Page 122 of Ashes to Ashes

“Kieran...” Her voice carries something that might be gratitude, though the debt binding between us makes such expressions dangerous territory.

“Don’t,” I warn, though not unkindly. Blood continues flowing as I hold the psychic connection open while refusing to comply. “Save your words for when you will need them most.”

“Which is when?”

I glance toward where court representatives establish what look suspiciously like siege positions around Academy perimeter, magical signatures building for coordinated assault.

“Twilight, troublesome thing. Then we discover what you are really made of.”

Her response shocks everyone within hearing distance.

“Why wait?”

Power erupts from her skin like she’s been struck by lightning made of starlight. The thorn patterns don’t just glow—they blaze with blue-green fire that makes shadows dance andstones sing in harmony. She straightens to her full height, and suddenly she’s not just tall—she’s commanding. Regal. Ancient authority flowing through her like water finally finding its proper channel.

The Will-o’-wisp’s blue light flares brighter, as if feeding her confidence. Around her feet, tiny flowers bloom in impossible colors, responding to royal magic that recognizes no political boundaries.

“Let us go.”

Before anyone can react, she walks across the courtyard with measured steps that leave prints of living light, heading directly toward the main Academy building. Each footfall pulses with royal authority that makes every person on the grounds straighten in automatic response to power they recognize on cellular level.

Master Valeborn starts forward in alarm, Academy protocols warring against recognition of legitimate royal authority. “Professor Morgan?—”

“Professor nothing.” She cuts him off without breaking stride, power rippling outward from her voice in waves that make crystal formations throughout the building ring like bells. “Ashlynne Moonshadow, last heir of the Wild Court royal line, requesting immediate audience with joint court representatives.”

The formal declaration ripples across Academy grounds like thunder made of magic. Students freeze mid-motion. Faculty stare in fascination. Court delegates turn as one to track her movement, magical pressure building as they recognize the complete shift in power dynamics.

My shadows dance with something like pride as I watch someone I care about refuse to be anyone’s victim.

She pauses at the building’s entrance, turning back to address the assembled crowd with voice that carries to everycorner of the grounds without effort—royal projection that requires no magical amplification.

“I assume you have a proper meeting chamber?” she calls out, clearly addressing the court representatives with casual confidence that makes several step backward instinctively. “Something befitting the gravity of this discussion?”

Then, with authority that makes Academy stones hum in recognition, she pushes through the door like she owns the entire institution.

Silence stretches across Academy grounds like a held breath, everyone processing implications that rewrite centuries of political assumptions.

A moment later, her head pops back out, power crackling around her like visible electricity that makes the air itself bow in submission.

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

The words land like physical blows, reshaping power dynamics in ways that leave everyone—including myself—scrambling to understand new rules. Royal command backed by awakening magic that makes the very air submit to her authority.

She’s not waiting for protection. She’s not accepting rescue. She’s taking control of a situation designed to make her victim and turning it into something else entirely.

Lady Amarantha’s composed mask cracks further as royal protocols she hasn’t seen in centuries activate around legitimate bloodline authority. “I... that is... protocols dictate?—”

“Protocols,” Ash interrupts with smile sharp as winter wind, thorn patterns flaring with brilliant light that makes court delegates flinch, “are for subjects. Not queens.”

And with that declaration hanging in the air like a blade poised to fall, she disappears into the Academy, leaving threecourt delegations staring at empty space where their carefully planned psychological dominance was supposed to unfold.

The Will-o’-wisp gives everyone a cheerful wave before zipping after her, blue light trailing like a comet made of ancient starlight.

“Well,” I murmur to no one in particular, shadows dancing around my boots with something that might be pride mixed with anticipation. “This should be interesting.”

Master Valeborn turns to me with expression caught between horror and admiration, Academy neutrality crumbling as royal authority rewrites institutional priorities. “Your Highness, what exactly just happened?”

I consider the question, weighing political implications against the sudden lightness in my chest that comes from watching someone I care about refuse to be anyone’s pawn. Blood continues trickling from my nose as I hold the psychic connection open while refusing to comply with royal commands.

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