Page 140 of Ashes to Ashes

“Mid-morning. Which means you have approximately eight hours until the Trial of Truth begins at twilight.”

Stone drops into my stomach. Today. Today I have to prove my worth to a society I didn’t know I belonged to, yet I do. It’s a knowing that exists deep in my bones—I belong here more than I’ve ever belonged anywhere in my entire life.

“Eight hours,” I repeat, anxiety spiking through post-orgasmic bliss.

“Eight hours to prepare for three questions that will strip you bare before every court representative in the Academy.” Whispen’s tone turns serious, though his needle-sharp grin remains. “The Trial of Truth isn’t just ‘prove you’re royal, here’s your crown.’ Oh no, root-born, it’s much more fun than that. It’s ‘prove your soul is worthy to wield the power that comes with divine blood, or die trying.’“ His grin turns razor-sharp. “Isn’t that delightful?”

Every time I speak a truth out loud, I wonder if I’ve just signed my own death sentence. Visibility has always meant vulnerability. Power has always meant punishment.

But hiding didn’t save me before.

And I’m done playing a ghost in someone else’s war. This is my skin now—etched in thorns and truths I’ve bled for. So let them come. Let the courts bare their teeth.

I’m not walking into that trial to beg for space.

I’m walking in to take what was always mine.

My stomach lurches. “What kind of questions?”

“The kind that force absolute honesty about what you fear most, what you desire most, what you’d sacrifice most.” He floats closer, needle-sharp teeth catching the light. “Truth constraints amplified to the point where even thinking about lying causes physical agony. Evasion could sever every magical bond you’ve formed.”

Lightning strikes behind my ribs at the threat. Every bond. That means Kieran, the debt between us, whatever’s developing with Finnian and Orion—all of it could be destroyed if I can’t answer honestly enough.

“I need to prepare.” I scramble out of bed, looking around for my clothes. “I need to understand Fae customs, trial procedures, what’s expected?—”

“You need the scholar.” Whispen’s grin turns knowing. “Lucky for you, I may have mentioned to a certain amber-eyed professor that you’d require emergency education this morning.”

“You told Finnian I was here?” Mortification burns through me.

“I told him you’d need help preparing for trials that could reshape the political landscape. Where you spent the night is... contextually apparent to anyone with functional magical senses.”

Shit. Of course it is. I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes, my hair is thoroughly mussed, and I probably smell like Kieran’s winter magic. The walk from his quarters to mine—or to whereverFinnian is waiting—will be a parade of shame through Academy corridors.

“Where is he?”

“Library archives. Private study room seven. And root-born?” Whispen’s expression turns uncharacteristically gentle. “He’s not angry. Hurt, perhaps. But not angry.”

The distinction cuts deeper than outright rage would have.

I pull on yesterday’s clothes with as much dignity as possible, finger-combing my hair into something resembling order. The thorn patterns beneath my skin glow faintly through the fabric—visible proof of magical awakening that anyone with eyes can recognize.

“Wish me luck,” I mutter, heading for the door.

“You don’t need luck,” Whispen calls after me. “You need honesty. Try not to die of it.”

The corridor outside Kieran’s quarters might as well be a gauntlet. Students cluster in small groups, their conversations dying as I pass. Faculty members cast meaningful glances at my disheveled state. Even the Academy itself seems to be judging me—crystal fixtures brightening as I walk beneath them, announcing my presence to anyone within a mile radius.

“Professor Morgan,” Lady Shimmerwell’s crystalline voice stops me cold. “How... eventful your morning appears to be.”

I turn to find her watching with predatory interest, violet eyes cataloging every detail of my walk-of-shame appearance.

“Lady Shimmerwell.” I keep my voice carefully neutral. “Lovely morning.”

“Indeed. Though some mornings carry more... significance than others.” Her smile sharpens. “I do hope you’re prepared for today’s proceedings. The courts have such high expectations.”

The threat wrapped in politeness makes my thorns pulse with warning. “I’m sure they do.”

“Until twilight, then.” She glides away, leaving behind the distinct impression that she knows something I don’t.

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