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ASH

The journey to the Seelie Court passes in a haze of crystalline corridors and impossible architecture that makes my eyes water if I stare too long.

Each step feels heavier than the last as the magical restraints around my wrists pulse with suppression magic, making my thorns retreat deeper beneath my skin with every pulse.

I reach for Orion through our bond, desperate for any connection. The connection snaps with audible finality, leaving cold hollow spaces where his warmth used to live.

There should be heat. Shadow. Light. Finnian’s warmth, Kieran’s precision, Orion’s fire.

But there’s only silence where they should be.

Orion, I think desperately, can you feel this? Can you feel me disappearing?

The silence where his voice should answer makes my next breath catch like swallowing glass.

Through grand windows that stretch impossibly tall, I catch glimpses of the world outside—gardens where every flower blooms in geometric perfection, pathways that gleam with embedded starlight despite the afternoon sun, fountains that sing in harmonies too perfect to be natural.

The precision makes my stomach lurch sideways. Nothing in nature follows such rigid patterns, and my enhanced senses recoil from the wrongness like touching something diseased.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Amarantha asks as we pass fountains that sing in perfect harmony.

“It’s suffocating,” I reply, though the words feel thick on my tongue, like speaking through honey.

“Beauty inspires appropriate feelings. Contentment. Compliance.”

“I’ve seen torture rooms with less precision.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “At least pain is honest.”

Her violet eyes glitter. “You’ll find the Court remarkably conducive to clear thinking.”

Words form halfway then dissolve before reaching my tongue. Clear thinking—right. If by clear thinking she means thoughts that... thoughts that... what was I thinking about?

I catalog exits despite the growing fog clouding my thoughts. Three doorways, but the pathways blur together in geometric patterns designed to confuse. My military training keeps trying to engage, but each tactical assessment feels more distant, less urgent than it should.

“This is betrayal with perfume and silk sheets,” I mutter, though even my anger feels muted now, like shouting underwater.

Amarantha’s crystalline laugh echoes off marble walls. “Such refreshing directness. We’ll train that out of you soon enough.”

The magical restraints pulse again, and this time I feel my thorns retreat so deeply I can barely sense them. Not just blocking my power—making the idea of resistance feel foolish, unnecessary. Why fight when everything here is so... comfortable?

The thought terrifies me precisely because it doesn’t terrify me enough.

I try to remember Kieran’s face—those ice-blue eyes that see through every lie. I reach for the memory and find only empty air where it should be, like grasping for smoke.

Kieran, I need you. But the thought dissolves before it can become anything real, swallowed by the magical haze that makes even my own mind feel foreign.

We approach the main palace through courtyards that stretch endlessly in all directions, each one more elaborate than the last. Marble statues pose in moments of eternal beauty, their faces too perfect to be human, too cold to be alive.

The air shimmers with magic that makes each breath require effort, like breathing through silk.

My military training kicks in despite the magical fog—catalog exits, assess threats, plan escape routes. But every tactical instinct feels muffled, thoughts moving like... like... what was I trying to remember?

The pathways blur together in endless geometric patterns that hurt to follow with my eyes. I’ve survived seven years of black ops missions. Torture training. Psychological warfare. But this slow dissolution of my own mind might be the thing that finally breaks me.

They want me soft.

Safe.

Easy to mold into something palatable.

But I am not soft. I am not safe. And I’ve never been fucking easy.

Even if I can’t quite remember why that matters anymore.

My stomach drops like a stone despite the magical haze when I see the familiar figures waiting on the palace steps.

Colonel Graves stands in full dress uniform, looking like he belongs here. Behind him, his tactical team has traded combat gear for formal attire that somehow makes them appear more dangerous, not less. They’re not restrained. They’re not guarded.

They’re guests.

“Agent Morgan,” Graves greets with paternal warmth that makes bile rise in my throat even through the suppression magic. “Welcome to your temporary accommodations. I trust Lady Amarantha has explained the situation?”

“What situation?” I demand, though the suppression magic makes even anger feel distant, unimportant.

“The verification trial, of course. The Seelie Court has graciously agreed to host the proceedings.” His steel-blue eyes hold mine with familiar authority—the voice that means someone is about to follow orders whether they want to or not.

My spine tries to straighten automatically before I catch myself.

“All three courts will witness your attempt to prove royal Wild Court heritage.”

“And if I refuse?”

Amarantha’s laugh sounds like breaking crystal, each note perfectly pitched to cut. “Oh, my dear, refusal was never an option. The courts have formally requested verification. Such requests carry the weight of ancient law.”

The trek through the palace interior feels endless—corridor after corridor of impossible beauty that makes my head spin.

Tapestries move in ways that make my eyes water if I stare too long, their scenes shifting between pastoral perfection and something that might be warning.

Paintings watch us pass with eyes that track movement, their subjects too beautiful and too empty to be truly alive.

Every step echoes despite the thick carpets, sound bouncing off walls that seem to stretch higher than physics should allow. The suppression magic grows stronger the deeper we go, making each breath feel like drowning in honey. Each exhale takes effort I shouldn’t need to spend.

I try to remember Finnian’s lesson about bonded souls working in harmony. Four treasures. Four guardians. I reach for the knowledge and watch it slip through my fingers like water, leaving me grasping at fragments that dissolve before I can hold them.

Finn, please. I can’t remember what you taught me. I can’t remember how to save myself.

“Your quarters have been specially prepared,” Amarantha explains as we climb a staircase that seems to stretch longer with each step.

The effect might be magical, or it might be the suppression enchantments making distance feel fluid and uncertain.

“Enchanted for optimal rest and mental clarity. The trial requires your fullest attention.”

“Mental clarity,” I repeat, noting how each word requires more effort to form, consonants catching on my tongue like they’ve forgotten their shape. “What kind of enchantments?”

“Oh, nothing invasive. Merely ambient magic to ease anxiety, promote restful sleep, encourage... rational thinking.” Her smile turns predatory. “We find that candidates perform better when freed from emotional distractions.”

Cold spreads beneath my ribs like swallowed ice. They’re not just drugging me with ambient magic—they’re rewriting my emotional responses, cutting me off from my bonds, making me compliant for the trial.

“The Wild Court delegation will want to know I’m safe,” I say, though the words feel increasingly hollow, like I’m reciting lines from a play I don’t remember auditioning for.

“Of course. Though I do think you’ll find human protection more.

.. reliable than Fae political promises.

” Amarantha’s violet eyes gleam with calculated satisfaction.

“Agent Davis has volunteered to serve as your personal guardian during this difficult time. Such dedication from someone who truly knows you.”

Warning bells should be screaming in my mind, but they sound distant now, like alarms heard from underwater. This isn’t random assignment—it’s deliberate manipulation designed to push me toward accepting Davis as the safe option.

“Davis isn’t qualified?—”

“Agent Davis has extensive experience protecting assets in hostile environments,” Graves interrupts with military precision. “And unlike certain Fae influences, his loyalty is unquestionable. His feelings for you are... quite genuine.”

The way they exchange glances makes nausea rise in my throat, though even that feels muted, unimportant. They’re not just isolating me—they’re actively positioning Davis as my only source of safety and human connection.

We finally reach a door carved from a single massive pearl, its surface gleaming with protective runes that make my thorns ache in retreat.

The symbols pulse with Seelie magic so pure it feels like being slowly poisoned by perfection—each pulse sending waves of wrongness through my system that the suppression magic can’t quite silence.

“Your chambers,” Amarantha announces with obvious pride.

“The Court’s finest guest quarters, warded against intrusion and equipped with every comfort.

You’ll find bathing facilities infused with calming minerals, clothing suited to formal proceedings, and nourishment designed to optimize magical performance. ”

“Optimize for what, exactly?” But even as I ask, the suppression magic makes the question feel less urgent, less important. Like wondering about distant thunder when there are more immediate concerns.

“For the Trial of Power, of course. The manifestation requirements are... substantial.” She examines her perfectly manicured nails with studied indifference. “Calling forth and uniting the Four Treasures. Quite ambitious for someone so recently awakened to their magical heritage.”