Page 83

ASH

The walk back from the grove should feel like a victory lap.

Orion’s hand engulfs mine as we cross the Academy grounds, the guardian oath mark pulsing against my collarbone in perfect rhythm with my heartbeat. Each throb sends warmth spiraling down my spine, magic recognizing magic in ways that make me feel genuinely powerful for the first time in my life.

Students stare as we pass—some with curiosity, others with barely concealed envy. Word about the Truth Trial has clearly spread, but now there’s something else in their gazes. Heat unfurls beneath my breastbone and pools behind my ribs like sunlight trapped under skin.

“You’re glowing,” Orion murmurs, amber eyes warm with satisfaction. “Literally. The bond marks are visible through your shirt.”

I glance down and freeze—golden-green light pulses beneath my shirt like a heartbeat made visible. The sight settles something in my chest—belonging, maybe. Something that feels like home.

But with belonging comes danger.

Belonging means being seen. Means being watched.

And the more visible I become, the more the courts will want to claim or destroy what they finally recognize as theirs.

“Should I be concerned about that?”

“You should be proud of it.” His thumb traces circles across my knuckles that send heat spiraling up my arm. “Wild Court magic doesn’t hide when it’s acknowledged. It celebrates.”

The Academy bells chime across the grounds—eight times, signaling the start of first period. Around us, Academy life continues with comforting routine. Students hurrying to classes, professors striding with purpose, the familiar rhythm that’s anchored me for months.

“I should probably check my schedule,” I say reluctantly, though the thought of sitting through mundane classes after everything that’s happened feels surreal. “Professor Blackthorne is going to murder me for missing yesterday’s combat theory.”

“Might want to hold off on that,” comes a familiar voice from behind us.

We turn to find Kieran and Finnian approaching, both looking like they haven’t slept in days.

Shadows pool around Kieran’s boots like restless animals, never settling into their usual geometric precision.

His usual pristine appearance shows subtle cracks—dark hair slightly mussed, frost spreading from his footsteps in jagged, violent patterns that crack the stone beneath.

Whatever Moros said, whatever Kieran had to endure to keep his place beside me, it’s burning him alive from the inside out.

Finnian’s fingers drum against his thigh in patterns that spell out anxiety, amber eyes never quite meeting mine. His composure carries exhaustion around the edges, guilt written in the careful distance he maintains.

His guilt tastes different.

Finnian doesn’t mourn the line he crossed. He mourns that it was ever necessary.

My muscles coil with the urge to run to them, but I lock my knees and keep my arms at my sides. Because something in the air has shifted—and I don’t know if we’re allies, adversaries, or something messier than either.

“We need to talk,” Kieran says urgently, ice-blue eyes scanning the grounds like he’s expecting threats to materialize from the morning mist. “All of us.”

Before anyone can respond, the second bell tolls across the Academy grounds—the five-minute warning that sends students scrambling toward their classrooms. Academy protocol becomes an iron wall between us and the conversation we desperately need.

“Your classes have been cancelled indefinitely,” Kieran announces quickly, shadows writhing with barely contained urgency. “Administrative review following recent events.”

My stomach drops while cold spreads beneath my ribs like swallowed winter. “What? Why?”

“Standard procedure when students become involved in inter-court politics,” Finnian explains with forced diplomacy, but his words come faster than usual, amber eyes flicking to the surrounding area every few sentences.

“However, you are welcome to sit in on my advanced magical theory seminar. Unofficial auditing, purely educational.”

Something in his tone makes me study his face more carefully. The specificity feels deliberate, weighted with meaning I don’t understand.

“What kind of magical theory?” I ask, but the final bell is already ringing.

Kieran grabs Orion’s arm with sudden decision. “Come with me. Now.”

“Why—” Orion starts, but something in Kieran’s expression stops him. A meaningful look passes between them, weighted with information I don’t have.

“Go,” Finnian urges me toward the academic building, amber eyes burning with urgency. “The seminar starts in ten minutes. I will explain everything I can.”

There’s something they’re not telling me. Something that makes Kieran’s shadows writhe and puts that desperate edge in Finnian’s voice.

“Finn, wait.” I catch his arm before he can turn away. “What’s happening? Why are you all acting like?—”

“Not here, not with so many listening,” he cuts me off, glancing around the Academy grounds with sudden paranoia.

“Eyes everywhere now, ears in every shadow, and some conversations require absolute privacy to avoid becoming weapons in the wrong hands.” His gaze flicks meaningfully toward a cluster of Seelie students who seem far too interested in our conversation.

“The seminar. Everything you need to know, I will tell you there.”

“Tell me what? What aren’t you saying?”

“Things you need to understand about what is coming,” he says grimly. “Things that could mean the difference between surviving the next few days and—” He stops abruptly as a raven lands on the nearby fountain, its black eyes far too intelligent. “Academic building. Ten minutes. Do not be late.”

Kieran’s eyes meet mine across the space between us, and I see goodbye written in the shadows pooling at his feet.

They’re separating us, and whatever’s happening, I’m walking into it blind.

Finnian’s advanced seminar takes place in a circular chamber I’ve never seen before, lined with ancient texts that seem to whisper when touched by candlelight. Seven other students lean forward in their chairs, quills poised above parchment like weapons ready to strike.

“Today we are examining historical precedents for artifact manifestation,” Finnian announces, pulling up ethereal projections that dance in the center of the room like living things. “Specifically, the theoretical requirements for wielding the Four Treasures of ancient Fae courts.”

My attention sharpens immediately. After yesterday’s revelations, anything about treasures feels personally relevant in ways that make my thorns pulse beneath my skin.

“Professor Willowheart,” a Seelie student with silver hair asks, “do we know the current location of these artifacts? The historical record suggests they vanished during the Wild Court’s fall.”

“An excellent question, Miss Silverleaf.” Finnian’s amber eyes flick briefly in my direction before returning to the class. “The treasures’ locations remain... undocumented. Though historical analysis suggests they may be closer than commonly believed.”

The hair on my neck stands on end at his phrasing, the way his gaze lingers on me for just a heartbeat too long.

“The popular understanding of the Four Treasures,” Finnian continues, opening an ancient tome that gleams with its own inner light, “is that they require royal Wild Court blood to manifest their power. However, recent research suggests this interpretation may be... incomplete.”

He traces symbols that shift and change under his touch, runes that make my vision blur if I stare too long. “The original texts, when examined in their purest form, indicate something far more complex. The treasures were not designed for individual mastery.”

“What do you mean?” asks an Unseelie student with dark wings folded against her back.

“The phrase commonly translated as ‘royal blood must unite the treasures’ appears to be a deliberate mistranslation.” Finnian’s voice carries the excitement of discovery, but there’s something underneath—urgency, maybe desperation.

“The original Fae reads more accurately as ‘bonded souls must unite through treasures.’“

Understanding settles into my chest like swallowed stones.

“You are suggesting the treasures require multiple wielders?” Miss Silverleaf leans forward with fascination.

“Not just multiple wielders—bonded ones. The historical accounts describe four individuals, connected by magical ties deeper than mere alliance, each attuned to a specific treasure.” Finnian’s gaze meets mine across the room, and I see something that looks like warning flicker in his amber eyes.

“The power comes not from one person channeling all four artifacts, but from four bonded souls working in perfect harmony.”

“But that raises the obvious question,” another student interjects. “Who currently possesses these treasures? If they require bonding, someone must be carrying them.”

Quills hover over parchment while seven pairs of eyes fix on Finnian with predatory patience.

“Fascinating speculation,” he says carefully, adjusting his glasses with fingers that tremble almost imperceptibly. “The treasures are said to choose their own guardians. Ancient magic, beyond court politics or academic study.”

“But surely there are records,” the Unseelie student presses. “Registry documents, historical tracking?—”

“The treasures bond to their chosen guardians through sacred tattoos,” Finnian explains carefully. “The guardians are... aware of what they carry. But revealing oneself as a treasure bearer in the current political climate would be...” He pauses meaningfully. “Inadvisable.”

“That seems dangerous,” Miss Silverleaf objects. “How would they coordinate? How would they know when to act?”

“Perhaps,” Finnian says quietly, “that is precisely the challenge. The treasures choose guardians who must find each other through bonds deeper than political allegiance. When the connection between bearers reaches sufficient depth, the treasures call to each other.”