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Graves produces documents covered in ancient script and official seals. “The trial parameters were established centuries ago. Solo manifestation of all four treasures, sustained unity for verification, witnessed by representatives from all three courts.”

“Solo manifestation?” The words stick in my throat as fragments of warning echo through the magical fog: Some failures destroy everything you’ve become.

“Naturally. The Trial of Power exists to prove individual worthiness, not collective effort.” Amarantha’s smile turns predatory. “Though I suppose if you possessed the necessary bonds with the treasure guardians, you might call upon their assistance. Assuming, of course, you knew who they were.”

Her words should freeze my blood, but the suppression magic mutes even that response. She knows I don’t have that information. Knows I’ll be attempting something designed for bonded souls while completely isolated from anyone who might help.

“And if I fail?”

“Then the courts will have their answer regarding your claimed heritage,” Amarantha says with false sweetness that makes my teeth ache.

“And appropriate measures can be taken to ensure your... proper placement in our society. Fortunately, Agent Davis has already expressed willingness to assume permanent guardianship responsibilities.”

The words hit my solar plexus like a physical blow, cutting through even the magical fog. Not death—something worse. Enslavement disguised as rescue, with Davis as my jailer and the courts’ blessing to make it legal.

The door swings open to reveal quarters that look more like a shrine than a bedroom.

I step inside, immediately overwhelmed by the assault on my senses.

Everything gleams with pearl and crystal, from the massive bed draped in silk that shifts between silver and gold to the bathing chamber that pulses with soft light. Beautiful. Perfect. Suffocating.

The air itself feels thick with enchantment, every breath carrying magic designed to soothe and suppress. My thorns recoil so deeply beneath my skin I can barely feel them, my connection to my own power growing more distant with each moment I spend breathing this poisoned perfection.

Each inhale takes effort, like breathing through layers of silk. Each exhale requires conscious intention. The magic doesn’t just coat the surfaces—it’s woven into the very atmosphere, making resistance feel not just impossible but unnecessary.

This is how they break people. Not with torture or violence—with kindness that hollows you out from the inside. With beauty that makes you forget who you used to be. With comfort that teaches you to stop fighting.

“Rest well,” Amarantha commands, and the words carry compulsion magic that makes my eyelids heavy despite my best efforts to stay alert. “The trial will require every ounce of your strength and focus. Agent Davis will ensure you have everything you need for... optimal preparation.”

She steps back, allowing the guards to position themselves outside. Not protection—imprisonment with a smile.

“The Seelie Court respects human bonds,” Graves adds with that smile I’ve learned means someone is about to suffer. “Agent Davis understands your needs better than any Fae political alliance ever could. His protection will continue indefinitely, should the trial prove... unsuccessful.”

Fear tries to shoot through my nervous system, but it’s too little, too late. The suppression enchantments drag my awareness down like quicksand, making even basic self-preservation feel distant and unimportant.

Amarantha closes the door with deliberate ceremony, and I hear the distinct sound of multiple locks engaging. Not just physical barriers—magical ones that pulse with Seelie authority and make the air itself feel thick with containment.

For several long minutes, I stand in the center of the opulent prison, testing my limitations.

I press my palms against the walls, and they feel solid as granite despite their pearl-like appearance.

The windows resist my touch like they’re made of steel rather than crystal.

Even the door refuses to give when I lean my full weight against it.

The magical restraints around my wrists prevent any attempt to channel power—when I reach for my thorns, it’s like grasping for something that was never there. The ambient enchantments make clear thinking feel like swimming through molasses, each thought requiring twice the effort it should.

Even simple movements feel labored, as if the air itself resists my presence, growing thicker with each step I take toward anything that might represent escape or rebellion.

I try every escape technique I know. Test the walls for structural weaknesses, the windows for stress points, the door for any gap in the magical sealing.

But my hands move slowly, clumsily, like they belong to someone else.

My tactical assessments keep dissolving mid-thought, replaced by vague contentment that terrifies me precisely because it feels so reasonable.

They’ve turned luxury into the perfect cage.

I try one more time to reach for the bonds that should connect me to three men who promised they’d come for me. Orion’s protective fury. Kieran’s calculating precision. Finnian’s steady determination.

The silence in my head where they should be feels like death.

I’m alone.

Truly, completely alone in a way I haven’t been since before I met them. The isolation doesn’t just hurt—it’s erasing me, making me forget what it felt like to be chosen, to be wanted, to be loved. Making those memories feel like fantasies I invented to cope with loneliness.

Maybe that’s the point.

The chamber’s enchantments press against my mind like suffocating velvet, encouraging compliance, discouraging struggle. Everything feels distant, unimportant except the growing certainty that the Trial of Power is designed for one outcome: my complete failure and subsequent dependency on Davis.

I move toward the massive bed, planning to at least try to think clearly, to find some way to fight back against the magical conditioning. Some way to reach the bonded souls Finnian said I’d need to survive what’s coming.

But when I try to remember Finnian’s face, I find only shadows where the memory should be. When I reach for Kieran’s name, empty air fills the space where recognition used to live.

They’re stealing everything that matters, leaving me hollow and compliant.

I’m losing myself piece by piece, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

That’s when movement near the window catches my eye.

Davis steps out of the shadows wearing civilian clothes that make him look younger, less threatening.

More like the partner I once trusted than the obsessive manipulator revealed at the trial.

But something in his posture—the way he positions himself between me and the door, how his weight shifts to the balls of his feet—makes what’s left of my survival instincts recognize the predator who’s been hunting me all along.

“Hello, ghost,” he says with that gentle smile I remember from three years of coffee and conversation.

The suppression magic makes even terror feel muted, distant. My hands try to shake but can’t quite manage the full tremor. My pulse tries to spike but feels dampened, artificial.

But somewhere beneath the artificial calm, something primitive and unbreakable recognizes danger.

“Miss me?”