Page 23 of Ashes to Ashes

“I monitor anything that might prove... disruptive to Academy balance.” His smile turns predatory. “Especially when it has a habit of surviving impossible odds.”

“Good thing I’m here to teach, not to disrupt.” I reply easily.

“We’ll see which proves more accurate,” he replies, and the specific knowledge in that statement sends ice water flooding my veins.

Before I can respond, he turns to leave, but not before adding in a voice meant only for me, “Sleep lightly, Specialist Morgan. The Academy reveals what we most wish to keep hidden.”

“Thanks for the advice.” My voice stays level despite my racing heart. “Though I’ve found secrets have a way of cutting both directions.”

“Indeed they do.” His smile turns genuinely predatory now. “I do so enjoy watching them unfold.”

The words carry both warning and threat, delivered with such perfect precision that I can’t tell which he intended. He moves away in a whisper of shadow, the temperature gradually normalizing with his departure. Several nearby faculty visibly relax, conversations resuming at normal volume.

“That was... unusual,” Finnian says, watching the prince’s retreating form with a frown. “He rarely addresses newcomers directly.”

“Lucky me,” I mutter, though I can’t shake the feeling that the encounter was significant in ways I don’t yet understand.

“Shall I show you to your quarters?” Finnian asks as servers clear impossibly clean plates. “It’s been rather an overwhelming first day.”

I nod, suddenly eager to escape the weight of so many inhuman gazes—particularly the ice-blue stare I can still feel between my shoulder blades despite the prince’s departure.

As we leave the great hall, I can feel all eyes on me even though the chatter never dies down. It takes everything in me to hold my head high and follow Finnian out to the hall.

The corridor to my quarters shifts and rearranges itself as we walk, expanding and contracting in ways that defy normalspatial physics. My inner ear struggles to reconcile the shifting dimensions, balance momentarily failing.

I stumble, the world tilting around me.

Finnian’s hand catches my elbow, steadying me. Where his fingers touch bare skin, sparks of golden warmth spread upward, racing along my nerves like wildfire.

“The Academy disorients most newcomers,” he says, voice gentle with understanding. “The architecture exists in multiple dimensional planes simultaneously.”

“Multiple planes,” I repeat flatly, forcing my voice steady while my vision struggles to process a hallway that curves when it should be straight. I’m grasping for the familiar, for anything that makes rational sense.

We stop before a heavy wooden door carved with intricate knotwork patterns that writhe slightly when viewed directly. It swings open at Finnian’s gesture.

I step through the doorway and freeze.

The room is appointed with disturbing accuracy. My desk at the exact angle I prefer. Books I’ve mentioned only in classified reports. Most disconcerting—the patchwork blanket I carried as a child, destroyed years ago in a fire.

Someone’s been watching me for a long time. Someone has been inside my head, my memories, my childhood dreams—and I have no idea how long they’ve been watching.

“Is something wrong?” Finnian asks, noting my pause, his expression revealing genuine concern.

I recover instantly, military training overriding shock. “Not at all. Just admiring the accommodations.” My voice sounds hollow to my own ears, too brittle to be believable.

“The Academy attempts to provide comfortable quarters for all faculty,” he explains, though his eyes hold an unspoken question. “These rooms often... adapt to their occupants over time.”

This level of detail couldn’t possibly be an adaptation. Someone has been inside my head, my memories, my childhood dreams—and I have no idea how long they’ve been watching.

“I’ll leave you to settle in,” Finnian says. “Your teaching schedule begins tomorrow afternoon—basic assessment of our advanced combat students. I’ll escort you to the training grounds after the morning meal.”

“I appreciate your assistance, Professor Willowheart,” I say, keeping my expression neutral despite the unease crawling up my spine like insects beneath my skin.

“Finnian, please,” he corrects with a warm smile that reaches his eyes, creating tiny crinkles at the corners. “We needn’t stand on formality here.”

After he leaves, I search the quarters thoroughly—checking for surveillance, inventorying escape routes, testing windows and doors. In the wardrobe, I find the worn patchwork blanket identical to the one I carried everywhere as a child—the one destroyed in the same fire as the cabinet. My fingers trace the familiar pattern, memories flooding back with overwhelming force.

This isn’t just something I mentioned in passing or a preference that could be observed. This is a piece of my history, a comfort object I mourned losing and have never spoken of since.

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