Seven centuries of deals, and I thought I’d finally done something simple. Heal her mother. That was all. A straightforward bargain. Nothing more. Nothing involving me.

I ran a hand through my hair, tugging sharply, and muttered under my breath, “Bloody… damn it.” Control is supposed to be mine. Every deal mapped, every word measured. And yet here I am, pacing, teeth clenched, because the spell—the insufferable, mocking spell—decided to have opinions.

I wanted a firstborn. A life to raise. A soul to keep. Simple. I laid the parameters. Clear, precise. No involvement. No… anything I didn’t sign up for. And yet, when she offered her firstborn in gratitude for her mother’s life, the magic—insidious, clever, and infuriating—twisted our intentions together.

The realization hit like a fist of ice: not hers alone. Not mine alone. Ours. The child would require both of us. Neither of us had erred. Neither of us had misstepped. The spell simply… decided.

I threw back my shoulders, muttering curses under my breath. “Unbelievable… absolutely bloody unbelievable.” My eyes found hers. She froze, lips parted, horror and understanding dawning simultaneously. The moment we both realized the truth, the threads of magic shimmered between us, undeniable and relentless.

I balled my fists, running my hand through my hair again, more sharply this time, pacing in frustration. I wanted a life, not complications. I wanted a firstborn, not to be dragged into consequences that I had not calculated, that no mortal or Fey could have anticipated. And yet, here we are. Tangled. Bound. Both of us caught in the spell’s audacious interpretation of our intentions.

I let out a sharp laugh, dry, bitter, incredulous. “Well,” I said, voice low and clipped, simmering with rage, “isn’t this… charming?”