Page 129 of Ashes to Ashes

Around us, silence reigns like every fae is holding their breath, waiting for the wild bomb to detonate. The walls themselves seem to pulse with anticipation.

I’d intended to wait in her quarters—to be there when she returned, whatever state she might be in. But curiosity sings in my blood now, demanding answers to questions I’m afraid to ask.

The Academy shifts without warning, corridors spinning like a child’s toy. Walls darken, doors fade, reality rearranging itself with casual indifference to our preferences.

“Ah, the library calls,” Finn says with forced lightness.

But I’m not so sure. The space around us continues to change—stone becoming wood, crystal fixtures melting into firelight, the very air growing thick with old magic.

“This is not the library, old friend.”

“No,” he breathes, staring ahead. “It is not.”

A weathered door fades into existence—stone and wood that looks like it was pulled from the ocean floor and shaped by hands older than memory.

“Well, that looks ominous,” comes a childlike voice from directly behind us.

I’m not ashamed to admit that voice startles a small squeak out of me. Fae enough to own these things.

Finnian barely reacts. “Whispen.”

“At your service!” The little wisp beams with genuine delight, his needle-sharp teeth glinting. “What fun! You’ve wandered into exactly the right place at exactly the right time for maximum emotional devastation. Isn’t destiny wonderful?”

“Of course,” Whispen practically glows with pride when Finn gives him a look. “Hearts cracked open to truth always find their way to me eventually. I’m like a cosmic compass pointing toward all the answers that will definitely ruin your peaceful little lives! Isn’t that marvelous?”

“I am absolutely not going through that door,” Finn mutters.

“Where else will you go?” Whispen counters reasonably, tilting his translucent head. “The Academy’s already decided for you—resistance is wonderfully futile!”

Screw it. I stride forward—fine, I stomp a little, but guardian pride has limits—and push through the doorway.

The space beyond steals my breath. A fireplace crackles against stone walls, flames casting dancing shadows across leather furniture and hanging tapestries. Whiskey sits on a low table, amber liquid catching the light. The entire space feels like a cabin pulled from the heart of the Wild Court—primordial, comfortable, alive.

“Brilliant,” Master Tadhg mutters from his chair, not bothering to look up from his drink. “Centuries of scholars, millennia of supposedly clever fae minds, and it takes two lovesick puppies stumbling through ancient mysteries to piece together what should have been bloody obvious.”

“Figure what out?” I look between the old librarian and Finnian stepping in behind me.

“Oh, how delightful!” Whispen chirps with bright enthusiasm as he floats past us. “I’ll keep our precious Ash company while you embark on your surely-not-doomed journey! Don’t worry about the trials possibly shredding her soul—I’m excellent at collecting the pieces!”

The door slams shut before I can ask what he means by ‘away.’

I turn back to Tadhg, really looking at him for the first time. He’s not the scattered librarian he pretends to be. Forgotten weariness clings to him like a second skin, and his eyes hold depths that make my guardian instincts prickle with recognition.

“What are they doing to her in there?” The question rips from my throat before I can think to ask anything else.

Tadhg’s expression darkens with the sort of bitter satisfaction reserved for watching idiots prove themselves idiotic. “Ironwood tables. Because naturally they’d use the one material that burns through protective magic like acid through parchment. They’re systematically flaying away pieces of her essence, convinced they’re removing glamour.” He takes a long drink. “Academic incompetence at its finest.”

“And?” Finnian prompts, though his face has gone pale.

“The protections woven into her essence as an infant aren’t glamour—they’re survival magic. Part of her very DNA. Trying to tear them away...” He pauses to savor his whiskey like a man who’s seen too much. “Like trying to remove someone’s skeleton while they’re still alive.”

My knees nearly buckle. The oath mark feels like it’s burning through bone. “How long can she survive that?”

“If the Morrigan hadn’t arrived when she did? Minutes. As it is...” He shrugs with false casualness that doesn’t hide the worry in his ancient eyes. “The damage may already be done.”

“The barriers,” I breathe, comprehension flooding through me like ice water. “They’re not just keeping us out.”

“They’re containing the magical forces being used inside,” Tadhg confirms grimly. “Break them now, and the backlash could shred her mind completely. The only thing worse than what they’re doing to her would be interrupting it.”

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