Page 22 of Ashes to Ashes

“Does food typically pose a hazard here?” I ask, watching a dish before me transform from savory to sweet as colors rippleacross its surface. The bread stays bread, but everything else shifts color and moves. The scent changes with each shift, from herb-laden to dessert-sweet, making my stomach lurch with confusion.

“Not to health, no. But sustenance here carries... implications.” His voice drops confidentially, requiring me to lean closer. His breath brushes my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my neck. “Accept the wrong offering from the wrong person, and you might find yourself bound in ways you never intended.”

“Magical food debt?” I raise an eyebrow, remembering Jason’s warnings.

“Among other things.” Finnian’s eyes sparkle with enthusiasm mixed with something warmer. “The nuances of Fae hospitality law could fill several fascinating volumes. Gifts, debts, obligations—all woven through the simple act of sharing sustenance.”

“I’ll stick to whatever you recommend then.”

“Wise.” His smile turns playfully protective. “I’d hate to see you accidentally betrothed to someone over an appetizer.”

From across the hall, Prince Kieran’s icy gaze remains fixed on me.

Finnian notices the direction of my gaze and the sudden chill. His expression shifts subtly, a flicker of something like concern—or perhaps jealousy?—crossing his features.

“Prince Kieran seems unusually interested in our new combat instructor,” he observes, his tone carefully neutral though his body language shifts subtly—angling slightly more toward me, protective without being obvious.

“Is that unusual?” I ask, forcing myself to look away from that piercing blue stare.

“Very.” Finnian selects his words with visible care. “The prince’s attention is selective and rarely... benevolent.”

“Should I be concerned?” The question comes out steadier than I feel.

“Probably,” Finnian admits with surprising candor. “Though not necessarily for the reasons you might think.”

Before I can ask what he means, the table erupts into chaos as a platter of what appeared to be roast birds suddenly takes flight, the cooked fowl sprouting fresh feathers and winging around the hall. Faculty react with varying degrees of alarm and amusement.

“PROFESSOR VAELWYN!” Lady Shimmerwell shrieks, batting away a drumstick that attempts to nest in her elaborate hairstyle. “THIS IS COMPLETELY INAPPROPRIATE!”

Viel, seated several tables away, affects an expression of wounded innocence, though his eyes glitter with mischief and spiritual mirth. “I assure you, Lady Shimmerwell, I have absolutely no idea what you’re implying. Perhaps the universe simply felt our main course needed a bit more... animated discussion? The cosmic forces work in mysterious ways.”

The momentary chaos is interrupted by Kieran’s approach. Conversations stop. Three professors leave quickly. He’s built like a predator—tall, lean, moving with lethal grace. His skin is too pale, eyes burn cold, and shadows crawl over his hands. He’s dangerous. I lean closer anyway.

Up close, he radiates cold that should make me shiver but doesn’t. Those eyes fix on me with an intensity that should trigger every combat instinct I possess. Instead, my body responds with a rush of heat that has nothing to do with fear.

He reminds me of that guy from a vampire show I once binged with my cousins.

“Professor Willowheart,” comes a voice like shards of ice wrapped in velvet. “How predictable to find you playing shepherd to lost lambs.”

“Prince Kieran,” Finnian acknowledges with a formality that masks obvious tension, his body subtly shifting to place himself between us. “I wasn’t aware you took interest in orientation procedures.”

“I take interest in anything that doesn’t belong.” Those ice-blue eyes lock on mine with predatory focus. “Particularly when it pretends to be something it’s not.”

Pretending?

“Professor Morgan is hardly pretending anything,” Finnian counters smoothly. “The Academy has hosted human instructors before.”

“Has it?” Kieran’s smile shows all teeth, sharp and dangerous. “How fascinating that I can’t recall a single one who survived their first semester.”

I should feel threatened.

He shifts, and snowflakes flickers across the stone near my boots. His frost touches my skin but doesn’t hurt. It burns others, but on me there’s nothing. He notices, pupils dilating.

I find myself leaning slightly toward him, drawn by something I can’t name but that calls to the wildness awakening beneath my skin.

“Prince Kieran.” I meet his stare directly. “I wasn’t aware royalty monitored academic staffing decisions.”

His eyes widen fractionally at my direct address—apparently not the response he expected from a human newcomer. Something that might be approval flickers across his features before the mask of cold disdain returns.

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