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“The protections woven into her essence as an infant aren’t glamour—they’re survival magic. Part of her very DNA. Trying to tear them away...” He pauses to savor his whiskey like a man who’s seen too much. “Like trying to remove someone’s skeleton while they’re still alive.”

My knees nearly buckle. The oath mark feels like it’s burning through bone. “How long can she survive that?”

“If the Morrigan hadn’t arrived when she did? Minutes. As it is...” He shrugs with false casualness that doesn’t hide the worry in his ancient eyes. “The damage may already be done.”

“The barriers,” I breathe, comprehension flooding through me like ice water. “They’re not just keeping us out.”

“They’re containing the magical forces being used inside,” Tadhg confirms grimly. “Break them now, and the backlash could shred her mind completely. The only thing worse than what they’re doing to her would be interrupting it.”

Helplessness claws up from my bones. Every instinct screams to tear down those doors, but doing so might kill her faster than leaving her to face it alone.

“What is this place?” Finnian asks, clearly trying to process something beyond immediate horror.

Tadhg grunts in non-answer, shuffling to an old wooden table where a massive book lies open. Pages flutter on their own, settling on an illustration that makes my blood run cold.

A woman stands at the center, holding a cup that glows with inner light. Around her, the four treasures pulse with power that seems to leap off the page.

“What am I looking at?” I move closer, the oath mark in my hand burning hotter.

He doesn’t answer—typical for an old fae. Instead, he settles into his chair with a glass of amber liquid, staring into the fire like it holds answers I’m too young to understand.

“What were you bringing Finnian to the library for?” he prompts with deceptive casualness.

The question hits differently now, weighted with implications I can’t quite grasp.

“The Morrigan,” I say slowly, pieces clicking together like tumblers in a lock. “She’s the last of the Tuatha Dé Danann that actually walks among us. And it seemed odd. We have these legends, these stories our younglings think are myths. Yet she exists.”

“Meddling old witch,” Tadhg mutters into his drink with the exasperation of personal experience. “Faerie. Gah!”

I exchange a look with Finnian. There’s something in the old fae’s tone—familiarity, irritation, the kind that comes from centuries of shared history.

“Tír Tairngire,” Tadhg whispers like a prayer or a curse. “Keep going, flame lord.”

The encouragement sends unease crawling up my spine. I sink onto the couch—wood creaking ominously under my weight—and try to organize thoughts that keep slipping away like smoke.

“The Morrigan is the only one linking legend to reality,” Finnian begins pacing. “Perhaps she serves as proof that our myths aren’t myths at all, but history deliberately obscured.”

“Keep going,” Tadhg encourages with growing satisfaction.

“Where are the others?” The question falls from Finn’s lips like stone into still water.

“Ah.” Tadhg’s approval carries weight. “Now you’re asking the right questions.”

“The Morrigan proves our myths are real,” I say slowly, understanding dawning like a cold sunrise. “So where are the rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann? They were supposed to be sleeping, like her.”

“They drank from the cauldron,” Finn says, his voice barely above a whisper.

The artifact beneath my skin pulses in response, recognizing its name.

“Finally.” Tadhg sets down his glass with sharp satisfaction. “The cauldron allows the immortals a chance at new life.”

“Wait.” I lean forward, pieces clicking together in ways that make my chest tight. “What are you saying?”

“Have you not figured it out yet, flame lord?” The title sounds different now—less mocking, more recognition of something ancient and binding. “The old ones have two choices when they grow weary of immortality. Sleep to reset their minds... or drink from the cauldron.”

I press a hand to my chest where the cauldron lives beneath my flesh, feeling its power pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat.

“What happens if they drink?” Finnian’s voice carries fascination warring with growing dread.

“They simply forget.” Tadhg raises his hands as if the answer should be obvious. “See, the old ones—the Tuatha—did not die as mortals do, for they were born of the earth itself.”

His gaze finds mine, and I see Ash in that description. Born of earth and forgotten magic, power flowing through her like water through stone.

“And with time, their minds soured,” he continues with the weariness of someone who’s witnessed millennia. “Immortality is not the gift mortals imagine. So the Dagda created the cauldron of life—but it’s not life it gives in the traditional sense.”

“It’s forgetting,” Finn breathes, sinking into a chair.

“Indeed. At the thousand-year mark, a fae mind begins to fracture. Many sleep for decades or centuries, waking when they’re needed most.” Tadhg’s eyes hold depths that make me suddenly uncertain who I’m really talking to. “But some chose a different path.”

“You’re implying that the Tuatha live among us,” I say slowly, comprehension crashing over me. “They’ve just... forgotten who they were.”

“Is that so hard to believe?” He gestures around the cabin that shouldn’t exist, magic thrumming in the walls like a heartbeat. “They walk among you, their divine nature buried beneath new identities, new lives. Until something triggers the memories.”

“What does this have to do with Ash?” The question tears from my throat.

“There you go, boy.” He refills his glass, movements carrying ritual weight.

“The treasures aren’t just weapons or artifacts.

They’re living echoes of their makers—of the land itself.

Falias and the stone, forged by Morfesa.

Gorias and the spear, forged by Esras. Findias and the sword, forged by Uiscias. And Murias...”

His gaze finds mine, heavy with meaning that makes my guardian blood sing with recognition.

“The cauldron, forged by Semias. Each one a shard of the divine. You don’t carry them—they carry you.”

The truth hangs in the air like incense, thick and choking. My hand moves involuntarily to my chest.

“And Ash,” he continues, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, “once the treasures are reunited, their true power returns. The four cities will rise. The cauldron refills with its original purpose.” He tosses back his drink. “And that’s why they’ll try to kill her.”

“But that’s good,” I protest, though the words feel hollow. “Restoration, reunion, healing the divisions between courts?—”

“Because, dear boy, when the treasures reunite and the cities rise...” His voice becomes ash and memory. “They also allow the Old Gods to remember who they are.”

The implications crash over me like a mountain falling.

Not just gods returning—but her becoming one of them. No longer ours. No longer mine.

I close my eyes against the sudden, brutal image—Ash standing apart. Distant. Divine. Her eyes no longer soft with wanting, but cold with purpose.

I’d burn every court to ash to keep her breathing.

But holding onto someone becoming a god? I press my palms against my eyes. “That’s not love—that’s selfishness wearing love’s face.”

“Everything changes,” Finnian whispers.

“Everything ends,” Tadhg corrects with bitter certainty. “The courts as you know them. The careful balance we’ve maintained. The very structure of fae society.” His weathered eyes find mine. “And the bonds you’re building with the changeling? When gods remember they’re gods...”

He doesn’t need to finish. I can see it in Finn’s pale face, feel it in the way my guardian oath burns with sudden desperation.

But then something else clicks into place. “The missing settlements,” I say suddenly, my blood turning to ice. “Seventeen Wild Court communities gone silent in the past month.”

Tadhg’s expression darkens further. “Ah. You’ve noticed.”

“Someone’s been systematically eliminating your people, Orion,” Finnian says, his face pale with comprehension. “And I think we both know why.”

“They’re clearing the field,” I breathe, recognition crashing over me like wildfire. “Before she fully awakens. The Wild Court families would recognize royal blood on sight—they could verify her legitimacy, rally to her cause.”

“Clever strategy,” Tadhg says grimly. “Kill off the Wild Court’s traditional support structure before the heir awakens fully. Leave her isolated, surrounded by court representatives who have everything to lose if she succeeds.”

The guardian oath burns with sudden fury. Not just protective instinct, but recognition of cosmic betrayal. My entire people, murdered to prevent this moment.

“How many are left?” The question tears from my throat.

“Scattered survivors. A few hidden communities. The Academy’s Wild Court students.” Tadhg’s eyes find mine with ancient sympathy. “You, flame lord. You and the handful of guardians who made it to neutral ground.”

“I’m not just the last guardian,” I breathe, comprehension crashing over me like a tidal wave. “I’m the last witness. The last one who remembers what we were before they started hunting us.”

“And she,” Tadhg gestures to the illustration, “is the last hope for your people’s survival. If she dies in those trials...”

“The Wild Court dies with her.” The words taste like ash and endings.

“That’s why the courts are cooperating. They’re not just threatened by her individually—she represents the return of an entire power structure they’ve spent centuries suppressing.” Finnian breathes.

“The Morrigan,” I say suddenly. “She’s not just testing Ash. She’s the last of the old guard too. If something happens to her...”

“Then there’s no one left who remembers how things were before the courts divided,” Tadhg confirms. “No one to guide the awakening. No one to teach the heir what she truly is.”

The oath mark flares with searing clarity. This isn’t about romance or even personal protection. This is about the survival of everything my bloodline was created to preserve.

When Ash fulfills her destiny, when she becomes who she’s meant to be...

We might lose her completely. But worse—if we fail, the Wild Court dies with her.

“The question, flame lord,” Tadhg says quietly, “is what you’re willing to sacrifice to keep her. And what you’re willing to become to be worthy of what she’s becoming.”

The fire crackles in the silence, casting shifting shadows that look like the end of everything I’ve ever known.

And all I can think about is the woman facing trials alone, unaware that saving our world might mean losing any chance of the life—the love—we’re just beginning to build. Unaware that she carries the hopes of every Wild Court family that’s been systematically destroyed to prevent this moment.

The guardian oath settles into my bones with deadly purpose. This isn’t just about love anymore.

This is about survival. Justice. War.

And I’m done fighting defensively.