Page 123 of Ashes to Ashes

“Revolution,” I reply, though the word tastes like freedom instead of treason. Frost spreads from my feet in complex patterns that spell out ancient words of binding—not to thrones or crowns, but to choices made freely for people worth protecting. “I believe we just witnessed a revolution.”

The shadow-link flares with my father’s fury, demanding immediate explanation for developments he couldn’t have anticipated. Pain explodes through my skull as royal displeasure translates into physical agony.

But for the first time in twenty years, I let it burn unanswered.

Some conversations are worth the consequences.

Even when those consequences might include everyone I’ve ever loved.

24

ASH

The interrogation chamberfeels like a tomb designed to swallow souls.

I walk through massive doors with my head held high, though my heart hammers against my ribs like a caged bird desperate for escape.

The room feeds on warmth, drawing heat from my body until my breath mists while black stone walls weep hissing condensation and silver inlays pulse with malevolent heartbeats. The air tastes of copper pennies and graveyard earth—something has died here, and the stone remembers.

Through the massive doors, I catch glimpses of familiar figures being held back by walls of crystallized air. Kieran’s shadows writhe with frustrated fury, clawing at invisible barriers that spark when touched. Frost spreads from his feet in violent, chaotic patterns that speak of barely contained rage. Orion’s fire flickers with protective heat that makes the magical barriers shimmer like mirages, his hands pressed flat against the transparent wall as if he could melt through it through will alone. Finnian argues with guards in three different languages, probably citing Academy protocols they’re systematically ignoring.

None of them can reach me. I chose this confrontation, and now I face it alone.

“Courage, root-born,” comes Whispen’s voice at my ear, his translucent form invisible to everyone but me. Blue light pulses faster than usual—anxiety bleeding through his ancient composure. “Walk like a queen, even if your knees knock like chattering teeth.”

Three chairs arranged in tribunal formation, each carved from different materials that speak of court allegiances. Seelie crystal that bends light into weapons. Unseelie obsidian that seems to devour illumination. Wild Court living wood that shifts and grows even as I watch.

Three figures wait with the patience of predators who know their prey has no escape. Lady Amarantha for the Seelie, her beauty sharp enough to cut glass and twice as dangerous—light bending around her form in patterns that hurt to look at directly. Lord Malachar for the Unseelie, shadows pooling around his boots like loyal pets thirsting for blood, darkness that moves independently of his body and reaches toward potential threats. And the Wild Court representative—an ancient woman whose very presence makes my newly awakened magic sing with recognition and terror, bark-textured skin and eyes like deep forest pools that reflect starlight.

But it’s the fourth figure that steals my breath and sends arctic poison racing through my arteries.

Davis sits bound in the corner, military fatigues torn and bloodied, zip-tie restraints cutting into wrists that show defensive wounds. Whatever rescue mission brought him here ahead of schedule clearly went sideways fast. His left eye is swollen shut, blood crusts his split lip, and he holds his ribs like something might be broken underneath.

My human handler. My connection to the life I thought I knew. Captured, beaten, used as leverage against a woman he probably still thinks is his asset.

The sight of him hits like taking shrapnel to the chest. My automatic military posture snaps into place—weight balanced, hands positioned for weapon access, peripheral vision cataloging threats. But my enhanced Fae senses interpret his familiar scent differently now—gunpowder and tactical soap overlaid with fresh blood and something else. Fear. Not of death, but of failure.

Two worlds—human military precision and Fae magical chaos—collide in ways that make my skull feel like it’s splitting along invisible fault lines.

“Agent Morgan.” His voice carries the same authority it always has, though blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth when he speaks. His good eye catalogs my appearance with professional assessment, noting changes he can’t possibly understand but that trigger recognition in his expression. “Interesting career change.”

“What the fuck are you doing here, Davis?” My voice cracks with more emotion than intended. Seeing him here, proof that my old life has followed me into this impossible reality, makes razors twist beneath my sternum. “You’re not supposed to arrive for three days.”

His jaw tightens, muscle memory making him straighten despite obvious injuries. “Intel suggested asset compromise. Took initiative.” A pause, then quieter: “Ghost protocols activated forty-eight hours ago.”

Ghost protocols. Code for “asset presumed captured and potentially turned.” The realization that my military family thinks I’ve been compromised makes something cold settle in my stomach.

“Professor Morgan will suffice,” I reply, though my throat tries to close around the words. The thorns beneath my skin pulse with agitation, responding to emotional chaos in ways Davis notices with the trained eye of someone who’s spent years cataloging my tells.

“How exquisitely touching,” Lady Amarantha observes with silk-wrapped venom, light wavering around her form as she recalculates threat assessments. “A reunion. Though I fear Agent Davis shall not be returning to his military duties. Unless, of course, certain... accommodations... are reached.”

The threat hangs in the air like cordite after gunfire. They think he still matters to me. That I still care about my old handler more than my new life.

They’re not entirely wrong, and that terrifies me more than their magic.

“What do you want?” I ask, though I already know the answer will reshape everything I think I understand about myself.

“Verification,” Lord Malachar responds, his voice like grinding stone that makes the chamber walls vibrate in response. Shadows writhe around him with hungry anticipation, darkness probing for weakness. “You claim Wild Court royal heritage. We require... confirmation.”

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