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And that’s when the fear hits me. Pure, primal terror that if she falls apart, if she gives up, then everything we’ve fought for dies with her decision.

That’s when I say the words that will haunt me forever:

“You don’t get to fall apart. You’re the reason we’re here in the first place.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

“What?” Her voice is so small, so broken.

“You heard me.” The words keep coming, fueled by panic I can’t control. “We’re all here because of choices you made. Decisions that put us in this position. And now, when we need you to hold it together, you want to collapse?”

“Ash—”

“No. You don’t get to create this mess and then abandon us to clean it up. You’re stronger than this.”

“I’m not.” She’s sobbing now. “I’m not strong enough, Ash. I’m drowning and I need ? —”

“You need to figure it out. Because if you fall apart, we all die.”

The line goes quiet. When she speaks again, her voice is hollow.

“I thought... I thought you of all people would understand.”

“I understand that someone has to keep fighting. And if you won’t, then ? —”

“Then what? You’ll do it better? You’ll save everyone because you’re so much stronger than weak little Pepper?”

“That’s not what I ? —”

“Yes, it is.” Her voice hardens. “That’s exactly what you mean. Just like everyone else—blame Pepper when things go wrong.”

“Pepper, I didn’t mean ? —”

But the line’s already dead.

She doesn’t call back.

She doesn’t answer when I try to call her.

And three weeks later, when the crisis resolves and the dead aren’t dead and the world doesn’t end, I get a text:

“We survived. No thanks to you.”

That’s the last time any of them contact me.

That’s the moment I realize that the person I was most afraid of losing—I’d already lost her.

Because I chose fear over love. Blame over support. Control over connection.

I chose to hurt her rather than admit I was drowning too.

The projections end, but the stone isn’t finished with me. It forces the most devastating realization to the surface—the truth I’ve been hiding even from myself.

The worst part isn’t that I said those words.

The worst part is that I meant them.

In that moment, watching Pepper break down, I was furious at her for being human. For being vulnerable. For needing support instead of providing it.

I was angry at her for falling apart when I needed her to be strong.

And instead of admitting I was scared too, instead of saying “I’m drowning and I need you to throw me a rope,” I used the truth as a weapon.

I chose the cruelest honest words I could find.

That’s who I really am.

Someone who hurts people with truth instead of connecting through it.

Someone who uses honesty as a blade instead of a bridge.

Someone who chooses cruel truth over vulnerable truth every single time.

Two years. I’ve chosen to hurt the people I love most for two years—not by lying to them, but by refusing to trust them with difficult truths.

By choosing isolation over the risk of authentic connection.

By weaponizing my inability to lie instead of using it to build something real.

That’s not love. That’s cowardice wearing honesty’s face.

Just like everything else I do.

The projection ends. I collapse.

Not gracefully. Not quietly. I hit stone with the wet sound of breaking, blood flowing from nose, ears, mouth. My body convulses, consciousness flickering like a dying flame.

Around me, the chamber erupts. Sensitive Fae collapse from experiencing my projected emotions. Court members weep openly. Crystal fixtures crack, damage spreading through ancient stone like spider webs.

“Get up,” I tell myself, but nothing obeys.

The Truth Stone sits dark and satisfied beside my broken form.

But the worst part isn’t the audience reaction. It’s the silence from the gallery.

When I finally manage to lift my head, fighting through waves of nausea and disorientation, I see them.

Kieran sits like a statue carved from winter itself, shadows writhing around him in patterns so violent they’re carving gouges in the stone floor.

When our eyes meet across the distance, I see something that destroys me more than the Truth Stone ever could.

Not horror. Not disgust. But absolute, devastating understanding.

He recognizes the pattern—the way I weaponize truth, the way I hurt people when I’m afraid, the way I choose cruelty over vulnerability.

He sees exactly who I am. And the look in his eyes isn’t love anymore. It’s pity.

But just before I break eye contact, something flickers behind the frost. Not pity.

Not exactly. For the barest second, I see it: the part of him that wants to destroy the world for what it’s doing to me.

The part that doesn’t care about laws or courts or fate—just that I’m in agony and he can’t reach me.

His mask slips, and in that slip is something unspoken, furious, and raw.

Then it’s gone. Frost reasserts. Shadows settle. But I saw it.

In the Wild Court section, Orion is bleeding from dozens of small wounds where he’s been fighting the guardian oath.

His entire body trembles with the effort of staying seated while every instinct screams to protect me.

But when I meet his gaze, I see the moment my revelations hit him.

The understanding that I’m not just someone who’s been hurt—I’m someone who hurts others.

And Finnian—god, Finnian looks like he’s aged decades in the space of minutes.

His composure has crumbled completely, amber eyes wide with devastation as he watches me being torn apart.

But there’s something else there too. Disappointment.

The realization that the woman he’s been falling for doesn’t actually exist—just another carefully constructed manipulation wrapped around something too damaged to be real.

“How fascinating,” the Morrigan murmurs with ancient satisfaction. “The candidate fears authentic connection not from weakness, but from the devastating certainty that she remains fundamentally unworthy of love without conditions.”

“No,” I try to say, but the stone makes it impossible. The word dies in my throat, replaced by choking truth.

“Don’t know how to be loved without being useful.” My voice cracks despite every effort to stay steady. “I don’t know how to let people see the real me without them running.”

The admission tears from my chest like a physical wound. In front of hundreds of High Fae, in front of the three men I’m falling in love with, I’ve just confessed that I don’t believe myself lovable.

“And these bonds you’ve cultivated with such careful precision?” The Morrigan continues. “Tell me how they serve this exquisite fear you’ve nurtured like a poisonous garden.”

“They don’t know me.” The words spill out before I can stop them, truth compulsion making resistance impossible.

“Kieran knows my intensity but not my shame. Finnian knows my mind but not my guilt. Orion knows my potential but not my failures. Been giving them pieces because I’m terrified that if any of them saw the whole picture, they’d realize I’m not worth the effort. ”

The silence that follows is devastating. Complete and absolute quiet as my words echo through the chamber, carried by magical acoustics that ensure every syllable reaches every ear.

Can’t look at them. Can’t bear to see the expressions on their faces as they process what I’ve just revealed.

That I’ve been too afraid to trust them with who I really am.

That I’ve been protecting myself by keeping them at emotional arm’s length even while my body burned for their touch.

That I’ve been hurting them the same way I’ve been hurting my family—by choosing isolation over the risk of authentic connection.

“The trial is complete,” the Morrigan announces, her voice cutting through my breakdown with ancient authority. “The candidate has answered truthfully. Her worthiness for the crown will be determined by?—”

“Wait.” The voice cuts across the chamber with military authority that makes every Fae present go rigid with attention.

I turn toward the sound, though movement feels like swimming through molasses, and see figures entering through the main doors.

Colonel Graves strides into the chamber flanked by a full military escort, tactical gear announcing their readiness for violence.

Behind them, I spot Davis—looking like hell but alive—and several other agents I recognize from POD operations.

In Davis’s hand, something glints silver. The stone key from Litvak’s mission, its ancient power the only thing that could breach Academy wards.

“This is neutral territory,” Master Valeborn protests, rising from his seat among the Academy faculty. “You have no authority here.”

“We have a right to representation,” Graves replies, his steel-blue eyes finding mine across the distance. “If you’re going to judge our asset, humanity deserves a voice in that judgment.”

“Asset.” The word hits like a tactical strike to the chest. After everything I just bled in front of these people, he still sees inventory. Still sees property that belongs to him.

The chamber erupts into chaos around me, but I can barely process it.

I’m still connected to the Truth Stone, still broadcasting every emotion as they crash through me in overwhelming waves.

Terror at seeing Graves. Relief that Davis is alive.

Rage at being called an “asset” in front of people who’ve seen my soul.

Shame at being so vulnerable while military personnel evaluate my fitness for continued operation.

The Truth Stone pulses one final time, then goes dark.

The magical compulsion releases me so suddenly I collapse forward, hands scraping against stone as my legs give out completely.

Blood pools beneath my palms where my nails have torn away from gripping the stone.

My entire body convulses with the aftershocks of magical violation.

Every nerve ending feels flayed, every emotion too bright and sharp to bear.

In the sudden silence that follows, I hear footsteps approaching the dais.

“Agent Morgan.” Graves’s voice carries decades of command authority, but something softer bleeds through—concern for a broken weapon he trained. “You look... different. Exposed.”

I try to respond—soldier to commanding officer, asset to handler. But nothing comes out except a sound that might’ve been tactical surrender. Or a declaration of war.

I am shattered. Completely, utterly destroyed. Every defense stripped away. Every lie exposed. Every relationship poisoned by my own revelations.

The worst part isn’t the pain. It’s the shame.

Not the manufactured shame of exposure—but the echoing realization that I’m still asking the same questions I had at fifteen.

Will they still want me?

Am I lovable if I’m not useful?

What if I’ve always been too much or never enough?

But poison’s only deadly if you swallow it.

And I’m done drinking lies—theirs or mine.

I may be shattered. But broken glass cuts deeper than any blade they’ve forged. And I know exactly where to aim.