The study appears normal at first glance—elegant furniture, walls lined with books and maps, the great desk where Thorian conducts court business. But in the corner, barely visible unless you know to look, stands an ornate mirror that definitely wasn't there this morning.
As we approach, the polished surface shimmers like water, and suddenly we're looking not at our own reflections but at another room entirely. A study of shadows and silver, where an impossibly elegant figure sits behind a desk that might be carved from midnight itself.
Lord Oberon.
Even through the scrying connection, his presence is overwhelming. Ancient power wrapped in aesthetic perfection, silver eyes that seem to see through time itself, a smile that speaks of plans laid across centuries finally coming to fruition.
"Thorian. Maya." His voice carries clearly through the magical link, warm and cultured and utterly terrifying. "How delightfully domestic you've become."
"What do you want?" Thorian's voice carries the authority of eight centuries of kingship, but I can feel his tension through our bond.
"To congratulate you, naturally." Oberon's smile widens as his gaze takes in our expanded family, my pregnant belly, the evidence of prosperity surrounding us. "Three children in three years. Quite remarkable productivity for a bond that began with such... resistance."
"Our children are not part of whatever game you're playing," I say firmly, stepping slightly in front of Ryaed despite my awkward pregnancy waddle.
"Oh, but they are the entire point," Oberon replies with gentle amusement. "Living proof that human women can not only survive the transformation but thrive beyond all expectations. That love—however it begins—can create stronger magic than mere political alliance."
His words hit like ice water. "You're using our story."
"I'm sharing your success," he corrects smoothly. "Three bonds completed successfully, each one teaching valuable lessons about the proper approach to human-Fae partnerships. The remaining five courts have been most... attentive to your examples."
The full scope of his manipulation crashes over me like a tide. Our love story, our sacrifices, our hard-won happiness—all of it has been carefully observed, catalogued, turned into a template for seducing five more human women into accepting impossible transformations.
"The women who come after us," I whisper. "They'll think our choices prove that sacrifice for love is noble. That giving up their humanity is romantic rather than tragic."
"They'll learn that love requires difficult choices," Oberon agrees. "That true partnership demands mutual sacrifice. That choosing a Fae mate over human limitations leadsto extraordinary possibilities. All lessons you've taught beautifully."
"And if they choose differently?" Thorian asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.
"Then they'll face the natural consequences of those choices." Oberon's voice carries no particular emotion. "As you would have, had you chosen differently. The prophecy must be fulfilled, but the methods remain... flexible."
The threat underneath the pleasant words is unmistakable. The five women yet to come will choose transformation and mating, or they'll face whatever pressure is necessary to ensure compliance. And our story—our genuine love built from initial deception—will be used to make that pressure seem like romantic destiny.
"You're using our happiness to manipulate others," I say, fury building in my chest.
"I'm using your success to show others what's possible," he replies calmly. "Whether they achieve similar happiness depends entirely on the choices they make. Much like your own experience."
Ryaed tugs on my dress, apparently bored by the adult conversation and ready to return to her flower games. The normalcy of the gesture grounds me, reminding me that whatever larger games are being played, we've created something real and precious that transcends manipulation.
"Our family is not a tool for your prophecy," Thorian says with quiet finality.
"Your family is proof that the prophecy works," Oberon corrects. "The most compelling evidence that human women can find extraordinary happiness with Fae mates, given proper... encouragement."
The mirror begins to shimmer again, the connection starting to fade. But before the image dissolves entirely, Oberon leans forward with that terrible, knowing smile.
"Enjoy your domestic bliss, Maya. Treasure every moment of the happiness you've found. Because your story—our story—is just beginning to reshape the world."
The mirror returns to normal reflection, showing only our family standing in afternoon sunlight. But the words linger like smoke, carrying implications that make my stomach clench with something beyond pregnancy discomfort.
"What do we do?" I ask quietly.
"We live our lives," Thorian replies, though I can feel his own turmoil through our bond. "We love our children, rule our court, and refuse to let his manipulation poison what we've built together."
"And the five women still to come?"
"We hope they find the strength to make choices that serve their own happiness, not his prophecy."
It's not enough, and we both know it. But standing here with our daughter playing at our feet and our son sleeping safely nearby, another child growing strong in my belly, I realize that this—this life we've created through choice and sacrifice and stubborn love—is its own kind of victory.
