Page 196 of Ashes to Ashes

I survived three years of Davis’s manipulation disguised as care. I survived the Truth Trial’s violation. I survived tonight’s assault.

In two days, I’ll survive whatever they throw at me.

And then I’ll make them all pay for underestimating what happens when you threaten something a Wild Court queen considers hers.

The trial may be rigged, the treasures may be hidden, and I may be walking into execution disguised as divine judgment.

But I’m done being anyone’s victim.

Time to remind them all why gods chose mortality in the first place—not from weakness, but from the absolute confidence that even without divine power, some things are worth any price to protect.

Outside the chamber’s pearl windows, the dark moon rises like a promise.

In two days, everything changes.

38

ASH

Davis’s voiceechoes from the locked bathing chamber, muffled but increasingly frantic.

“Ash! Open this door! We need to talk about last night—about what you think happened versus what actually?—”

I tune out his manipulation attempts, focusing instead on the crystal-clear fury that’s replaced last night’s magical haze. My skull throbs where I slammed it against the wall during our struggle, and my palm stings from crystal cuts, but the pain feels clean. Real. Mine.

The suppression enchantments still pulse through the chamber like a slow heartbeat against my temples, but something fundamental shifted when I cracked his skull open. Not my magic—that remains buried deep, struggling against invisible chains. But my sense of self, my absolute refusal to be anyone’s victim again.

“Ash, please! I know you’re confused, but the trial is tomorrow and we need to prepare you properly?—”

Tomorrow. Twenty-four more hours of whatever psychological warfare they have planned. Twenty-four more hours of fighting for pieces of my own mind.

Let him rot in there. Let him explain to Amarantha why he failed to complete whatever conditioning they had mapped out in careful detail.

I pace toward the pearl-carved windows, watching Seelie citizens move through gardens that shift and rearrange themselves with each step. Perfect. Controlled. Wrong in ways that make goosebumps rise along my arms despite the chamber’s perfect temperature.

A soft chime echoes through the chamber, the sound seeming to emanate from the walls themselves. The quality of light shifts, becoming warmer, more golden, and Amarantha’s voice carries crystalline authority that somehow reaches every corner despite no visible speakers: “Good morning, dear one. I trust you rested well? Breakfast awaits whenever you’re ready to join me.”

The invitation sounds warm, maternal even. Like hot chocolate offered by a grandmother who actually gives a damn about your wellbeing.

But after last night, I recognize the steel beneath silk for what it really is.

I turn from the window, studying the provided gown laid across the massive bed. Silk that shifts between pearl and silver, cut to emphasize my youth and apparent vulnerability. The fabric clings in ways that make me feel exposed, displayed. If Amarantha wants to see a compliant prisoner, I’ll give her exactly that performance.

Davis’s protests fade as I dress, his voice becoming background noise to the sharp focus settling over my thoughts. Guards materialize in the corridor beyond my door—not appearing suddenly, but emerging from shadows like they’ve been waiting. They fall into formation around me. Not protection—escort to ensure I reach my destination without detours or escape attempts.

The breakfast parlor exists in defiance of natural law, all flowing curves and impossible angles that make my eyes water when I try to focus on any single element. Sunlight streams through crystal windows that somehow face three different directions simultaneously, creating rainbows that dance across surfaces carved from what looks like compressed starlight. The disorientation makes me blink rapidly, vision struggling to process geometry that shouldn’t exist.

Beautiful. Perfect. Wrong in ways that make my skin crawl with primitive recognition of predator territory.

Lady Amarantha sits at a table that could seat twenty, though only two places are set. She rises as I enter, violet eyes scanning my appearance with methodical precision—cataloging the dark circles under my eyes, the slight tremor in my hands from suppressed adrenaline, the careful way I hold myself like someone expecting attack.

“You look refreshed,” she says, though her tone suggests she’s noting the opposite. “I was concerned the quarters might prove... overstimulating for someone unaccustomed to Seelie amenities.”

The memory of Davis’s hands on my skin flashes through my mind—invasive, possessive, wrong—but I keep my expression neutral. “Your hospitality has been illuminating.”

“Has it? How wonderful.” Her smile could cut diamond, beautiful and sharp enough to draw blood. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss before tomorrow’s proceedings.”

She gestures to the chair across from her, and I settle into it, my body immediately registering how the seat positions me slightly lower than hers. I have to tilt my chin up to meet her eyes, neck straining against the subtle dominance display wrapped in perfect etiquette.

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