Page 141 of Ashes to Ashes

Three Seelie students cluster near the main staircase, their whispered conversation dying as I approach. I catch fragments—”political implications” and “Unseelie alliance” and “scandal.” One meets my gaze directly, eyes bright with curiosity rather than judgment.

“Professor Morgan,” she says with a slight curtsy. “We’re rooting for you today.”

The unexpected support makes something fracture behind my ribs. “I appreciate that.”

Near the library entrance, an Unseelie representative I don’t recognize makes careful notes in a leather journal, his gaze tracking my progress. Making reports. Cataloging evidence. Building cases.

The political ramifications of my choices hit fresh—this isn’t just about personal relationships. It’s about alliances and power structures and three courts trying to position themselves for whatever comes next.

By the time I reach the library, whispers follow in my wake like autumn leaves. The worst part isn’t the judgment—it’s the vulnerability. Every person who sees me like this knows I spent the night in someone’s bed. The loss of privacy feels like losing armor before battle.

Through the library windows, I can see the hourglass in the sky tilting. Libra rising on the eastern horizon—a symbol of balance, of judgment. Of being weighed and found wanting. Or worthy.

Study room seven sits tucked away in the archives’ deepest section, hidden behind shelves of texts so ancient they predate written language. I pause outside the door, suddenly uncertain.

What if Whispen was wrong? What if Finnian is angry? What if seeing me like this—rumpled and satisfied and obviously freshfrom another man’s bed—ruins whatever fragile connection we’ve built?

Before I can lose my nerve, the door opens.

Finnian stands framed in warm amber light, his usually perfect appearance slightly disheveled. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and his cream-colored shirt is wrinkled like he’s been running his hands through it. Books lie scattered around him like he’s been pacing, thinking, maybe questioning everything he thought he knew about what he wanted.

When his golden eyes meet mine, I see the exact moment he takes in my state—mussed hair, yesterday’s clothes, the subtle glow that apparently announces recent sexual satisfaction to anyone with magical senses.

His mask slips for just a moment, and I see the man beneath—the one who spent the night preparing ways to save me while I was discovering new ways to want someone else. The one whose careful distance can’t hide the way his thumb drags across his lower lip, slow and unconscious, like he’s trying to keep dangerous words from escaping.

But there’s something else in his expression. Not just pain, but... resolution? Like he’s decided about something while I was gone.

“Ash.” His voice carries careful neutrality. “Whispen said you’d need help preparing for the trials.”

“I do.” The words come out smaller than intended. “If you’re willing.”

He steps back, gesturing me inside. “Of course.”

The study room has been transformed into a war room. Ancient texts lie open across every surface, their pages glowing with activated knowledge. Maps of Fae political structures cover the walls. A timeline of Wild Court history stretches from floor to ceiling.

“How long have you been here?” I ask, taking in the scope of his preparation.

“Since dawn.” He moves to a table covered in legal scrolls, not quite looking at me. “The Trial of Truth has specific precedents, particular procedures. I wanted to ensure you understood what you’re walking into.”

The careful distance in his voice cuts deeper than anger would have. He’s compartmentalizing, pushing aside whatever he feels about my night with Kieran to focus on helping me survive today.

“Finnian.” I step closer, close enough to catch his scent—bergamot and old books and something essentially him that makes my ribs ache. “About last night?—”

“You don’t owe me explanations.” His honey-colored gaze finally meets mine, though something vulnerable flickers there before he masks it. “Your choices are your own—perhaps that’s what makes them matter more than obligations ever could.”

“But I want to explain.”

“Do you?” The question carries weight. “Or do you want to assuage guilt that serves no purpose here?”

The brutal honesty stops me cold. He’s right—whatever I say about last night won’t change what happened. Won’t erase the fact that I chose Kieran’s bed over... whatever might have developed between us.

“You’re right,” I admit. “I can’t explain it away. But I can tell you that it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

His thumb traces his bottom lip, that unconscious gesture that makes my stomach flutter. “How do you feel about me?”

The question hangs between us, weighted with possibility and danger. Truth constraints make lying impossible, but honesty feels like walking off a cliff.

Who am I without the way they look at me? The question makes the ground tilt beneath my feet. For twenty-eight years,I’ve been what others needed—soldier, weapon, ghost. But with them, I’m becoming someone I don’t recognize. Someone who might be worth choosing.

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