Page 211 of Ashes to Ashes

“Ready.”

The walk through Academy corridors feels endless. Each step carries me closer to potential execution. Students and faculty press against walls as we pass. Faces mixing curiosity with pity.

I see it in their eyes. Pity dressed as fascination. Like they’re watching history unfold, too detached to realize the girl walking to the dais might not be the victim they expect.

I was never meant to survive this.

So I’m going to ruin it instead.

The chamber’s designed to intimidate. Stone walls pulse with silver veins that hurt to look at directly. Spirals twist beyond human perception—architectural warfare that makes my inner ear revolt.

And there, in the gallery, three familiar faces that crack something behind my ribs.

Orion’s guardian tattoos writhe across skin gone gray with exhaustion. Kieran’s perfect posture has cracked—shoulders curved inward, hands shaking. Finnian’s careful composure bleeds away at the edges, amber eyes holding devastation he can’t hide.

Three powerful men, and they look like shit. Exhausted. Defeated.

Good. That sells the illusion.

I’m sorry,I think at them.Sorry you have to watch this. Sorry I couldn’t find another way.

The center of the chamber holds a raised dais surrounded by ward-circles pulsing with containment magic. Four empty pedestals wait for treasures everyone claims don’t exist.

But if that’s true, why does this feel wrong?

Lady Amarantha occupies a seat of honor, violet eyes tracking my movement with predatory satisfaction. She thinks she’s won—that I’ll break under pressure and take her bone sword exit rather than face what comes next.

King Moros lounges in shadows too deep for natural light, ice-blue gaze identical to his son’s but infinitely colder. Spider at the center of this web. We both know exactly what he plans to offer when I start dying.

The Morrigan stands sentinel beside the dais, silver eyes holding ancient knowledge that makes my thorns pulse weakly through suppression magic.

“The candidate will approach,” she announces, voice carrying weight that makes stone tremble.

I walk down the central aisle with measured steps. Each footfall echoing like countdown. White robes flow around me like burial shrouds, and I let resignation settle over my features like a mask.

Let them think I’m brave but doomed. Let them think I’m walking to noble sacrifice.

Not entirely wrong.

“Ashlynne Moonshadow,” The Morrigan continues as I reach the dais, “you stand accused of claiming Wild Court royal heritage without verification. The Trial of Power will determine authenticity through manifestation of the Four Ancient Treasures.”

“Understood.” My voice carries despite the tremor I can’t quite hide.

“Solo manifestation carries significant risk,” she warns. “Magical backlash has destroyed lesser Fae entirely. Do you accept these dangers?”

This isn’t a trial. It’s a guillotine dressed in gold. Performance staged to make the world believe I chose this—chose to fail. Chose to die.

“I do.”

Even though I probably shouldn’t. Even though this might be the last decision I ever make.

“Then let the trial begin.”

Light erupts from the floor like trapped stars breaking free. Ward-circles don’t just activate—they detonate, pressing against my bones with weight that shouldn’t exist. My knees buckle as gravity doubles, triples, becomes a crushing fist grinding me toward marble dust.

My spine straightens with royal authority I didn’t know I possessed. I force myself upright despite crushing weight. Stagger into the center circle. Wards close around me like invisible walls. Suddenly I can’t feel anything beyond this small space. Cut off from the gallery, from the men, from everything except crushing weight of what I’m about to attempt.

“Call the treasures,” The Morrigan commands.

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