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When his golden eyes meet mine, I see the exact moment he takes in my state—mussed hair, yesterday’s clothes, the subtle glow that apparently announces recent sexual satisfaction to anyone with magical senses.

His mask slips for just a moment, and I see the man beneath—the one who spent the night preparing ways to save me while I was discovering new ways to want someone else.

The one whose careful distance can’t hide the way his thumb drags across his lower lip, slow and unconscious, like he’s trying to keep dangerous words from escaping.

But there’s something else in his expression. Not just pain, but... resolution? Like he’s decided about something while I was gone.

“Ash.” His voice carries careful neutrality. “Whispen said you’d need help preparing for the trials.”

“I do.” The words come out smaller than intended. “If you’re willing.”

He steps back, gesturing me inside. “Of course.”

The study room has been transformed into a war room. Ancient texts lie open across every surface, their pages glowing with activated knowledge. Maps of Fae political structures cover the walls. A timeline of Wild Court history stretches from floor to ceiling.

“How long have you been here?” I ask, taking in the scope of his preparation.

“Since dawn.” He moves to a table covered in legal scrolls, not quite looking at me. “The Trial of Truth has specific precedents, particular procedures. I wanted to ensure you understood what you’re walking into.”

The careful distance in his voice cuts deeper than anger would have. He’s compartmentalizing, pushing aside whatever he feels about my night with Kieran to focus on helping me survive today.

“Finnian.” I step closer, close enough to catch his scent—bergamot and old books and something essentially him that makes my ribs ache. “About last night?—”

“You don’t owe me explanations.” His honey-colored gaze finally meets mine, though something vulnerable flickers there before he masks it. “Your choices are your own—perhaps that’s what makes them matter more than obligations ever could.”

“But I want to explain.”

“Do you?” The question carries weight. “Or do you want to assuage guilt that serves no purpose here?”

The brutal honesty stops me cold. He’s right—whatever I say about last night won’t change what happened. Won’t erase the fact that I chose Kieran’s bed over... whatever might have developed between us.

“You’re right,” I admit. “I can’t explain it away. But I can tell you that it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

His thumb traces his bottom lip, that unconscious gesture that makes my stomach flutter. “How do you feel about me?”

The question hangs between us, weighted with possibility and danger. Truth constraints make lying impossible, but honesty feels like walking off a cliff.

Who am I without the way they look at me? The question makes the ground tilt beneath my feet. For twenty-eight years, I’ve been what others needed—soldier, weapon, ghost. But with them, I’m becoming someone I don’t recognize. Someone who might be worth choosing.

“Like you see me.” The words catch in my throat. “Not the soldier they made me. Not the heir they want me to be. Just... me. And that’s terrifying and amazing and I don’t know what to do with it.”

Because what if the ‘real me’ isn’t worth keeping once they see all of it?

His careful composure cracks. “Ash...”

“I know this is complicated. I know I’m making everything harder by not choosing?—”

“This isn’t about choosing.” He crosses to me. “This is about surviving today. About understanding what the Trial of Truth will demand from you.”

The shift back to practical matters feels like both relief and loss.

“Tell me,” I say, settling into the chair he indicates.

“Three questions,” he begins. “Asked by representatives from each court, designed to test not just honesty but the depth of that honesty. Surface truth isn’t enough—they’ll dig until they reach the core of who you are.”

My stomach clenches. “What kind of questions?”

“Fears. Desires. Loyalties. Sacrifices.” He retrieves a bound manuscript, pages marked with careful annotations. “Questions designed to expose your fundamental nature, your fitness to wield royal power.”

“And if I can’t answer honestly enough?”

“Magical backlash. Severed bonds. Potentially death, depending on how violently the truth constraints react to evasion.” His voice stays clinically detached, but I catch the way his thumb brushes across those full lips—an unconscious tell I’m starting to recognize.

“The trial is designed to strip away every pretense, every defense, every comfortable lie we tell ourselves.”

The scope of it hits me like a physical blow. Not just proving my bloodline—proving my soul is worthy of the power that comes with it.

“How do I prepare for something like that?”

“By practicing honesty. By examining your own motivations until you understand them completely.” He opens the manuscript to a page covered in sample questions. “By facing the truths you’ve been avoiding.”

I read the first question and my vision tunnels: What do you fear most about accepting your crown?

The answer rises immediately, unbidden and terrifying: That loving you—all of you—means I’ll have to sacrifice you.

“This is what they’ll do,” I breathe. “Force me to admit things I’ve barely admitted to myself.”

“Yes.” His voice goes gentle. “Which is why we practice. Why we examine every fear, every desire, every contradiction until they hold no power to surprise you.”

He settles into the chair across from me, manuscript between us like a bridge. “Shall we begin?”

For the next three hours, Finnian dissects my psyche—but not in the clinical way I expected.

“Let’s start with fears,” he says, settling back in his chair with the manuscript open between us. “The trial will probe deepest anxieties first, when your defenses are strongest.”

“What do you fear most about accepting your crown?” He reads the question like it’s written in my file.

The truth feels like glass in my mouth, but the lie would taste like ash. I’ve spent my life swallowing both.

The answer rises immediately, visceral and terrifying. “That loving you—all of you—means I’ll have to sacrifice you.” My voice breaks. “That being queen means losing the only people who’ve ever made me feel human.”

The admission makes the thorns beneath my skin pulse with anxious fire. Across from me, the amber in Finnian’s eyes brightens in response, his magic recognizing my vulnerability even when his voice stays steady.

His golden gaze flicks up from the page. “Explain.”

“Queens don’t get to keep personal attachments. They sacrifice individual happiness for the greater good. They make choices that destroy the people closest to them.” My throat closes. “I’m terrified that becoming who I’m supposed to be means losing who I want to be.”

“And who do you want to be?”

“Someone who gets to choose love over duty. Someone who doesn’t have to sacrifice the people who matter for political necessity.”

He makes a note, but his expression has shifted to something gentler. “Next question. What do you desire most?”

This one’s harder. Desire feels dangerous, selfish. “I don’t know.”

“The trial won’t accept I don’t know, Ash. It will keep probing until you break.”

I close my eyes, trying to reach past the careful walls I’ve built. “Belonging.” The word comes out like a prayer I didn’t know I needed to say. “I want to belong to people who’ve seen me at my worst and still want me around when I’m better.”

“Even with your power? Your responsibilities?”

“Especially with them.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

“I want someone—fuck, multiple someones—who look at all of it.” My voice cracks with want.

“The crown, the thorns, the impossible choices that’ll probably break me.

And still say ‘yes, her, even broken, even impossible, we choose her.’“

My desire doesn’t diminish me. It defines me. And I’m done apologizing for the shape of my heart.

When I open my eyes, his gaze holds something that makes my spine straighten. His thumb traces across his lower lip again, and I realize he’s been doing it this whole conversation—every time I say something that makes him want to close the distance between us.

“The trial will ask about specific attachments,” he says quietly. “About us. About what we mean to you.”

Blood pounds in my ears. “What kind of questions?”

“Which bond do you trust least, and why? What would you sacrifice to protect those you love? How do you reconcile divided loyalties?”

Each question hits like a physical blow. “I assumed they’d force me to rank you. To choose between you based on political necessity.”

“Possibly.” He leans forward, honey-colored eyes intense. “Which is why we need to examine these feelings now, while you have time to understand them.”

“I can’t choose between you.” The admission comes out raw, unfiltered. “It’s not tactical analysis—it’s just... I can’t fucking rank what you each mean to me. But I thought... I assumed I’d have to.”

“Then don’t. But understand why you can’t. Understand what each connection offers that the others don’t.”

The next hour becomes the most emotionally raw conversation of my life.

“Tell me about Kieran,” Finnian says, and there’s only the faintest tightness around his eyes to betray how much the question costs him. His thumb drags across his lip again, slower this time.

“He sees the darkness in me and isn’t afraid. When I’m with him, I don’t have to pretend to be softer than I am. He matches my intensity, challenges it, makes it feel like strength instead of flaw.”

As I explain what Kieran offers, frost patterns bloom across the manuscript between us—my magic remembering his touch even here.

“And physically?”

The blunt question makes me squirm. “He makes me feel powerful. Desired. Like he’d burn down kingdoms just to touch me.”

“Is that what you want? To be desired like that?”