Fury bubbled through Pharraseus's veins. The spy-spirit's whispered message still rang in his ears—marriage between Kovax and Ryaz, a political union to legitimize the abomination growing in his nephew's womb. 

"A marriage," he hissed under his breath, "Those shortsighted fools."

He had orchestrated everything perfectly—the drugged drinks, the locked bathroom, the fertility potion designed to ensure conception. The scandal should have ignited ancient hatreds, driven both races to war. Instead, they sought reconciliation through matrimony. 

It was nauseating.

Pharraseus sipped at his tea, his mind racing through contingencies. War was essential. Only through war could the fae establish dominance over the dragons, and only through that dominance could his true plans unfold. The resources he needed would be within his grasp if the fae controlled the continent.

Movement outside the window caught his eye. A familiar figure walked past, shoulders hunched, auburn hair disheveled. Lord Michael Forrester, Ryaz's paramor, wandering the streets like a lost soul. Pharraseus felt his lips curl into a smile as a new plan crystallized in his mind.

"Perfect," he whispered to himself. The hybrid was the key—a wounded heart could be so easily manipulated, especially one with human blood running through its veins.

Pharraseus stood and stepped into the cool evening air, "Lord Forrester," he called, his voice warm with false concern.

---

Michael wandered aimlessly through the empty streets of Central Concordia, the velvet pouch burning a hole in his pocket with each step. The ring inside—the one that would never grace Ryaz's finger—felt heavier than a stone, dragging him down until he could barely lift his feet from the cobblestones.

A light rain began to fall, misting his hair and clothes. He welcomed it. Let the sky weep with him. Let the whole world drown.

"Lord Forrester."

The voice behind him sent a chill up Michael's spine. He turned slowly, muscles tensing as he recognized Lord Pharraseus standing beneath an ornate streetlamp, silver hair gleaming in the ethereal light. 

"Leave me alone," Michael muttered, turning away. He couldn't bear the pity in those ancient eyes.

"I understand your desire for solitude," Pharraseus said, moving closer with silent grace. "But I fear you're in danger wandering alone. There are forces at work tonight that would see you... removed from the equation."

Michael laughed bitterly. "I've already been removed. What more could they do?"

Pharraseus's voice dropped to a whisper. "Kill you."

The bluntness of it stopped Michael in his tracks. He turned again, studying the Fae lord's face for any sign of deception. "What?"

"Not here." Pharraseus glanced around, his movements carrying the genuine wariness of prey sensing a predator. "Please, Lord Forrester. A few minutes of your time could save your life—and perhaps Ryaz's as well."

The mention of Ryaz's name was enough. Michael followed Pharraseus into a small teahouse tucked between two larger buildings. 

Pharraseus led him to a booth in the farthest corner, ordering tea as they passed the counter. He leaned forward, voice barely audible over the gentle clink of porcelain from the kitchen.

"What I'm about to tell you will sound... incredibly difficult to believe. But I beg you to hear me out completely."

Michael's jaw tightened. "Just say what you came to say."

The tea arrived—delicate cups of translucent porcelain filled with liquid that shimmered with subtle magic. Pharraseus waited until the server departed before speaking again.

"The dragons planned this," he said simply. "All of it."

Michael's cup froze halfway to his lips. "What?"

"The assault on Ryaz wasn't random chance." Pharraseus's eyes darkened to stormy gray. "It was a calculated political move."

"That's absurd," Michael snapped, setting his cup down with enough force to slosh tea onto the polished table. "Kovax was drugged. Ryaz said so himself."

"Of course he was drugged," Pharraseus agreed smoothly. "By his own people."

Michael stared at him. The claim was outrageous, yet something cold settled in his stomach as Pharraseus continued.

"The dragons have coveted access to the Silver River for centuries. It's the only viable route from their mountain strongholds to the Western Sea. Without it, their trade is crippled, their navy stunted." Pharraseus traced a pattern on the table with one elegant finger. "For generations, they've attempted to negotiate access. Each time, the Fae Council has refused."

"What does that have to do with Ryaz?" Michael demanded, though a horrible suspicion was beginning to form.

"Everything." Pharraseus leaned closer. "Think about it. A child of mixed blood—half fae royalty, half dragon nobility. The perfect excuse for a political marriage, for 'peace between the races.' And with that marriage will come concessions. Access to the river. Fae shipbuilding techniques. Perhaps even military secrets."

Michael's heart pounded against his ribs. "You're saying they... they orchestrated a rape just to force a political marriage?"

"Dragons are not known for their subtlety," Pharraseus said with a grimace. "Or their moral compunctions when it comes to achieving their goals."

Michael's hands clenched into fists beneath the table. The scenario was monstrous, yet it followed a certain twisted logic.

"But Kovax himself seemed genuinely horrified," he argued, remembering the dragon prince's ashen face, his defeated posture. "He offered his own life as penance."

"I don’t believe Prince Kovax to be aware of his father’s subterfuge," Pharraseus admitted. "He is likely no more involved than a pawn in the grander plan. And the pawns are often kept ignorant of the higher strategies."

Michael shook his head, trying to clear the fog of confusion and grief. "Why are you telling me this? Why not tell the Emperor?"

Pharraseus's expression darkened. "I fear my brother may already be compromised. There are spies within the Fae court—have been for decades. Some on the Council itself."

"That's impossible," Michael protested. "The loyalty enchantments—"

"Can be circumvented by those with enough knowledge and power." Pharraseus sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping with apparent weariness. "I've been investigating for years, gathering evidence carefully. I was close—so close—to exposing them when this happened."

He looked up, meeting Michael's eyes with an intensity that made the hybrid uncomfortable. "They'll try to frame me for this, you know. They'll say I orchestrated the assault to drive a wedge between our races. It's the perfect way to discredit me before I can reveal their identities."

Michael's head spun with the implications. "Why would I believe you over Ryaz?"

"I'm not asking you to choose between us," Pharraseus said gently. "Ryaz is as much a victim in this as you are. More so. He doesn't know what forces are manipulating him."

Michael stared into his tea, watching the shimmer of magic swirl beneath the surface. The possibility that Ryaz had been not just violated but used as a political pawn made his blood boil.

"What do you want from me?" he asked finally.

"Your help," Pharraseus replied simply. "Your unique position—half human, half Fae, trusted by Ryaz—makes you invaluable. You can move between worlds, observe what others cannot."

"You want me to spy for you?"

"I want you to help me save Ryaz," Pharraseus corrected.

"Even if I believed you," Michael said slowly, "what difference does it make now? Ryaz is pregnant. The kings have all but already decided on marriage."

"Yes, and with that marriage comes the end of everything you and Ryaz dreamed of." Pharraseus reached across the table, his cool fingers resting lightly on Michael's wrist. "Unless we act."

Michael's heart stuttered. "What do you mean?"

"Ryaz loves you deeply," Pharraseus said, his voice softening. "Even now, he's likely trying to convince my brother to allow you to remain as his consort after the marriage. He'll fight for you, Michael, with everything he has."

Hope flared in Michael's chest, painful in its intensity. "He will?"

"Of course. His love for you has never been in question." Pharraseus withdrew his hand. "But while they may agree on the surface just to secure a marriage, the dragons will never allow such an arrangement to remain. They are possessive, territorial. Once married, the Dragon council will ensure you're removed from Ryaz's life entirely."

The hope withered as quickly as it had bloomed. "So what's the point of telling me all this? Just to twist the knife?"

"No," Pharraseus leaned forward, eyes intense. "To offer you a chance to fight back. To reclaim the future that was stolen from you."

Michael's mouth went dry. "How?"

"The pregnancy is early. Barely more than a spark." Pharraseus's voice dropped to a whisper. "There are ways to... extinguish such sparks. Ancient Fae methods that leave no trace, no evidence of interference. The child would simply... cease to be."

Horror washed over Michael like ice water. "You're talking about abortion."

"I'm talking about removing the foundation of a political alliance built on violation and deceit," Pharraseus corrected smoothly. "Without the child, there is no need for marriage. The dragons lose their leverage. And you and Ryaz can return to the life you planned."

Michael's hands clenched into fists beneath the table. "Ryaz would never forgive me."

"He need never know it was you," Pharraseus countered.

The suggestion turned Michael's stomach, and yet... and yet a treacherous part of him couldn't help but imagine the outcome: Ryaz, free from this forced marriage. The two of them together again, planning their wedding beneath the Great Ancestor Tree. The ring in his pocket finding its rightful place on Ryaz's finger.

"I can see you're conflicted," Pharraseus said gently. "As you should be. This is not a decision to make lightly." He reached into his robes and withdrew a small crystal vial filled with clear liquid. "Take this. Keep it with you. It need only be added to Ryaz's tea or water—tasteless, odorless, painless in its work. It will take several micro-doses over a long period of time for the effects to mimic a natural miscarriage, a common enough occurrence in first pregnancies." He explained, “Too much in one dose will harm Ryaz too, so be sure to only use one to two drops every other day.”

Michael stared at the vial, unable to move. "I can't—"

"You don't have to decide now," Pharraseus pressed the vial into his palm, closing Michael's fingers around it. "But know this: the dragons will not rest until you are removed from Ryaz's life completely. Your very presence is a threat to their plans. Even if you accept defeat gracefully, step aside and allow this marriage to proceed, they will find ways to eliminate you."

Michael's blood ran cold. "Eliminate me?"

"You know too much," Pharraseus said simply. "You've seen their prince at his worst. You alos know the true method of how Kovax implanted his seed in your boyfriend. And more importantly, Ryaz loves you. As long as you live, his heart will never fully belong to Kovax, never fully commit to the alliance. You are a loose end they cannot afford."

Michael slipped the vial into his pocket, next to the ring pouch, his thoughts a chaotic storm. "This is... a lot to process."

"Of course it is." Pharraseus's voice was sympathetic.

Michael stood abruptly, needing space, needing air. "I need to think."

"Of course." Pharraseus remained seated, watching him with those calculating eyes. "But don't take too long. Events are moving quickly now, and opportunities may be fleeting."

Michael turned to leave, then paused. "Why?" Michael asked, the question cutting through the silence. His eyes narrowed as he studied Pharraseus's face. "Why are you helping me? You've never approved of my relationship with Ryaz. You've made that abundantly clear from the moment we met."

Pharraseus's expression shifted, a flicker of something—vulnerability?—crossing his aristocratic features before he lowered his gaze to the teacup between his hands. He sighed, the sound heavy with what seemed like genuine regret.

"You're right to question my motives," he admitted quietly. "I haven't been... welcoming to you. For that, I owe you an apology."

Michael remained standing, unwilling to sit back down despite the exhaustion dragging at his limbs. "An apology doesn't explain this sudden change of heart."

"No, it doesn't." Pharraseus looked up, meeting Michael's suspicious gaze. "The truth is, I was raised with certain... expectations about bloodlines. The royal Fae lineage has remained pure for millennia. It's what I was taught to value, to protect." His fingers traced the rim of his teacup. "When Ryaz chose you, I saw only threat—not love."

Michael crossed his arms, unconvinced. "And now?"

"Now I see my error." Pharraseus's voice softened. "It's... difficult to go against everything you were taught to believe. The prejudices instilled in childhood don't disappear overnight." He gestured to the seat Michael had vacated. "Please, sit. Allow me to explain properly."

Against his better judgment, Michael sank back into the chair.

"I've watched you with my nephew," Pharraseus continued. "At first with suspicion, then with curiosity, and finally with... reluctant admiration. Ryaz loves you deeply. That should be enough." He spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. "It will take time for me to fully retrain my thinking, to overcome centuries of prejudice. But I'm trying, Michael. For Ryaz's sake, and perhaps for my own."

Michael wanted to believe him. The sincerity in Pharraseus's voice, the humble bow of his head—it all seemed genuine. And the thought of having an ally, especially one as powerful as the Emperor's brother, was tempting beyond measure.

"I still don't understand why you'd go this far," Michael pressed. "Suggesting... what you're suggesting is treason."

"Perhaps," Pharraseus acknowledged. "Or perhaps it's justice. Ryaz was violated. His future was stolen. This child, conceived in such circumstances—what kind of life awaits it? Caught between two races that have despised each other for millennia?" He leaned forward, eyes intense. "Sometimes the most merciful path is also the most difficult. Take what time you need. But remember, each day that passes makes intervention more... complicated."

As they left the teahouse together, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets glistening under the moonlight. Pharraseus placed a hand on Michael's shoulder, the touch light but somehow still heavy with implication.

"Whatever you decide, know that my support for you and Ryaz is genuine. Perhaps too late in coming, but sincere nonetheless."

Michael nodded stiffly, unable to form words around the knot in his throat. As Pharraseus disappeared into the night, Michael stood alone on the wet cobblestones, the vial burning like ice against his thigh.