Page 96

FINNIAN

“I’m going to see Amarantha.”

The words drop into the archive’s stale air like stones into still water. Kieran looks up from the unsigned letter he’s been staring at, shadows coiling with alarm. Orion tries to push himself upright despite guardian tattoos that now cover half his face in permanent testament to failure.

“Absolutely not,” Kieran says with ice-cold authority. “She’s working with my father. It’s a trap.”

“Everything is a trap.” I stare at the ancient tome in my hands—leather binding worn smooth by centuries of desperate scholars seeking answers that don’t exist. The pages mock me with their elegant script, thousands of words that should hold salvation but taste like ash on my tongue.

My fingers trace the useless text, and something breaks open in my chest. Not the Crown’s burn, but something rawer. Human.

Three hundred years of accumulated wisdom, and I can’t save the woman I love.

“Guardian magic failed. Political rebellion is anticipated. None of it matters when the woman I love faces execution.”

“Finnian—” Orion starts, his voice rough with exhaustion.

“She’s my cousin.” I slam the tome shut, the sound cracking through the archive like breaking bones.

“Before she was Lady Amarantha of the Seelie Court, before she became a political asset in someone else’s game, she was family.

Maybe there’s still enough of the girl I grew up with to give me something—anything—that might help. ”

I’ve read thousands of books.

Memorized every clause, exception, and arcane law.

And not one of them tells me what to do when love becomes treason.

The Crown pulses against my chest—not with power or ancient knowledge, but with the acid recognition that some problems devour knowledge whole.

But maybe—just maybe—it can buy her one more day.

“You don’t know what she’s become,” Kieran warns. “Power changes people. Court politics destroy family bonds.”

“Then at least I’ll know.” I move toward the archive door, hands trembling with frustrated energy that has nowhere to go. “At least I’ll have tried something other than sitting here watching everything I care about burn while I catalog the fucking flames.”

“Two hours,” I say before either of them can stop me. “If I’m not back in two hours, assume family meant less than politics.”

The Academy corridors feel different in the morning light—emptier, more dangerous, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. My footsteps echo across marble that should be familiar but feels alien now that I’m walking toward potential treason.

The Seelie wing exists in perpetual golden twilight, ancient magic that makes every surface gleam like captured sunlight. Beautiful and serene and absolutely fucking terrifying when you’re approaching someone who might offer help that comes with strings attached to your soul.

Lady Amarantha’s private study door recognizes my magical signature immediately, unlocking with the whisper-soft click of family bonds that transcend court loyalties.

The door knows me.

The wards remember who I used to be—loyal, useful, harmless.

I wonder if they’ll still open once they learn I’m none of those things anymore.

She’s waiting for me.

Of course she is. Amarantha has always been three moves ahead, and desperate family members are as predictable as sunrise.

“Cousin.” She doesn’t look up from the delicate tea service arranged on her desk with mathematical precision. Steam rises from porcelain that costs more than most Fae earn in a decade. “You look dreadful, darling. When did you last sleep? Eat something that wasn’t born from desperation?”

Her voice wraps around my thoughts like silk scarves, beautiful and suffocating. My shoulders drop without permission. The desperate knot in my chest loosens by degrees, and I catch myself leaning forward, seeking more of whatever relief she’s offering.

“I need to know about tonight’s trial.” The words come out rougher than intended, betraying the emotion I’m trying to control.

“Such urgency.” She settles back with her own tea, violet eyes studying my face with clinical precision wrapped in false warmth. “You’re so frightened, cousin. So lost. It breaks my heart to see family suffering when I could help.”

My body betrays me before my mind catches up. The relief floods my system like honey in my veins, golden and thick and wrong. She sees my pain when others are too busy with their own concerns.

“The trial requirements—” I start.

“Oh, darling.” Her laugh sounds like breaking bells, soft and musical and somehow wrong.

“Is that really what you came here for? Legal technicalities? Or did you come because you finally realized that all your passionate friends are going to let her die while they debate politics in dusty archives?”

Her words taste like honey and starlight on my tongue, coating my throat until swallowing becomes effort. My confusion becomes evidence of their neglect. My desperate attempt to find solutions becomes proof that I’m the only one who truly cares.

“They’re trying to save her?—”

“Are they?” She leans forward her interest disguised as maternal concern.

“Because from where I sit, it looks like three powerful men who’ve spent hours feeling sorry for themselves instead of taking decisive action.

How many books have you read, cousin? How many legal precedents researched? And what solutions have you found?”

The question lands like acid on an open wound. Because she’s right. Hours of research, and I have nothing.

“The situation is impossible?—”

“Nothing is impossible for people who understand how to sacrifice properly.” The air thickens around us, charged with Seelie magic that makes my thoughts sluggish, compliant.

“The problem, sweet cousin, is that you’re all so afraid of making the hard choices.

So paralyzed by wanting to save everyone that you’ll end up saving no one. ”

Her hand reaches across the table to touch mine, and the moment her skin makes contact, something shifts in my mind. Not thoughts changing, but priorities becoming... clearer. More focused on her wisdom.

Understanding detonates through my nervous system. The Crown erupts against my ribs, ancient power recognizing a trap centuries in the making. My empathic training screams warnings—emotional pressure here, false warmth there, artificial comfort bleeding through every gesture.

“What hard choices?” The words feel sluggish, like speaking through honey, but underneath, golden fire begins to claw up my spine.

“She needs someone to make decisions for her, darling. Someone who understands political reality better than she does.” Amarantha’s grip tightens just enough to remind me she’s controlling this conversation.

“Someone who loves her enough to ensure her survival, even if it means accepting outcomes she’s too young and stubborn to choose wisely. ”

“What outcomes?”

“Binding, of course. Service to a court that can protect her from forces she doesn’t understand.” Her smile carries warmth that feels like drowning. “It’s not ideal, but survival rarely is. The question is whether you love her enough to help facilitate the choice that saves her life.”

Magic claws through my defenses without permission, reshaping thoughts that should be mine alone. Her influence tastes like roses blooming in consecrated graves—beautiful poison that makes submission feel like choice.

But I can feel what she’s doing now. The subtle emotional pressure, the way she’s reshaping my responses. And beneath my diplomatic training, heat builds behind my ribs as careful composure fractures completely.

“That’s not love,” I say, voice carrying new steel. “That’s control.”

“Oh, sweet cousin.” For just a heartbeat, her perfect mask slips.

Something raw flickers across her features—a wound that never healed, terror that someone might leave her the way others did.

Her fingers tighten around her teacup until porcelain threatens to crack.

“You still think love and control are different things. How naive. How... dangerous.”

She releases my hand and returns to her tea, and the sudden absence of her touch feels like abandonment despite the poison it carried.

“Love without guidance is chaos, darling. Love without structure becomes destruction.” Her voice holds the weight of absolute certainty. “True love means taking responsibility for someone’s choices when they’re too confused to choose wisely.”

“She’s not confused?—”

“Isn’t she?” Amarantha’s voice carries gentle authority that makes arguing feel like childish rebellion. “A girl raised human, suddenly thrust into Fae politics she doesn’t understand, bonded to men who fill her head with romantic nonsense instead of practical guidance? Of course she’s confused.”

My body wants to agree, wants to accept her wisdom and stop fighting the inevitable. But underneath her manipulation, I can sense something else. Something that makes my chest tight with sudden understanding.

Pain. Old, deep, carefully buried pain that taught her love was dangerous unless properly controlled.

“No.” The word tears from my throat with passionate force that makes the air shimmer between us.

“No?” Her eyebrows rise with delicate surprise that somehow makes my refusal feel unreasonable.

“Love doesn’t mean controlling someone’s choices.

” I stand abruptly, chair scraping against marble with violent sound.

“It means trusting them to make their own decisions, even when those decisions terrify you. Even when you’d rather lock them away than watch them risk everything for what they believe in. ”

Light erupts from my chest like a captured sun breaking free of its cage. The study floods with golden radiance that makes shadows flee to corners, desperate to escape what’s building between us.

“And what you’re describing isn’t love, cousin.” I lean forward, letting her see the fury in my eyes. “It’s elaborate psychological torture disguised as care.”

For just a moment, something flickers across her perfect features. Something raw and wounded that makes my chest ache with recognition.

Then it’s gone, replaced by cool disappointment that tries to make me feel like a child rejecting necessary medicine.

“How unfortunate,” she says with false sadness. “I had hoped family would understand practical necessity better than romantic idealism.”

“The girl I grew up with would never?—”

“The girl you grew up with was weak,” she interrupts with ice-cold precision that cuts like a blade. “She believed in fairy tales about love conquering everything. She nearly died for that weakness before I learned to cut away the parts of herself that made her vulnerable.”

The words hit like physical blows because I can see the truth in them—the wound that taught her love was dangerous unless properly controlled.

“I’m sorry.” The words scrape out of my throat like broken glass, carrying all the grief I feel for what she’s become. “I’m sorry someone hurt you badly enough to make you believe that.”

“Don’t.” Her voice carries warning sharp enough to cut. “Don’t you dare pity me for learning how the world actually works.”

“It’s not pity.” I move toward the door, Crown burning against my chest with heat that feels like tears. “It’s grief. For the girl who used to believe love could exist without chains.”

I leave her sitting among her perfect tea service, surrounded by luxury that can’t fill the space where trust used to live.

The walk back feels like mourning someone who died long before tonight’s trial was ever planned.

When I reach the archive, both men look up with desperate hope that dies the moment they see my expression.

“Well?” Kieran asks, though his voice suggests he already knows.

“She offered to help,” I say, settling among my destroyed books like a man contemplating the ruins of everything he once trusted. “For the small price of helping them ensure Ash makes the ‘right’ choice tonight.”

“Fuck,” Orion breathes, guardian tattoos writhing with frustrated fury.

“She’s making preparations,” I continue, devastation spreading through my bones like poison. “Specific arrangements to ensure tonight’s proceedings conclude with appropriate... efficiency.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning whatever they have planned, it’s designed to be final.” I meet their eyes, seeing my own despair reflected back. “No prolonged suffering, no dramatic rescue attempts. Clean. Quick. Over.”

The silence that follows tastes like copper and endings.

“Three hours,” Kieran says finally, shadows coiling with violence that makes the air pressure drop.

“Three hours,” I agree.

Three hours until we watch the woman we love walk into something none of us can prevent, while everyone who could help her has chosen politics over mercy.

The Crown pulses against my chest one final time—not with power or ancient knowledge, but with the acid recognition that sometimes, despite everything you know and everyone you’ve been, you’re still just helpless witnesses to someone else’s tragedy.

Outside the windows, morning gives way to afternoon light that paints everything beautiful and deceptive.

Soon, everything ends.

And all we can do is watch.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to no one in particular, the words carrying passionate regret that threatens to crack my chest open. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find another way.”

The apology hangs in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre that hasn’t been lit yet.

Three hours until we discover that love, knowledge, and desperate hope are no match for political machinery designed to grind individual lives into acceptable outcomes.

Three hours until we learn that sometimes, despite everything you know and everyone you’ve been, you’re still just helpless witnesses to someone else’s tragedy.