After cleaning the scarf carefully—can't have her discovering what I've been doing with her belongings—I make my way to the memorial garden. Seven marble statues stand in perfect rows, each carved with exquisite detail to honor the Fae women who died attempting the transformation Maya doesn't even know is coming.
Seraphina, the first. A talented sorceress from the Winter Court who lasted twelve weeks—long enough for me to breed her successfully, long enough for her body to begin changing to accommodate Fae offspring. She died in her sleep when the magical enhancement finally overwhelmed her heart.
Isabella, the second. A brilliant scholar from the Autumn Court, eager and willing to bear my children for the good of all Fae courts. I bred her repeatedly during her heats, watched her belly swell with our child. She made it sixteen weeks before the transformation magic turned toxic, killing both her and our unborn son.
I move down the line, remembering each failure. Each Fae woman who volunteered knowing full well what the ritual entailed, who accepted the risks because they understood what was at stake. All of them successfully bred, all carrying my children when the transformation finally killed them.
Seven graves. Seven names carved in stone. Seven Fae women who died pregnant with my offspring, their bodies unable to complete the final stages of becoming fertility goddesses despite knowing exactly what they were agreeing to.
And now Maya, the eighth. The human who has no idea what's really coming, who thinks this is about academic research instead of breeding and transformation and almost certain death.
The memorial garden overlooks the distant lights of my people's homes, most of them dark these days as our population dwindles. Without a fertility goddess to restore the magical balance, we have maybe a decade before the Vine Court fades into nothing.
Maya's transformation could save everyone I've sworn to protect. Or it could just add an eighth statue to this garden of my failures.
The difference is that the previous seven knew what they were risking. They volunteered as Fae women understanding that bearing my children and attempting transformation meant probable death. They died as heroes, sacrifice for the greater good.
Maya has no idea she's walking toward the same fate. No idea that I'm conditioning her to accept breeding and transformation that will likely kill her. She thinks this is about academic achievement, about finally being valued for her mind.
She has no idea I'm preparing her to die pregnant with my child, just like all the others.
"Torturing yourself again?"
I turn to find Oberon's reflection shimmering in the fountain at the garden's center, his ancient face grave with understanding.
"She's different from the others," I say, though I've told him this before.
"Different how? More magically compatible? Better conditioning? Or just more appealing to you personally?"
The question cuts too close to uncomfortable truths. "All of the above. And she's human."
"Ah, yes. The first human candidate." Oberon's image becomes clearer, more solid. "No magical background to help her adapt, but also no preconceptions about what the transformation entails. The others knew they might die—this one has no idea."
There's no point denying it. "The Fae candidates volunteered knowing the risks. Maya thinks she's here for academic research."
"Which makes her vulnerable in ways the others weren't," he observes. "The previous seven accepted their fate as necessary sacrifice. This one will fight to live because she doesn't understand she's meant to die."
The brutal honesty hits like a physical blow. "They all carried my children successfully. The breeding worked perfectly—it was the final transformation that killed them."
"After they were already pregnant, yes. Their bodies couldn't complete the change to fertility goddess while supporting Fae offspring." Oberon's expression grows thoughtful. "But this human's biology might respond differently. Less magical resistance to work against."
"Dangerous territory," he continues, studying my face. "Personal attachment could make you too careful with her preparation, or push too hard to ensure bonding. Either mistake?—"
"Either mistake could kill her," I finish grimly. "I know the risks."
"Do you? Because watching someone you've claimed die in your arms is different from watching a political necessity fail. The pain of losing a mate bonds..." He pauses, something flickering across his ancient features. "Well. Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
The weight in his voice suggests personal experience with exactly that kind of loss. But Oberon's past is his own, and I have more immediate concerns.
"Her pre-heat symptoms are accelerating," I tell him. "Faster than any of the others. Heart rate spikes, breathing irregularities, magical sensitivity beyond what should be possible for someone untrained."
"Signs of compatibility or impending failure?"
"I don't know." The admission tastes bitter. "Her body is responding to the conditioning more intensely than anyone before her. But whether that means she can handle the final transformation or it will kill her faster..."
"When will you know?"
"When her heat breaks completely. When I finally claim her properly." I stare at the seven statues, each one a reminder of my failures. "If she survives the claiming, she might survive the transformation. If not..."
