrigan’s care. The shadow-mark pulses at the edge of awareness, confirming her continued presence and gradual stabilization.

Seven days to determine her nature. Seven days to decide where loyalty lies. Seven days before duty demands action I find increasingly impossible.

Not the investigation—I could complete that within hours if necessary. No, the complication lies in the emotional investment I’ve developed despite every effort to maintain distance.

For the first time in centuries, personal desire conflicts with royal command. The first time since my mother’s execution, I find something worth defying my father’s will.

The realization should fill me with horror.

Instead, it brings unexpected liberation—like throwing off chains I hadn’t realized were there.

The oath mark pulses with sudden heat, and unbidden images flash through my mind—empty Wild Court settlements, the silence where laughter should be. Three this month alone. The Morrigan hasn’t said it directly, but we all know: someone is hunting us. Systematically. Quietly.

And if they discover Ash before she’s ready...

I begin constructing alternatives—plans within plans, contingencies serving multiple outcomes.

Shadows gather like old friends, responding to my emotional state with eagerness never shown before.

I trace frost patterns across glass, each crystalline formation representing variables in an increasingly complex equation.

One conclusion forms with undeniable clarity: Specialist Ashlyn Morgan—whatever her true identity—has become more than an observation subject. She’s become a choice. A line drawn between who I’ve been and who I might become.

Seven days to solve a puzzle centuries in formation. Seven days to choose between duty and desire. Seven days to decide if the prince serves the king—or if the man saves the one person who truly understands his burden.

Inconvenient indeed.

And absolutely worth every risk that entails.

The shadows around me pulse once, twice, forming a connection I haven’t authorized but can no longer deny.

Through it, I sense her—not just her location, but her confusion, her awakening power, her response to my earlier touch.

The bond stretches between us like a tether, already forming without ritual or permission.

The frost beneath my fingers crystallizes into a perfect replica of the thorns beneath her skin—patterns that echo royal bloodlines my father helped destroy a millennium ago.

My father, who expects me to eliminate her in seven days.

The shadows whisper with a voice I haven’t heard since childhood, Choose wisely, my son. Some chains, once broken, can never be reforged.

“Then let them break,” I whisper back to the darkness. “Some things are worth the fall.”