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“It is systematic,” Kieran adds, political mind grasping the full scope of the horror while frost spreads from his feet in violent, jagged patterns. “Not just genocide—desecration. They are turning victims into weapons against their own people.”

“Each sword requires bones from at least two gods to forge properly,” The Morrigan explains, and her voice holds the kind of fury that reshapes reality simply by existing.

“Femur for the blade’s core, skull fragments for the hilt binding.

Which means they have been killing my people for longer than any of us realized. Harvesting. Preparing.”

I study the blade with precision despite the revulsion clawing at my throat, my mind cataloging details even as my soul recoils. “The bone provides natural divine channeling, while the Stone fragments corrupt that power into destruction. It is... it is genius in its evil.”

“How many?” Orion demands, amber eyes blazing with guardian fury that makes the child in his arms look up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

“I have found twelve different blade signatures tonight,” The Morrigan replies grimly, and the number hits like a physical blow. “Twelve swords, which means at least twenty-four divine deaths to forge them. Children, elders, everyone they could capture and butcher.”

The child in Orion’s arms whimpers, divine power pulsing through her small frame as she senses the weapon’s presence. Around us, reality bends and warps in response to her unconscious terror, flowers blooming and withering in rapid cycles.

“And they are using these to prevent awakening,” Kieran realizes, shadows writhing with barely contained rage. “Kill gods before they can remember their divinity.”

“Exactly.” The Morrigan’s expression turns absolutely feral, ancient fury given form. “But tonight, they made a mistake. They tried to use one against someone who was already awakening.”

She gestures to where Siobhan’s body lies, divine silver light still flickering in her lifeless eyes like dying stars.

“The blade could not destroy her consciousness before death completed the awakening process. She remembered. And when gods remember...” The Morrigan’s smile turns terrible, ancient and predatory. “They do not go quietly.”

“Ash,” Orion says urgently, understanding hitting him like a physical blow that makes him stagger slightly. “The trial is in two days—if they have the Stone of Fál and these bone swords...”

“It is not a trial,” I finish, understanding crystallizing with horrible clarity that makes air stop moving in my lungs. “It is a coordinated execution. They will surround her with bone sword wielders while she attempts manifestation.”

The moment she tries to call the treasures, the moment she reaches for divine power, they’ll strike with weapons forged from the bones of her own people.

“Can the other treasures counter it?” Orion demands, amber eyes blazing with protective fury while the child clutches his shirt with desperate fingers.

I pull out every text I have on treasure interactions, my hands shake against the pages.

The Crown of Destiny burns against my chest, its golden threads tracing across my skin in response to my urgency.

“Theoretically, yes. The Four Treasures were designed to work in harmony. If three uncorrupted treasures were manifested simultaneously...”

“They could override the Stone’s corruption and neutralize the bone swords,” The Morrigan finishes. “But that requires...”

“Three treasure guardians revealing themselves publicly,” Kieran says grimly, his voice carrying the weight of inevitable sacrifice. “Exposing everything we have hidden for centuries.”

“And coordinating perfectly with someone who does not know we have the treasures,” Orion adds with growing desperation. “Someone who is currently imprisoned and being magically conditioned for compliance.”

The child in Orion’s arms stirs again, divine power pulsing through her small frame. Around us, the air itself begins to bend and warp in response to her awakening consciousness.

“We are running out of time,” I observe, looking at the traumatized but mortal child in Orion’s arms. “Not for divine madness—for systematic extermination. If they perfect these weapons, if they can kill fast enough to prevent any awakening...”

“No more gods,” The Morrigan confirms grimly, ancient sorrow bleeding through her fury. “Just scattered families picked off one by one until my people exist only in memory.”

Kieran’s shadows writhe with barely contained fury that cracks the ground beneath his feet. “So our options are: allow Ash to die tomorrow, or expose ourselves and hope we can coordinate a counter-manifestation while surrounded by god-killer weapons.”

“There is a third option,” The Morrigan says quietly, holding up the bone sword with deliberate menace that makes reality bend around the corrupted artifact. “Let the gods awaken. All of them. Let divine war consume the courts that dared to forge weapons from our children’s bones.”

The offer hangs in the air like poison made manifest. Justice through apocalypse. The systematic destruction of everything that hurt us.

But I think of Ash, trapped in Seelie imprisonment, facing the trial tomorrow with nothing but false hope and corrupted preparation.

I think of this child, divine power eating her alive from the inside out.

I think of two dozen scattered families who don’t know they’re walking into slaughter by bone blade.

“No,” I say quietly, the Crown of Destiny burning against my chest like a brand of certainty. “We save them all. The gods, the mortals, everyone.”

“How?” Orion demands, his voice breaking slightly on the word.

“By doing what researchers do best,” I reply, mind already racing through possibilities with desperate precision. “We learn. We plan. We find a way to beat them at their own game.”

I meet their gazes—prince and guardian, politician and protector, two men who’ve become more important to me than centuries of careful reputation.

“In two days, we reveal everything. All three treasures, all our secrets, all our power.” The words taste like revolution distilled into syllables. “We save our mate, neutralize the bone swords, and show the courts that love is stronger than their fear.”

“And if we fail?” Kieran asks, his voice carrying the weight of accepting inevitable sacrifice.

“Then we die protecting what matters most,” Orion answers grimly, adjusting his hold on the traumatized child. “Together.”

“If we can even reach her,” I snarl, composure finally cracking completely as helplessness floods my chest. Air stops moving in my lungs while my shoulders drop like anchor stones. “The Seelie Court’s barriers?—”

“Are designed to keep us out,” Kieran finishes, shadows writhing with helpless fury that sends frost climbing the trees in violent spirals. “Light magic that would burn me alive the moment I try to shadow-walk into their territory.”

Orion slams his fist into the nearest tree with enough force to crack ancient bark, divine flames erupting around his shoulders in response to guardian frustration that has nowhere to go. “Wild Court magic gets detected and repelled before I could get within miles. They would have armies waiting.”

“And I have diplomatic immunity,” I add bitterly, my voice coming out hoarse with strain, “but not until the trial day itself. Not in time to stop whatever Davis is doing to her right now.”

Helplessness floods my chest, drowning me from the inside until each breath requires conscious effort. She’s trapped, alone, being systematically broken, and we can’t reach her. Can’t save her. Can’t do anything but plan for tomorrow while she suffers for seventy-two hours.

“She is alone with that psychopath for two full days,” Orion growls, amber eyes blazing with guardian fury that has nowhere to go, flames flickering around his shoulders like frustrated lightning. “Forty-eight hours of conditioning, manipulation, breaking down everything we have built with her.”

“The suppression magic will make her compliant,” Kieran says through gritted teeth, frost spreading from his feet in patterns sharp enough to cut skin. “Easier to convince that we are the real threats, that Davis is safety.”

I close my eyes, mind calculating exactly how much psychological damage can be done in seventy-two hours by someone who knows every one of her vulnerabilities. “By the trial day, she might not even want us to save her.”

The words taste like poison, but they’re true. Davis has three entire days to rebuild the trauma bonds, to make her grateful for his protection, to convince her that the trial is for her own good.

And we’re powerless to stop any of it.

The Morrigan’s laughter echoes through the burning encampment, ancient and terrible and utterly delighted. “Oh, boys. This is going to be magnificent.”