Page 61

ORION

Locked out. I’m fucking locked out.

The corridor presses against my ribs like a cage, each footfall reverberating through stone that trembles under my fury. My hands slam against the door again—wood groaning, hinges protesting—but the magical barriers hold.

She just waltzed in there with her head held high and locked us out.

Equal parts magnificent and infuriating.

How am I supposed to be a guardian if I can’t guard? How am I supposed to protect her when she throws herself into danger like it’s a Tuesday afternoon stroll?

“Please, for the love of the old gods, stop your pacing.” Finnian’s voice cuts through my spiral. He’s propped against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose like I’m giving him a migraine. “You’re wearing grooves in stone that’s stood for millennia.”

The oath mark splits open like a fresh burn, guardian magic clawing up my ribs in waves of useless fury.

Instead, I’m trapped out here like a dog left in the rain.

“Easy for you to say,” I growl, wheeling around. “Your blood doesn’t burn like wildfire every second she’s in danger?—”

A scream pierces through the magical barriers.

Her scream.

Fire scalds behind my ribs. The world narrows to that sound—raw, agonized, wrong. I tear at the door, nails splitting against wood, something between a growl and prayer tearing from my throat.

“Orion.” Finnian’s hands grab my shoulders.

“She’s burning alive in there.” I choke on the words. “And I’m standing here like stone. Useless.”

The oath mark sears beneath my skin—hotter than I’ve ever felt it. Like it wants to burn through the door if I can’t.

“No matter what you try,” he says quietly, though his careful composure wavers around the edges, “those doors won’t open for you. Perhaps we might have considered—though I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered, would it? When she sets her mind to something...”

And gods help me, I think I might shatter instead.

My forehead slams against the wood, breath heaving out in ragged pants. The oath mark feels like it’s eating through my flesh. “Never felt this hollow. Like someone carved out my chest and left me breathing around the wound.”

And that’s the truth that cuts deepest. Twenty-four years of guardian training, centuries of Wild Court combat mastery, and I’m useless when she needs me most.

Finnian’s silence stretches too long. When I roll my head along the door’s grain to look at him, his face has gone pale.

“Indeed,” he says quietly. “Perhaps we might take comfort in knowing the Morrigan is with her—though I suppose that raises as many questions as it answers, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp enough to cut. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

We couldn’t have changed her mind anyway. When Ashlynne Moonshadow decides something, mountains move or get moved. It’s one of the things that makes her magnificent.

And terrifying.

“Remember that time you fell into what you thought was a puddle?” I ask, desperate for distraction from the burning in my chest.

“Shut your oaf mouth.” Finn scolds, but there’s a ghost of a smile threatening his lips. “Though yes, I remember your complete failure to warn me properly.”

“There you were, walking beside me, and I told you—clearly told you—not to step in that puddle.” I point at him accusingly. “But did you listen?”

“I fell in,” he admits with a shudder. “Took me nearly two months to find my way out of that siren’s realm.”

“We were eating those fermented berries,” I add, grinning despite everything.

“Fae berries.” His expression turns wry. “Which explains why your warning sounded like ‘Hey Finn, definitely step in that obviously magical water.’“

“The point is,” I say, the humor draining out of me like water through sand, “I feel the exact same way now as I did then.”

Finnian’s head thuds back against the wall. He turns to study me with those amber eyes that see too much. “I didn’t realize the parallel ran quite so deep. Perhaps the helplessness then might offer some perspective on?—”

“Of course you didn’t.” I finally step away from the doors—they’re not letting us in, and the odds of her coming out this way are slim to none. “Come on. Standing here won’t help her.”

“Where are we going?” he asks, jogging to catch up as I stride down the corridor.

I don’t answer immediately, just give him a devilish smirk over my shoulder. “Curious, old man?”

“I am not old,” he grumbles. “And you’re evading my question with characteristic deflection.”

“I’d prefer not to talk about feelings.” Nasty business, those. Especially when they involve admitting that a woman I’ve known for days has managed to crawl under my skin and make herself at home.

“You brought it up,” he points out with irritating logic.

“Because that’s how I currently feel!” The words explode out of me. “Helpless. Useless. Like every instinct I was born with is screaming at me to protect her, and I’m failing spectacularly.”

Finnian’s expression softens. “The Morrigan is with her, which might offer some comfort if we understood what that truly means. Perhaps protection, perhaps guidance—or perhaps something else entirely that we’re not prepared to comprehend.”

I snort. “The Morrigan is hiding something.”

“Of course she is—battle goddesses specialize in concealment, don’t they? Layer upon layer of purpose hidden beneath what appears to be straightforward action.”

“Didn’t think we used those terms anymore. Not since the old ones—” I catch myself, glancing around the corridor. Academy walls have ears, and some conversations are too dangerous for casual spaces.

His brown eyes go wide with the same realization. “The old ones. The last time the four treasures were united...”

“Bite your tongue, Finnian.” I grip his shoulders, lowering my voice. “Not here.”

Recognition flashes between us. Whatever we’re dancing around, it’s bigger than court politics. Bigger than succession disputes.

“Master Tadhg,” I whisper, nearly dragging him toward the library.

But the Academy has other plans.

Around us, silence reigns like every fae is holding their breath, waiting for the wild bomb to detonate. The walls themselves seem to pulse with anticipation.

I’d intended to wait in her quarters—to be there when she returned, whatever state she might be in. But curiosity sings in my blood now, demanding answers to questions I’m afraid to ask.

The Academy shifts without warning, corridors spinning like a child’s toy. Walls darken, doors fade, reality rearranging itself with casual indifference to our preferences.

“Ah, the library calls,” Finn says with forced lightness.

But I’m not so sure. The space around us continues to change—stone becoming wood, crystal fixtures melting into firelight, the very air growing thick with old magic.

“This is not the library, old friend.”

“No,” he breathes, staring ahead. “It is not.”

A weathered door fades into existence—stone and wood that looks like it was pulled from the ocean floor and shaped by hands older than memory.

“Well, that looks ominous,” comes a childlike voice from directly behind us.

I’m not ashamed to admit that voice startles a small squeak out of me. Fae enough to own these things.

Finnian barely reacts. “Whispen.”

“At your service!” The little wisp beams with genuine delight, his needle-sharp teeth glinting. “What fun! You’ve wandered into exactly the right place at exactly the right time for maximum emotional devastation. Isn’t destiny wonderful?”

“Of course,” Whispen practically glows with pride when Finn gives him a look. “Hearts cracked open to truth always find their way to me eventually. I’m like a cosmic compass pointing toward all the answers that will definitely ruin your peaceful little lives! Isn’t that marvelous?”

“I am absolutely not going through that door,” Finn mutters.

“Where else will you go?” Whispen counters reasonably, tilting his translucent head. “The Academy’s already decided for you—resistance is wonderfully futile!”

Screw it. I stride forward—fine, I stomp a little, but guardian pride has limits—and push through the doorway.

The space beyond steals my breath. A fireplace crackles against stone walls, flames casting dancing shadows across leather furniture and hanging tapestries.

Whiskey sits on a low table, amber liquid catching the light.

The entire space feels like a cabin pulled from the heart of the Wild Court—primordial, comfortable, alive.

“Brilliant,” Master Tadhg mutters from his chair, not bothering to look up from his drink. “Centuries of scholars, millennia of supposedly clever fae minds, and it takes two lovesick puppies stumbling through ancient mysteries to piece together what should have been bloody obvious.”

“Figure what out?” I look between the old librarian and Finnian stepping in behind me.

“Oh, how delightful!” Whispen chirps with bright enthusiasm as he floats past us. “I’ll keep our precious Ash company while you embark on your surely-not-doomed journey! Don’t worry about the trials possibly shredding her soul—I’m excellent at collecting the pieces!”

The door slams shut before I can ask what he means by ‘away.’

I turn back to Tadhg, really looking at him for the first time. He’s not the scattered librarian he pretends to be. Forgotten weariness clings to him like a second skin, and his eyes hold depths that make my guardian instincts prickle with recognition.

“What are they doing to her in there?” The question rips from my throat before I can think to ask anything else.

Tadhg’s expression darkens with the sort of bitter satisfaction reserved for watching idiots prove themselves idiotic.

“Ironwood tables. Because naturally they’d use the one material that burns through protective magic like acid through parchment.

They’re systematically flaying away pieces of her essence, convinced they’re removing glamour.

” He takes a long drink. “Academic incompetence at its finest.”

“And?” Finnian prompts, though his face has gone pale.