"But I suppose that's what happens when you're centuries old, trapped in wait for your Queen to awaken the very academy destined for her ruling and uprising."
I pull back enough to meet her eyes, to witness the play of emotions across features that have become more fascinating than any artwork my lost palace ever contained.
"Faerie would be singing hymns of praise to know one has finally acknowledged their awakened potential."
The words land with weight that makes her breath catch.
Good.
Let the reality sink in.
Let her begin to understand what she carries.
"I don't understand," she admits, and the confusion in her voice carries genuine vulnerability that makes my chest tighten in ways I didn't anticipate. "My parents... they weren't fae at all."
The statement emerges with the particular certainty of someone who believes they know their own lineage, their own heritage, the blood that flows through their own veins. She's been told stories—told lies, more accurately—that constructed an identity built on incomplete information.
Half vampire, half witch.
That's what she believes.
That's what she's been taught to accept.
My smirk grows as I consider how to shatter that particular illusion without destroying her entirely in the process.
"You're an extremely rare type," I explain, savoring each word like fine wine after too long drinking nothing but water. "One that's hidden by witches on purpose. Your kind are the most dangerous of them all when you know the powers you carry."
Her brow furrows with confusion that would be adorable if it weren't wrapped in genuine distress.
"Why? What's so dangerous about it?"
Such innocent questions.
Such fundamental lack of understanding about what she is, what she's capable of, what her existence means to realms that have forgotten the old terrors.
"Allow me a moment," I whisper, shifting my hand from her waist to her chest.
The motion brings my palm into contact with another bond mark—one that isn't mine, one that speaks to connections she's formed with other men who have claimed pieces of her heart. I recognize Cassius's shadow-touched signature, the particular darkness of Duskwalker magic branded into her flesh. Jealousy flickers through me, brief and irrational and immediately suppressed.
She has other bonds.
I knew this coming in.
It doesn't change what exists between us.
I move my hand just above the mark, positioning my palm over her heart rather than the evidence of her other mate. The magic responds immediately, power surging through my fingertips with the particular intensity of Fae gifts finally finding proper outlet after too long suppressed.
Her body pulses.
Once.
Twice.
Then stills entirely—along with everything else in the library. The floating candles freeze mid-flicker. The steam rising from the feast crystallizes into suspension. Even the dust motes hovering in candlelight lock into position, creating a snapshot of a moment rather than a continuing flow of time.
And her soul steps out of her body.
The extraction is smooth—far smoother than it was during the chalice incident, when emergency overrode elegance and I had to pull multiple souls simultaneously without preparation. This is controlled, intentional, designed to demonstrate rather than simply survive.
