The hall had not been silent like this in centuries.
Not since blood had last been spilled on the sigil stones.
The girl lay crumpled at the center of the summoning circle, silver hair fanned across scorched runes, breath shallow but steady. The magic had withdrawn—retreated into her as if it recognized the danger of staying visible.
Wise.
The court was not kind to miracles.
I did not move toward her.
Every instinct I possessed—every ancient, predatory thing carved into my bones—demanded that I cross the floor, that I put myself between her and the others, that I claim what the magic had so brazenly revealed.
I resisted.
Barely.
"She cannot remain here," the Frost Regent said coolly. Too cool. The ice beneath his boots crept outward, fracturing the black stone. "You all felt it. The bonds were real."
The Ember Prince laughed once—sharp, unhinged. Flames curled along his forearms, uncontrolled. "Real?" he snapped. "She nearly tore the hall apart. The wards are still screaming."
"She did not do this," the Verdant Lord said softly. He had knelt beside her without asking permission. Without fear. His fingers hovered just above her throat, measuring breath, life. "She survived it. There is a difference."
I watched the threads.
They were faint now—ghosts of what had been—but I could still feel them. Four silvery lines, humming with residual power, stretching from her chest to ours.
Mine pulsed once.
Possessive. Familiar.
Unacceptable.
"The Law is clear," the Frost Regent continued. "One bond. One sovereign. Anything more is corruption."
I turned my gaze to him slowly.
"The Law was written after the Weaver Queen was murdered," I said. "By men afraid of what they could not control."
The Ember Prince stilled. "You think she's—"
"No," I said, cutting him off. "I think she is something the courts buried because it terrified them."
The girl stirred.
Every one of us felt it.
Her fingers twitched, curling into the rune-lit stone as if she were anchoring herself to the world. Magic answered the motion instinctively—shadows deepened, flames dimmed, vines burst through cracks in the floor, frost retreated an inch.
Balance.
Impossible balance.
The Verdant Lord inhaled sharply. "She's stabilizing us," he murmured. "Even unconscious."
A ripple of unease moved through the hall.
That was more dangerous than prophecy.
"Wake her," the Ember Prince said immediately. "She deserves to know what she is."
"No," said the Frost Regent.
"Yes," said the Verdant Lord.
I raised one hand.
Silence fell like a blade.
"She wakes when I allow it," I said. Not because I wished to command her—but because if the others spoke first, they would terrify her into flight.
And if she ran—
I did not finish the thought.
I stepped into the circle.
The wards flared in protest, shadows recoiling from my boots, but they did not strike. They recognized me. Worse—they yielded.
Another crack in the world.
I knelt.
Up close, she looked painfully mortal. Soft mouth. Pulse fluttering at her throat. No crown. No markings. No visible power.
And yet my magic strained toward her like a hound on a leash.
I reached out—slowly, deliberately—and brushed my knuckles against her wrist.
The bond snapped taut.
Pain flared behind my eyes, sharp and ancient and right, and somewhere deep in the hall the sigils screamed.
Her eyes flew open.
Not with fear.
With recognition.
Silver light flooded her irises as she sucked in a breath that was not entirely human.
She looked at me—and something in her knew me.
"Don't," she whispered hoarsely. "Please. Don't make me choose."
The words struck harder than any blade.
"I won't," I said, without hesitation.
Behind me, the court erupted into shouting.
The Frost Regent was already moving—magic coiling, intent sharp and final.
"She is a threat," he said coldly. "End this now."
The Ember Prince stepped between us, flames roaring. "Touch her and I'll burn your court to ash."
The Verdant Lord rose, vines tearing through the floor, eyes blazing with quiet fury. "She is not yours to destroy."
And still, she looked only at me.
The bond tightened.
The hall began to fracture.
Above us, the ancient sigil flared once more—brighter than before, lines reweaving themselves into a shape the court had outlawed centuries ago.
The Weaver's Mark.
The girl's fingers clenched in my sleeve.
"I don't understand," she whispered. "But they're coming for me, aren't they?"
"Yes," I said truthfully.
Her grip tightened.
"Then," she said, voice shaking but resolute, "don't let them take me."
The world split.
And the first war of the new age began.