The enthusiasm in her voice makes something twist in my chest—possessive satisfaction mixed with ancient dread. She belongs to me now in the most fundamental way possible,marked by my magic and carrying my heir. Losing her would mean losing everything I've worked eight centuries to achieve.
More than that, losing her would mean losing something I didn't expect to want this desperately. Her innocent pleasure in her growing power, her eager submission to my guidance, her complete trust in my intentions—it all feeds something in my Fae nature that's been starved for centuries.
"Expansion is possible," I tell her, though privately I wonder if she'll live long enough to see such projects completed. "But perhaps we should focus on mastering your current abilities first."
She nods obediently, my perfect omega goddess accepting my guidance without question. The trust in her expression is absolute and devastating, because she has no idea that my magical experience tells me she's slowly burning herself alive on the altar of her own divine power.
That evening, as we dine in my private chambers, I watch her pick at food she can barely taste anymore—another symptom she interprets as her palate refining to prefer magical sustenance over mundane nutrition.
"Sometimes I feel like I'm vibrating with energy," she confesses as I pour wine that will help mask the metallic tang developing in her transformed blood. "Like there's so much power in me that my skin can barely contain it."
Her skin does glow more brightly each day, beautiful and ominous. Soon the light will be visible even to non-magical eyes, marking her as something beyond mortal limits.
"Power seeks expression," I explain, which is both truth and deflection. "Learning to channel it properly takes time."
Time she may not have. But I push that thought aside as she settles against my chest for the night, her transformed body still small and soft despite the dangerous magic flowing through her veins.
The mirror beside my desk shimmers with silver light, and I feel the familiar presence of ancient power seeking attention. Maya sleeps deeply enough that the disturbance won't wake her, so I carefully extract myself from our bed and approach the magical communication.
"Lord Oberon," I acknowledge as the Shadow Court's ancient leader materializes in the silvered surface. His silver eyes assess Maya's glowing form with calculating interest.
"She's stronger than expected," he observes without preamble, his voice carrying three thousand years of authority. "Much stronger."
"More than I anticipated," I agree, which carries truth weighted with dread. "Her power keeps building."
"Good. The others are waiting to see if this works." His satisfaction has sharp edges. "Your success determines whether the rest even try."
The weight of that settles on my shoulders like stone. Maya's survival doesn't just save my court—it proves human bloodlines can handle what kills Fae candidates.
"She's showing some... instability," I admit carefully.
"They all do." His casual dismissal chills me. "But this one's different. Keep pushing. The other courts need proof."
His image fades, leaving me cold and restless.
Sleep eludes me after his visit, so I make my way to the memorial garden, where moonflowers bloom in perpetual twilight among seven marble headstones. The sight of those graves usually fills me with determination to succeed where previous attempts failed.
Tonight, they fill me with cold dread.
Isabella's grave draws me as always—twenty-two years old, survived three months before the magical power consumed her completely. The longest any candidate has endured thetransformation. Her death nearly broke my resolve to continue trying.
"You should seek rest, my lord," Captain Sage says, stepping out from the shadows between the ancient oaks.
"Rest eludes me." I trace Isabella's carved name with one finger. "Maya's power grows beyond what mortal flesh can contain. The pattern begins anew."
"She appears more resilient than the others," Sage counters. "Her human blood may prove stronger than we anticipated."
"For now." I move to the next grave—Lyra Moonwhisper, lasted two weeks. "But I have witnessed this corruption before. The blossoms that burn too bright, withering in her wake. Death follows the same path it always has."
"Your court's survival depends upon her transformation," Sage reminds me, though her tone carries unusual gentleness.
"The truth cuts deep." Each word feels like swallowing broken glass. "Should she fail, my people will wither. Our magic dies with us—a slow, inevitable decay."
But even speaking these words, I acknowledge what should terrify me: my court's fate no longer holds dominion over my heart. Not when weighed against her survival.
"The prophecy demands?—"
"Let the prophecy burn to ash." The words emerge with savage intensity. "If preserving my bloodline requires her death, then perhaps we deserve oblivion."
