Page 167 of Ashes to Ashes

“Does she?” Amarantha’s laugh sounds like crystal breaking. “How curious that a human-raised changeling would know such specifics about her supposed nature.”

The guards spread into formation—not attacking yet, but definitely preventing passage. Each one radiates the kind of power that could level buildings without breaking a sweat.

“Stand aside,” I warn, heat building until the air itself shimmers. “Before I make you.”

“I think not.” Her voice carries arctic politeness. “The candidate has clearly been subjected to severe magical trauma. As the court with the most advanced healing techniques, we have a duty to intervene.”

“You have nothing.” The words hit like stones, my jaw tight with barely controlled fury. “No claim. No right. No chance in hell.”

But she’s not wrong about the trauma. I can feel it through the guardian bond—not just physical damage but something deeper. The Truth Stone’s invasive magic left fractures in places that shouldn’t be touched.

Ash’s consciousness flickers against mine like a candle in hurricane wind. I feel her terror—not of physical harm, but of being controlled again. Of having choices stripped away by people claiming to help.

“No,” she whispers against my throat, voice raw but carrying absolute determination. “Not... not the Seelie.”

“You’re in no condition to make rational decisions,” Amarantha says with the kind of gentle condescension that makes me want to set everything on fire. “Magical trauma often causes confusion, disorientation?—”

“I said NO.”

The word detonates from Ash’s throat with royal authority that makes my bones vibrate. Her thorns don’t just flare—they explode beneath her skin in spirals of blue-green fire.

Stone cracks beneath my feet. Ancient foundations groan as roots burst through Academy floors, seeking their queen. Crystal fixtures ring like struck bells as the building itself recognizes what she is, what she’s always been.

Amarantha’s perfect composure cracks like ice under pressure. “The candidate requires proper supervision?—”

“By whom?”

The voice cuts through tension like a blade forged from winter storms and ancient starlight. The Morrigan steps from shadows that shouldn’t exist in this well-lit corridor, her presence making even elite Seelie guards take involuntary steps backward.

Thank the ancient roots. Backup.

“The Wild Court remembers its own,” she continues, silver eyes fixed on Amarantha with predatory intensity that makes the temperature drop. “And we heal our own.”

“Lady Morrigan,” Amarantha attempts diplomatic courtesy, but fear bleeds through her perfect mask like ink through silk. “Surely you recognize the delicate nature?—”

“I recognize attempted theft.” The Morrigan’s smile turns absolutely feral, revealing teeth that belong on something apex predatory. “Did you think ancient oaths held no power? That guardian bonds could be severed by political convenience?”

She gestures toward me, toward Ash unconscious in my arms. “This child bears royal Wild Court blood. She has chosen her guardian. You have no claim here.”

The words hit with divine authority that makes Seelie magic recoil.

Footsteps approach from behind—not threats, I’d sense those through the oath’s warning system. But my shoulders tense anyway as Kieran and Finnian appear, moving with desperate urgency that makes something shift in my chest.

They’re here. Racing through Academy corridors to reach us.

Kieran’s pale eyes catalog Ash’s condition with desperate precision—the blood still seeping from her nose, the way her consciousness flickers like dying embers. His shadows reach toward her before stopping just short of contact, frost spreading from his boots as his control wavers.

“How bad?” The words come out sharp, controlled, but I catch the way his shadows writhe with barely contained panic.

“Truth Stone damage. She’s burned out.” I keep my voice steady, recognizing the genuine fear in his eyes. “Needs Wild magic.”

“The ice magic in my system could help stabilize the burning,” he says quietly, shadows writhing with frustrated helplessness. “If you need?—”

“Earth magic first.” I see the way Kieran’s jaw tightens, the want and helplessness warring in his eyes. “But she’ll need ice after. Fire burns too hot without something to cool it.”

Something shifts in his pale eyes. Not jealousy or competition, but recognition that she might need all of us for different parts of her healing.

Finnian steps closer, producing a small crystal that pulses with golden light. His hands shake as he offers it, the scholar who always has answers rendered speechless by seeing her suffer.

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