Page 46 of Ashes to Ashes

The jovial atmosphere dies instantly.

“Not here,” Thornroot says quietly. “Not in open council.”

But I catch the way several elders exchange meaningful glances. Fear, carefully hidden.

When no one speaks, Vinecrawl continues, “The Morrigan was not formally announced with the traditional seventeen bird calls and acorn toss!”

“We haven’t used that ceremony in nine hundred years,” sighs Elder Rootsinger.

“TRADITIONS MATTER!” Vinecrawl insists, actual vines sprouting from his agitated hair.

“Enough,” Thornroot cuts him off. “We have more pressing matters than your ritual obsessions.”

He shakes his head. “We must discuss the changeling,” he continues gravely. “The omens are clear—the Academy instructor, the awakening magic, the timing of her arrival.”

Understanding dawns like sunrise. “The human teacher,” I say. “She’s not human.”

Ash’s face appears in my mind—those eyes that held mine across the training arena, sending heat spiraling through mychest. The way her body moved in perfect counterpoint to mine during our sparring match, as if we’d trained together for centuries. The electric current that shot through me when our skin touched, like finding a missing piece of myself I hadn’t known was lost.

The Morrigan’s silver eyes find mine, dark promise glittering in their depths. “The thorn remains caged beneath flesh that was never truly hers to wear. Royal blood remembers its nature, though her mind swims in borrowed dreams.”

“She moved like she was born knowing every counter I’d throw at her,” I tell the council, my voice roughening. “Like muscle memory older than her human life was taking control. That’s not training—that’s bloodline awakening.”

“Is she pretty?” Elder Dewblossom asks, leaning forward with interest.

“Pretty?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it—just raw hunger. “She burns hotter than wildfire and twice as dangerous. When she looked at me across that arena, my blood recognized something it’s been starving for.” My voice drops to gravel. “Every cell in my body knows she’s mine before my brain catches up. That’s not pretty—that’s primal.”

The entire council stares at me, various expressions of shock and knowing smiles crossing their faces.

“Your intensity suggests more than academic interest,” Mistfeather observes dryly.

“Never claimed it was academic,” I reply, forcing lightness back into my tone. “Always been a hands-on learner.”

“Blood calls to blood, sweet boy, and yours has been starving for hers since the day you drew breath.” The Morrigan says, voice like dark honey. “The changeling stirs despite every chain meant to keep her sleeping. And not a moment too soon—” Her eyes turn ancient, terrible. “When spring and winter dance without autumn’s wisdom, the world itself begins to starve.”

Her ancient eyes hold the weight of millennia, dark and knowing. “Eternal spring meets endless winter, with no wise autumn to teach them balance. Crops wither. Seasons forget their names. The earth herself grows weary when court magic becomes... unbalanced.” Her smile turns sharp as winter stars. “She is not merely political salvation, darling—she is the world’s last hope for sanity.”

“Which means,” I say slowly, pieces clicking together, “she was hidden for a reason. And if she’s awakening now...” My humor fades as the oath mark pulses with renewed intensity. “She’s in danger. Real danger.”

“Royal Wild Court blood,” Elder Thornroot says heavily. “The last of the Moonshadow line.”

Elder Mistfeather leans forward, wings extending slightly with agitation. “If she is what you claim—if the prophecy awakens—then all courts will hunt her fiercer than wolves after fawns. Especially once they realize what her existence means for the treasures.”

“The treasures,” whispers Elder Rootsinger. “The cauldron we protect...”

Thornroot continues, counting on gnarled fingers: “The spear in Unseelie hands, the crown hidden at the Academy, the stone Amarantha secretly holds. The prophecy says they must be united by royal Wild blood.”

The mention of the Unseelie spear makes my jaw clench involuntarily. The way Kieran watched Ash during our combat demonstration—that cold, calculating gaze that missed nothing.

“When the four treasures dance as one,” The Morrigan says, voice dropping to a hypnotic whisper, “three paths unfold like roses with thorns. To shatter what was, to bind what is, or to birth what could be. The courts as we know them could crumble like autumn leaves... or bloom into something magnificent and terrible.”

“This is worse than I thought,” moans Dewblossom. “We’ll need at least twenty-seven varieties of ceremonial moss for the Unification Ritual!”

The council erupts in fresh arguments about ceremonial protocols while I wrestle with the implications. If Ash truly is royal Wild Court blood, everything changes—for her, for me, for the delicate balance we’ve maintained for centuries.

The Morrigan raises her hand, and silence falls like a curtain of midnight. “Enough,” she says softly, but her voice carries the authority of winter storms and summer lightning. Even the most vocal elders bow to her ancient power.

“The veil grows thin as spider silk,” The Morrigan says as the meeting draws to its close, voice like silk dragged over steel. “The changeling still dreams herself mortal. Her power sleeps like a dragon in winter—dormant, but not dead. Her true nature caged like starlight in a bottle.”

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