Page 30 of Ashes to Ashes

7

ASH

I arrangeweapons in neat rows on my bed—combat knife, ceramic backup, garrote wire disguised as a hair tie.

The fabric shifts against my skin, adjusting to my movements before I make them. Not normal cloth—something alive. It whispers with unnatural softness, accommodating each stretch like it’s eager to please.

Twenty minutes until my first class.

Finnian should be arriving soon to escort me to the training arena—one of many locations in this place that apparently refuses to stay put. I review my lesson plans one final time, mentally categorizing exercises based on the student information he provided last night.

My fingers absently trace the collection of river stones I discovered in my quarters, their surfaces still warm from when I removed the pendant briefly before dawn. The patterns they formed then—a constellation I couldn’t name—haunt me still, the image burned into my retinas like a camera flash.

A knock at my door interrupts my preparations—three rapid taps followed by what sounds like someone playing a brief musical flourish on the wood itself. The pattern reverberatesthrough the room, making the stones on my table tremble faintly in response.

Definitely not Finnian. His knock last night had been measured, precise—much like the man himself.

This knock sounds like chaos given physical form.

I open the door to find Viel, dressed in robes dyed in swirling jewel tones that shift as he moves. A silver dagger dangles from one ear—an actual weapon, not jewelry.

“Professor Morgan!” he announces, sweeping into an elaborate bow. “Viel Vaelwyn, at your service. The universe conspired to redirect poor Finnian into tedious curriculum meetings.” He straightens with theatrical flair. “I volunteered for escort duty because the cosmos whispers you need a guide who understands dramatic entrances.”

He invites himself into my quarters with a theatrical flourish. His scent makes my nose tingle uncomfortably—ozone and something spicy like lightning striking a cinnamon grove.

“I appreciate the assistance,” I say neutrally, gathering my teaching notes and stowing the last of my weapons. The knife slides against my ribs with reassuring solidity.

“Oh, darling, you absolutely cannot navigate this place alone,” Viel laughs, the sound like silver bells that shatter against my eardrums. “The training arenas relocate weekly based on lunar cycles and campus mood swings. Last month it put the underwater combat chamber directly above the library.” He gestures dramatically toward the door. “Took weeks to dry out the ancient wisdom. Very traumatic for the texts—some of them are still emotionally scarred.”

“Emotionally scarred... texts?”

“Oh yes, the grimoires are particularly sensitive. One started crying whenever anyone mentioned water magic. Tragic, really.”

Wonderful.

We arrive at the training arena—vast space, impossibly larger inside than out. Thirty students assembled in court groupings: Seelie gleaming near windows, Unseelie in shadowed corners, Wild Court in the middle with clothing of feathers and bark.

“Your playground, Professor,” Viel announces dramatically. “Good luck. May the universe align in your favor—you’ll need every cosmic advantage available.”

He disappears in a swirl of color-shifting robes, leaving me alone before my first class of immortal beings with dubious opinions of humans.

No pressure.

I move to the center of the arena with measured steps, adopting the stance that has served me through countless military briefings—feet planted at shoulder width, back straight, hands clasped loosely behind me. The position projects authority while maintaining readiness for movement in any direction.

Or at least that is what I hope they see when they look at me.

Half the class steps back when I move, hands drifting toward weapons. They’re not watching a demonstration—they’re assessing a threat. Unseelie students track my movements, calculating angles. One draws a finger across his throat. Not joking. Planning.

My stomach tightens with a flicker of uncertainty I’d never admit aloud.

“My name is Professor Morgan,” I begin, pitching my voice to carry without shouting. “I’m here to teach adaptive combat techniques developed through human military evolution.”

A tall student with silver-blue skin and elongated fingers makes a dismissive sound like ice cracking. “What could humans possibly teach Fae about combat? We’ve been perfecting battle techniques for millennia.” His voice carries a harmonic undertone that vibrates against my sternum.

Exactly the opening I need.

“Congratulations on the participation trophy.” I move forward, covering the distance between us faster than he anticipates. His eyes widen, pupils dilating as he instinctively leans away from my sudden proximity. “Now tell me—when’s the last time someone surprised you in combat? When’s the last time your techniques faced genuine innovation instead of the same recycled forms?”

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