Page 37 of Ashes to Ashes

Kieran Nightshade has approached without sound, his presence announcing itself only through the sudden chill in the air. “How inconsiderate.”

Air freezes in my lungs. Breath turns to ice crystals. The floor cracks under my feet from sudden cold. He’s not just cold—he’s Arctic.

Orion’s expression shifts to something complicated—not quite hostility, not quite respect. The temperature around us fluctuates wildly as their contrasting energies collide, hot and cold fronts creating atmospheric instability.

“Prince Nightshade.” Orion doesn’t step back, but tension radiates from him. “Didn’t realize combat demonstrations were your area of interest.”

“I make it my business to observe anything that defies explanation,” Kieran replies, his voice precise and carefully modulated. He turns to me, dark eyes assessing. “And our new professor is proving quite... defiant of explanation.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning humans don’t typically execute forms that died with royal bloodlines.” His smile is all teeth. “Unless they’re not as human as they appear.”

Up close, he’s even more intimidating—aristocratic features set in perfect control, presence radiating power held deliberately in check. He steps just close enough to invade my personal space without actually touching me.

His scent reaches me—winter air and metal and something darker, like ink and ancient shadows. My lungs struggle against the instinct to breathe deeper, to draw more of that scent into my body.

“Professor Morgan,” he says my name like he’s testing the sound of it, each syllable precise and measured. “Your demonstration was... illuminating.”

“Your Highness,” I respond, adopting the formal address based on context clues.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to use my title,” he says, voice dropping lower as he leans slightly closer. “Though your reflexes for appropriate protocol are as surprisingly developed as your combat skills.”

The implied question hovers between us. Blood roars in my ears. I force steady eye contact while my feet shift to combat stance, body betraying what my mind denies.

“Military training includes diplomatic protocols,” I explain smoothly. “Identifying authority figures is survival-relevant.”

His mouth curves in something not quite a smile, the expression never reaching his eyes. “Is that what you’re doing, Professor? Surviving?”

“It’s what humans excel at,” I counter.

“Indeed.”

He steps even closer, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper. Snowflakes form on my eyelashes, the air between us so coldmy breath fogs visibly. His shadow extends unnaturally, curling around my boots like spectral fingers claiming territory.

“Though I find myself wondering what else you might excel at,” he murmurs, his words carrying a dual vibration that resonates somewhere deep in my chest.

He leans closer still, lips near my ear. Words in a language that doesn’t exist. Except I understand every syllable. They burn into my brain like brands. Ancient knowledge I shouldn’t possess. “The thorns remember what the mind forgets, little queen. Your blood calls to what your heart denies.”

Ice crawls down my spine where his breath brands me. The pendant sears cold while thorns answer with molten heat, my body a battleground between opposing hungers. I fight to keep my breathing steady, to maintain the neutral expression my training demands, but my pulse betrays me, hammering visibly at the base of my throat where I know he can see it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” His finger hovers over my sleeve, never quite touching. “Your pulse tells a different story. As do the patterns burning beneath fabric you think conceals them.”

Silver burns arctic against my throat, fighting the wildfire clawing up from my bones. Two opposing magics battle for control, with my body as the battlefield.

“I’m a quick study. Nothing more.”

“Quick study.” His laugh is winter wind through dead leaves. “Is that what we’re calling ancient muscle memory now? How... quaint.”

From the corner of my eye, I notice Orion taking a half-step closer, his posture shifting subtly to protective. The temperature rises again as his heat pushes against Kieran’s cold. Finnian’s detachment vanishes, replaced by undisguised concern as he watches our exchange.

Yet beneath the warning signals, a deeper, more disturbing response unfolds—a pull toward him that contradicts every survival instinct, as if some part of me recognizes something my conscious mind cannot name.

“Evidently.” His gaze holds mine for one more charged moment, the intensity of his focus like physical pressure against my skull. Frost patterns begin to form on the floor around my feet, spreading outward from where we stand. Our shadows merge. Move independently. Reach for each other while we stand apart. The darkness pulses like a heartbeat. Like recognition. Thorns blaze beneath my skin despite the arctic air around him.

Then he steps back, the pressure receding though not disappearing. The shadows reluctantly unwind from around my ankles, leaving ghostly cold imprints that linger like phantom touches.

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