Page 40 of Ashes to Ashes

“Perhaps she’s extensively trained,” offers the other girl, though her tone suggests she doesn’t believe it either.

“Or perhaps,” Sivra says, lowering her voice dramatically, “she’s what the prophecy foretold. ‘When royal blood disguised returns, between two courts the balance burns.’“

“Oh, not the prophecy again,” groans the male student. “Next you’ll be claiming the four treasures are about to reunite.”

“They might,” Sivra insists. “All the signs align—the stars, the seasonal shifts, the dreams many of us have been having.”

“What dreams?” asks the gentler girl, suddenly interested.

“Dreams of thorn patterns that move like living things,” Sivra replies. “Dreams of a figure walking between courts, trailing fire and shadow.”

Cold slides down my spine despite the tree’s warmth. I’ve had those exact dreams since childhood—drawings of them hidden in a box beneath my bed that no one has ever seen. Swirling patterns of thorn that dance across skin, that pulse with life, that tell stories in a language made of ice and starlight.

“I heard Professor Willowheart has been researching changeling records,” the gentler girl says quietly. “And Prince Nightshade has been unusually interested in our new human instructor.”

“Of course he is,” the male student laughs. “Anything strange or potentially threatening gets Nightshade’s attention. It’s his job to be suspicious.”

“It’s more than that,” Sivra argues. “I overheard Lord Dredge telling Headmaster Valeborn that Nightshade requested all human-Fae interaction records from the past century. He’s hunting for something specific.”

A shimmering light suddenly appears at the edge of the grove, coalescing into a familiar blue-haired figure. Professor Vaelwyn materializes with a twirl that sends his color-shifting robes spiraling outward like a galaxy in miniature. The students freeze, then scatter like startled deer.

“Scampering off to beds, are we?” Viel calls after them. “Wise choice! The night gardens have been particularly... digestive lately!”

He waits until the students disappear before sinking gracefully onto one of the abandoned benches. From my hiding place, I watch as he produces a small silver flask from within his robes and takes a delicate sip.

“You can come out now, darling,” he calls without looking in my direction. “Unless you prefer communing with ancient flora while crouched in what looks spiritually uncomfortable.” He gestures dramatically toward my hiding spot. “The universe has been whispering about your nocturnal wanderings.”

I remain silent, assessing whether to reveal myself or maintain cover.

“Oh please,” he sighs dramatically, “I could sense you the moment I arrived. You’re positively radiating cosmic complexity like a lighthouse on a moonless night. Except, ironically, in actual moonlight.” He gestures broadly at the beams that continue to illuminate me despite my concealment. “The trees have been positively chattering about you.”

I step out cautiously, maintaining distance.

“Nighttime exploration! How delightfully clandestine,” Viel says, offering his flask. “Forbidden nectar from the western valleys? Excellent for sharpening night vision and causing the most extraordinary spiritual visions.”

“I’ll pass,” I reply, eying the flask suspiciously.

“Wise, probably. You’re having enough trouble with prophetic dreams already, I’d wager.” His eyes—now violetwith silver streaks—study me with surprising intensity beneath his theatrical manner. “The Moon finds you rather fascinating, darling. She almost never follows mortals so... persistently.”

He glances upward at the silvery light that continues to spotlight me despite cloud cover.

“Any particular reason you’re wandering about when most sensible souls are safely tucked away?” he asks, voice suddenly lower, almost serious beneath the affectation.

“Familiarizing myself with the grounds,” I respond, the partial truth coming easily.

“Mmm, yes. Particularly the cosmically restricted sections, if universal rumors are accurate.” He recorks his flask with unnecessary flourish. “A word of spiritual warning, darling—some boundaries exist to protect rather than restrict. The western gardens, for instance, have been known to rearrange visitors in permanently artistic ways. Mercury retrograde makes them particularly temperamental.”

Despite his dramatic delivery, something in his tone suggests genuine concern.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

“Do.” He rises with liquid grace. “And perhaps consider whether collecting intelligence for your Colonel is worth risking the magnificent transformation stirring in your soul.” His eyes turn serious beneath the theatrical facade. “Some knowledge, once obtained, cannot be unknown. Or unreported.”

Before I can respond to this disturbing insight, he disappears in a whirl of fabric and light, leaving behind only the lingering scent of ozone and exotic spices.

My stomach twists into knots, acid burning up my throat. How much does he know about my mission? About Graves?

I reach into my pocket for the small notebook where I’ve been documenting my observations. Military habit, ingrained through years of training. But as my fingers touch the paper,the thorn patterns on my arm pulse with warning. A strange reluctance flows through me—the thought of documenting the sacred tree for Graves suddenly feels like betrayal.

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