Page 81

KIERAN

The summons burns through my consciousness like ice picks driven through my skull.

Return. Immediately. —King Moros

My father’s mental intrusion nearly sends me to my knees, shadow magic recoiling as the Spear burns against my ribs until I taste copper in my mouth.

The ancient weapon recognizes injustice the way steel recognizes a whetstone—with violent resonance that threatens to tear me apart from the inside.

The throne room materializes around me as shadow-walking deposits me at father’s feet. Literally. My knees hit marble before conscious thought catches up, joints locking in genuflection I didn’t choose.

The room smells like jasmine and rot.

Everything is too soft. Too perfect. Like being embalmed in silk.

I don’t trust softness anymore.

Not when it’s the last thing you feel before they shove the knife in.

King Moros sits carved from winter itself—ice-blue eyes holding depths that reflect nothing, midnight hair swept back from features that could have been hewn from glacial stone. My shadows pool at my feet like beaten dogs while frost spreads from his throne in patterns too perfect to be natural.

This is what I was raised to be.

Silent. Obedient. Strategically useful.

A weapon honed to serve a legacy that was never mine to choose.

I used to think I could do it. That loyalty was survival, and love was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

Then Ash bled for truth—and made me want the luxury anyway.

“My heir returns,” he says conversationally, though frost spreads from his throne with each word. “How... illuminating the recent trial proved to be.”

I rise slowly, shadows gathering around my boots in defensive patterns that feel pathetic against his overwhelming presence.

The tone isn’t what I expected—not fury, but something far more dangerous.

Satisfaction. Heat sears through my shirt where the Spear presses against bone, and my next breath comes out as visible mist.

“Father.”

“Sit,” he commands, gesturing to a chair that materializes from ice. The cold seeps through my clothes instantly, another layer of control designed to remind me exactly how powerless I am in his presence.

“We have much to discuss about your recent... intelligence gathering.”

My spine goes rigid as documents materialize in his hands, each page bearing my own precise script. Shadows pool around my boots like beaten animals while frost spreads across the floor in jagged patterns that mirror the fury I cannot contain.

“You provided excellent information,” Father begins, reviewing my whispered intelligence with predatory satisfaction. “The human’s iron suppression efforts. Her obsessive attachment. The systematic poisoning disguised as care.”

Air stops moving in my lungs. “You knew what I was telling you.”

“I suspected. You confirmed.” His smile holds no warmth, only calculated precision that makes my blood turn to ice water. “Your whispered intelligence allowed me to expose the human manipulation in the most politically advantageous manner possible.”

Understanding settles into my stomach like swallowed glass. “You used the information to save her.”

“I used the information to serve Unseelie interests.” His ice-blue eyes meet mine with clinical detachment that could freeze hellfire itself. “Exposing human deception while appearing reasonable. Demonstrating Unseelie superiority in recognizing truth while building political capital.”

“You saved her to control the narrative.”

“I saved her to control you. Just as I did with Kestra twenty years ago.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Twenty years.

The contract. The bargain I made to save my sister’s life, trading my freedom for her safety.

My hands clench at my sides, shadows writhing The geometric designs scream my emotional state to the empty throne room, but I can’t control them.

Can’t hide the way his words are tearing me apart.

“My contract expires in weeks,” I say through a throat gone tight. “Not months. Weeks. You are running out of time to own me.”

His smile turns predatory. “Am I? How fortunate that I have found new... motivation for your continued service.”

Breath abandons my lungs in a violent rush. The Spear flares with such violent heat that sweat breaks across my forehead despite the arctic air. Twenty years of careful maneuvering, of thinking I was protecting her through intelligence gathering, and I’ve been his weapon all along.

Father rises, moving to a window that shows the Academy grounds below. Even his movement carries calculated grace designed to intimidate. “Three centuries of perfect obedience, and suddenly my heir develops unauthorized emotional attachments. Fascinating timing.”

“The attachment is not unauthorized if you helped facilitate it.”

“Precisely.” His laugh could freeze blood in living veins, and I watch frost form on the window glass where his breath touches it. “By appearing to support her, I gain leverage over your choices. By exposing human manipulation, I become the reasonable party who acts in her best interests.”

The Spear’s heat settles into steady warmth—ancient power recognizing injustice.

“What do you want?” I ask.

Father turns from the window. Shadows flee to the corners like living things seeking escape.

“Your continued service. Your absolute loyalty.” He settles onto his throne with the satisfaction of a predator who’s cornered his prey. “Twenty years of perfect obedience, and you thought you had earned freedom? How naive.”

Ice spreads across the floor from my feet. Understanding crystallizes with brutal clarity. “You orchestrated this. The timing, her arrival, everything—you knew my contract was ending.”

“I orchestrated an opportunity. You provided the attachment.” His smile could freeze hellfire itself. “Everything you feel for her exists because I permitted it.”

“Now, let us discuss what the Truth Stone actually revealed,” Father continues, settling back onto his throne like a predator savoring captured prey. “Your changeling’s confession to systematic deception. Her admission of giving each of you carefully curated pieces of her authentic self.”

Ice daggers pierce directly through whatever defenses I thought I had left. Even though he helped her, he still absorbed every devastating revelation for future use. The clinical way he catalogs her pain makes the Spear burn so hot I’m surprised it doesn’t sear through my shirt.

“She killed that boy without hesitation,” he observes with clinical detachment that makes my skin crawl. “Eliminated a family member because authority figures commanded it. Classic weapon conditioning.”

“She had reasons?—”

“I am sure she did. Weapons always justify their programming.” His voice carries deadly amusement that freezes my protests in my throat. “The fascinating part is watching you defend someone who confessed to manipulating your emotions through selective truth.”

“The Truth Stone validated our bonds?—”

“The Truth Stone revealed a woman trained to form strategic attachments while concealing anything that might drive those attachments away.” Father leans forward, ice-blue eyes burning with satisfaction. “Tell me, my heir—what part of yourself has she never seen?”

Logic sinks into my gut like a blade finding soft flesh because he’s right, and we both know it.

Ash has never seen me in full royal mode—the political calculations that come as naturally as breathing, the casual cruelty court life demands, the things I do to maintain power that would horrify her gentle conscience.

The Spear’s heat turns scorching, as if the ancient weapon is trying to burn the doubt from my mind.

“You understand now,” Father observes with the satisfaction of a chess master revealing checkmate. “She gives you pieces while withholding pieces. Exactly what she confessed to doing. You are as manipulated as those humans you pity.”

The truth cuts deeper than any blade because there’s logic in it, terrible and inescapable. But the Spear’s burning intensity suggests otherwise, ancient power recognizing something my conscious mind can’t grasp.

“But here is what makes it perfect,” he continues, rising again. “I saved her. Exposed her tormentors. Proved Unseelie courts act in her best interests when all others fail. She owes me a life debt.”

My chest caves inward, ribs crushing around nothing. “What kind of debt?”

“The kind that binds royal blood to service. She accepted my intervention at the moment of greatest peril, which creates magical obligation under ancient law.” His smile turns predatory, revealing teeth sharp enough to tear flesh.

“One favor, to be called when I choose. Binding. Unbreakable. Absolute.”

“Which brings us to tomorrow’s Trial of Power,” Father says with false casualness that makes every instinct scream danger. “Your final mission before contract renewal.”

My blood turns to slush in my veins. “Contract renewal.”

“Did you think two decades of investment would simply... melt away like spring frost? That I had trained my perfect weapon only to release him into the wild?” His laugh could freeze blood in living veins.

“Lady Amarantha has formally requested verification of royal claims through treasure manifestation. All four treasures must respond to prove authentic Wild Court royal blood.” His voice drops to absolute satisfaction.

“I supported the request, naturally. For the good of inter-court relations.”

The trap reveals itself with brutal clarity, each element clicking into place like clockwork designed by a sadist. “You want her to fail.”

“I want to collect my debt at the most politically advantageous moment,” he corrects with the precision of a surgeon choosing where to cut. “When she attempts to call the treasures and faces magical backlash from an impossible task, she will be desperate. Vulnerable. In need of... assistance.”

“And your favor?”