Page 39

FINNIAN

Silver fire brands my chest, ripping me from sleep with a scream lodged in my throat.

“Fuck!” I jerk upright, clawing at the pattern searing through muscle. Every nerve ending screams as the formation I haven’t seen in over a century burns through pre-dawn darkness.

Seelie Court High Command summons. Non-negotiable.

My stomach lurches, bile rising hot and bitter. Only three reasons they’d use this seal: treason, warfare, or fulfilled prophecy. Since I haven’t committed treason and war hasn’t broken out yet, that leaves only one terrifying possibility.

They know about Ash.

I throw on formal robes, fingers fumbling with silver clasps like a drunk trying to thread needles. The corridor literally reshapes itself as I hurry toward the administrative wing, walls folding inward to create the shortest path to judgment.

Ten minutes later, the interrogation chamber materializes before me—walls crystallizing from nothing as the Academy creates the space.

Lady Brighthaven stands waiting, her platinum hair blazing with unnatural light that burns my retinas.

Lord Thornweave circles opposite her like a shark scenting blood.

The Crown detonates against my ribs as Brighthaven’s projection flickers. The artifact brands visions directly into my skull—Ash chained in silver light, her eyes empty as winter graves. Blood pooling around three corpses at her feet. My corpse. Orion’s. Kieran’s.

Two days, the Crown screams through my consciousness. She has two days before they corner her into choosing genocide.

The future-sight isn’t prophecy—it’s a warning. Every path I can see ends in violence, betrayal, or worse. Every timeline where I don’t act.

Tell her. Help her. Save her.

Or watch every possible future crumble to ash.

A third figure steps from the shadows.

Amarantha materializes from darkness like poison bleeding through water.

Her beauty hits like a weapon—too perfect, too sharp, engineered to make men forget how to breathe.

Platinum hair woven with living rose-gold vines that writhe with her emotions.

Violet eyes with shifting gold flecks that catalog every weakness, every fear, every secret I’ve ever buried.

Her appearance cuts like broken glass—too perfect to touch without bleeding. Every curve engineered to make men forget their own names.

“Hello, darling cousin,” she purrs, voice like vintage wine poured over shattered crystal. “How utterly delightful to find you here, looking so... scholarly. As always.”

“Amarantha.” I manage a careful bow, though my hands betray me with their trembling. “I confess myself... rather unprepared for High Council involvement in what I’d assumed was a simple faculty consultation.”

Her laugh could make angels weep and demons cower. “Simple? Oh, sweet Finnian. Nothing about our exquisite little changeling situation could ever be called simple. Surely someone with your... extensive education recognizes the complexity of what’s awakening within our walls?”

Lady Brighthaven taps crystal, and a three-dimensional projection erupts—Academy ward readings from yesterday evening. Massive spikes of Wild Court magical energy, unmistakably royal in signature. The data burns across my vision like accusations written in fire.

“The ward matrix recorded quite the extraordinary magical disturbance,” Brighthaven announces, each word precisely weighted to cut bone-deep. “Wild Court power manifesting at royal intensity levels. Power that has been concealed among our community for weeks.”

“How fascinating that our appointed family liaison somehow failed to report such monumentally significant developments,” Amarantha adds, gliding closer.

Her perfume carries undertones that whisper of roses blooming in consecrated graves.

“One might begin to question precisely where your true loyalties have chosen to anchor themselves, beloved cousin.”

The accusation hangs in the air like a blade poised at my throat. In Seelie politics, familial betrayal doesn’t just carry the death penalty—it carries complete erasure from existence.

“Professor Morgan’s adaptation to our rather unique environment has warranted... careful observation,” I respond, selecting each syllable like choosing weapons from an armory. “Premature documentation of phenomena that might prove transitory serves no constructive purpose for anyone involved.”

“Transitory?” Thornweave flicks his wrist, and the projection shifts to detailed magical analysis. “These are royal Wild Court bloodline markers, Professor. Manifestation patterns that match our most carefully preserved historical records. This represents confirmation, not speculation.”

Air crystallizes in my lungs like winter claiming my breath. They have everything—magical signatures detailed enough to map her lineage, bloodline analysis that probably traces back thirteen generations, genealogical workups that connect her to the first Wild queens.

“The prophecy manifests before our very eyes,” Amarantha observes, circling me like a connoisseur examining a prize about to be claimed.

“The lost Wild Court heir, returned to unite what was sundered. Three consort bonds to balance the power that could reshape our world.” Her smile could flay flesh from bone.

“Naturally, the Seelie Court will maintain our historically... privileged position.”

“Your family lineage has served as Seelie consorts to Wild royalty for countless generations,” Brighthaven continues, producing an ancient scroll that unfurls like a death warrant written in golden ink. “Your bloodline proves... optimally suited for such prestigious responsibilities.”

I stare at the document—thirteen generations of my family bound to Wild Court royalty through consort bonds that looked like love but functioned like leashes.

Blood contracts sealed in magic older than memory.

Names I recognize from childhood stories, faces from family portraits, all of them chained to royal power through bonds they couldn’t break.

“Of course,” Amarantha continues, her nails—filed to surgical points that could open veins with casual touches—drumming against crystal with deliberate rhythm, “such extraordinarily prestigious appointments arrive with certain... expectations. Duties that transcend personal preference. Absolute loyalty to interests that matter.”

“What precisely are you requiring of me?” The words escape before I can craft them more carefully.

Amarantha’s expression transforms to something infinitely more dangerous.

Beautiful predator finally dropping the mask that pretended civilization.

“I’m not requiring anything, darling cousin.

I’m simply... explaining new realities.” She produces a slim black folder, placing it before me like a poisoned chalice offered with loving hands.

“Professor Morgan will receive appropriate guidance toward suitable Seelie alignment. Her magical development will serve our court’s enduring interests.

Her political inclinations will naturally favor our positions. ”

“And should she prove... resistant to such guidance?”

“Resistance becomes irrelevant when the guidance feels like her own authentic choices.” Amarantha’s voice drips honey laced with something that could stop hearts. “Consort bonds are such elegant solutions, cousin. Love that binds more thoroughly than chains ever could.”

The words crater my chest like artillery striking undefended ground. “You’re asking me to manipulate her thoughts. To corrupt her mind.”

“I’m asking you to serve your court with the same dedication your family has demonstrated for centuries.

” Her smile could cut diamonds into powder.

“Emotional manipulation disguised as devotion, magical suppression presented as protection, strategic guidance that feels like the whispers of her own heart. You’ll become her thoughts before she thinks them. Her choices before she makes them.”

My throat closes completely around words that won’t form. “You want me to control her.”

“I want you to love her so completely that she loses herself in your affection. I want you to serve your court and honor your family’s legacy.

” Amarantha’s perfume intensifies, becoming suffocating rather than seductive.

“Because the alternative would prove... catastrophically regrettable for everyone involved.”

The folder snaps open like a trap springing shut.

My mother’s handwriting stares back at me—elegant script I helped burn twenty years ago to protect her memory.

My father’s research notes, supposedly lost forever to fire and time.

Detailed documentation of treasonous work that should have been ash for millennia.

“Your beloved parents’ revolutionary research into court reunification,” she says with conversational lightness, as though discussing weather while holding loaded weapons.

“Such fascinating theories about healing the ancient divisions that keep us safely separated. Revolutionary ideas that certain traditionalist parties might consider... fundamentally seditious.”

My parents’ names carved from official history like tumors excised from healthy flesh. Their life’s work branded heretical by courts that feared change. Their graves forgotten by generations that never learned their contributions.

Ice floods my veins as understanding crystallizes. “Those texts were sealed by royal decree. Declared permanently lost.”

“Nothing remains truly lost forever, dearest cousin. Documents simply... relocate to more secure storage until circumstances require their resurrection.” Her smile turns absolutely predatory.

“I’ve been carefully preserving our family’s intellectual legacy.

Protecting you from the consequences of inherited revolutionary tendencies. ”

“What do you want?”