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“No.” I catch Theron’s wrist with both hands, my shaking fingers closing around his warm skin.

The contact sends a tiny Silver spark where Royal blood meets the corruption taking root inside me.

“No, Theron,” I manage through chattering teeth. “He can’t help me.”

“You need a healer.” His free hand covers mine where I grip his wrist. “This transformation⁠—”

“Magic won’t stop this.” I force the words out between pulses of pain.

Theron’s jaw tightens, the muscle there flexing as he processes my words. Without speaking, he shifts to sit on the floor, tightening his arms around me until my back rests against his chest.

His warm breath caresses my ear. “How did this start?”

I tell him about Caelan’s appearance, his crossing between realms to find me. I speak of how I forced him back for the sake of the Silver Sithe’s stability, of smashing the mirror, and of seeing Elionn in the basin.

Theron listens without interruption, though his body tenses at the mention of his younger brother’s reckless journey.

“He shouldn’t have come,” Theron murmurs, echoing my own words to Caelan. “The Silver Sithe cannot withstand such instability.”

“He felt what was happening to me.” I turn toward Theron. “Through the blood bond.”

Thalindor shifts at the doorway, drawing our attention. “Your Majesty? What are your orders?”

“No healer.” Theron’s arms tighten around me. “Secure this chamber. No one enters without my explicit permission.”

Thalindor moves to check the locks on the door. His efficiency speaks of centuries of unwavering loyalty to his king.

The Opal threads settle into a steady pulse, retreating deeper into my body where they can continue their work unseen. For the moment, at least, the court’s reshaping has paused. I sag within Theron’s hold, suddenly aware of how my body aches, how the cuts from the mirror glass sting.

“You should rest,” Theron says, misreading my exhaustion as surrender.

I shake my head. “We leave for the rift tomorrow. I need to prepare, not rest.”

His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the intimacy of the gesture catching me off guard. “You cannot fight the court’s pull and the Dark Sithe’s treachery without strength.”

“I’ve survived worse with less.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Of that, I have no doubt.” His fingers linger at my temple, where Opal light still gives off a dim pulse beneath the skin. “But you will not bear this burden alone.”

The simple declaration cuts through my defenses, touching the core of loneliness I’ve carried since my return.

I turn in his embrace. “Why?”

“Because some bonds transcend duty.” His fingers brush the place where the sithean stone rests beneath my clothing. “And you, Amalia Wolf, now carry the heart of my house within you.”

Pale dawn light filters through the narrow obsidian windows, painting silver stripes across the chamber floor.

I spent the night curled in a chair, refusing both bed and Theron’s continued offers of comfort, as if physical distance might somehow slow the court’s claim on me. My body has other ideas. The transformation lies coiled within me, gathering strength for its next assault.

“It’s coming again.” The warning escapes through clenched teeth as I struggle to my feet.

Theron lifts his head from the maps spread across the low table, sent by the Dark King from what little record they still have of the Opal Court. A sleepless night has left shadows beneath his eyes. Thalindor stands at the door, his vigilance unwavering despite the long hours.

The first wave hits without further warning. My spine ignites, heat ripping through me with a violence that steals my breath. Whereas yesterday’s pain was ice, this is wildfire racing through a dry forest, consuming everything in its path so something new can rise from the ash.

A cry tears from my throat as I stagger into the wall.

“Amalia!” Theron pushes away from the table, maps forgotten as he rushes toward me.