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“Circumstances evolved,” Lord Malachar responds, his voice like grinding stone that makes Academy walls vibrate in response.

Shadows flicker around his form—not true darkness like mine, but the pale imitation of courtiers who’ve never bled for their power.

“As does our understanding of Academy... curriculum.”

His gaze shifts to Ash with calculating hunger that makes wildfire detonate through my sternum—ancient, primal, completely at odds with centuries of royal training. My shadows respond violently, reaching toward her with protective desperation that I barely manage to contain.

He reaches for her. Casually. Like she’s his property to examine.

I move before conscious thought, slipping between them on instinct and strategy both. Frost explodes outward from my position, covering Academy stones in patterns that speak of barely controlled violence.

“Touch her,” I say, voice dropping to silk wrapped around steel, “and I will tear your arm from its socket and feed it to the Academy’s protective spirits.”

The words carry more than threat—they carry absolute certainty backed by power that makes the air itself recoil.

He laughs. Nervous. A brittle sound meant to test whether I’m bluffing about committing violence against a fellow court representative.

I’m not.

I don’t look at him. I look at her, memorizing the way light catches in her eyes, the defiant tilt of her chin that speaks of royal bloodline finally awakening to its own authority.

Someone behind me mutters, “She is not yours to guard.”

“No,” I say, gaze still fixed on Ash while shadows writhe around my ankles like supportive chains. “She is mine to destroy if I want to.”

A pause. A breath. A choice that will define everything that comes after.

“And I do not want to.”

I see it—the way she absorbs the words like a blade between her ribs, recognition flashing across her features before royal composure reasserts itself. The way her pulse jumps in her throat as she processes what I’ve just declared publicly.

It should feel like protection.

It doesn’t.

Not to her. Not when spoken like ownership rather than alliance.

And gods help me, that might be the only reason I said it exactly that way.

“Professor Morgan,” Lady Amarantha continues with false warmth, though I notice her step back slightly as my magical pressure builds to levels that make breathing difficult.

Light wavers around her form as she recalculates threat assessments.

“What an interesting demonstration you provided. So... illuminating.”

Ash meets their attention with soldier’s composure, but I catch the way her pulse jumps in her throat as she recognizes predators circling for the kill. Her own power responds to the threat, thorn patterns beneath her skin flaring brighter in preparation for combat.

“Gentlemen. Lady.” Her voice stays level despite the magical pressure bearing down on her from three directions. Royal training surfacing without conscious thought. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Questions,” the Wild Court representative speaks for the first time—a woman whose voice carries the sound of wind through ancient forests, earth magic that makes Academy foundations hum in recognition. “About bloodlines. About heritage. About claims that require... verification.”

The word verification makes ice crystallize in my veins, freezing blood that’s still flowing from my nose and ears. Court euphemism for psychological torture designed to break minds and extract truth from the wreckage. The same procedures that destroyed my mother.

Master Valeborn steps forward, Academy authority radiating from his deceptively calm form as wards continue failing around us with audible cracks. “The Academy maintains strict protocols regarding guest faculty. Any concerns should be addressed through proper diplomatic channels?—”

“The Academy’s neutrality died the moment she manifested royal Wild Court magic,” Lord Malachar interrupts, shadows reaching toward Academy walls like testing fingers. “Protocols change when ancient bloodlines return from extinction.”

Stone continues cracking under temperature stress as my frost spreads further, physical manifestation of internal conflict that anyone with magical training can read like text.

“Indeed.” Lady Amarantha’s smile could cut glass, light bending around her in patterns that suggest imminent violence. “The situation requires... immediate resolution. For everyone’s safety.”

The shadow-link flares to life again, agony tearing through my skull as my father’s voice burns through my consciousness with renewed urgency. Blood flows faster from both nostrils as the psychic intrusion tears through already damaged neural pathways.

The delegations report resistance. End it. Bring her to the interrogation chamber. Personally.

Each word hits like a physical blow delivered by invisible fists.

Sweat beads across my forehead despite the supernatural cold radiating from my skin as I fight compulsion woven into three centuries of absolute obedience.

My spine locks rigid as muscle memory and magical conditioning scream submission to royal will.

Students notice my sudden stillness, the way frost patterns become more erratic as internal war plays out through environmental magic. Faculty members exchange glances, recognizing symptoms of forced psychic contact but unable to intervene.

But something else fights back—something that tastes like winter storms and smells like wild magic. Something that recognizes Ash as worth more than throne or crown or centuries of careful political positioning.

Kieran. His voice carries warning now, pressure building until my vision blurs with pain and blood loss. Your silence grows... concerning. Report status immediately.

My hands shake violently as royal command wars against protective instinct, shadows writhing around my feet like living creatures in agony.

“Your Highness?” Lord Malachar’s attention shifts to me, noting my sudden stillness, the way blood now flows freely from my nose and ears. “Is there something you need to communicate?”

Perfect political opening. Perfect excuse to comply with royal command and deliver her to the interrogation chamber that destroyed my mother.

Perfect moment to choose between everything I’ve worked toward for twenty years and everything I’m becoming.

Weeks until Kestra’s freedom. Weeks until the bargain that bought her life with my soul finally pays off.

I glance at Ash—thorns pulsing beneath her skin, chin raised in defiant challenge to three courts. She has no idea that her life stands between me and everything I’ve sacrificed two decades to achieve.

Through the fading shadow-link, I feel my father’s satisfaction as he assumes I’ll choose the rational path. As he expects twenty years of conditioning to override momentary conscience when victory is so close.

But I think of Kestra’s research. Her absolute faith that there are always better solutions than the ones people accept. Her belief that I would never sacrifice innocents, no matter the cost.

What would she say if she knew the price of her freedom was feeding someone else to the machine that killed our mother?

The answer settles in my chest like certainty: She’d rather wait.

My sister, who believes in impossible solutions and finding third options, would rather remain captive than know I’d betrayed everything she thinks I am.

Instead of the rational choice, I choose the right one.

“Royal protocol, bright-thorn,” comes a whisper that makes my blood sing with recognition of something ancient beyond court politics. “Queens do not answer summons. They grant audiences. Never let them set the terms.”

The blue radiance suddenly blazes brighter as its source chooses to reveal himself to everyone watching, light cutting through Academy atmosphere like a blade made of captured starlight.

Complete silence stretches across the Academy grounds—the kind of quiet that comes before avalanches or earthquakes.

A translucent boy floats beside Ash, his needle-sharp teeth gleaming in blue light that pulses with power older than the courts themselves. Will-o’-wisp. Species that went extinct when the courts divided. Myth made flesh floating in Academy airspace.

Then Lord Malachar stumbles backward, shadows recoiling from the blue light like they’ve been burned by actual fire.

His carefully maintained composure cracks completely as intelligence assumptions crumble in real-time.

“Impossible.” His voice breaks with shock and recognition of how wrong their information has been. “Will-o’-wisps are?—”

“Extinct?” The creature grins, blue light strobing with amusement that makes Academy crystals ring in harmony. “How wonderfully wrong you are about so many things.”

Lady Amarantha’s composed mask shatters completely, violet eyes wide with horror as she stares at something that shouldn’t exist. Light wavers around her form as magical control fragments under psychological shock.

Several court representatives take involuntary steps backward, their careful formation dissolving as extinct species rewrites tactical assessments.

“That is...” She can’t finish the sentence, royal composure obliterated by impossible reality.

“The ONLY,” the Will-o’-wisp corrects with cheerful pride that makes nearby flowers bloom out of season. “Soul-keeper to the royal Moonshadow line. Bound by oaths older than your courts, deeper than your politics, stronger than your fears.”

Faculty members in the observation galleries gasp audibly, their understanding of magical history rewriting itself in real-time. Students crane their necks for better views of something that exists in textbooks as legend rather than living fact.

The political implications hit like earthquake tremors—if one extinct species survived the court wars, what else might their carefully maintained intelligence have gotten catastrophically wrong?