Page 52 of Ashes to Ashes

“Your hands are always cold,” he observes, thumb brushing across my knuckles. “Even when the room is warm.”

“Poor circulation—” The lie dies in my throat like poison, choking me. “Fuck.” The curse tears out as I claw at my neck. “What the hell is happening to me?”

“Easy,” Finnian murmurs, pulling my hands away from my throat with gentle firmness. “Fighting it only makes the constraint tighten.”

His fingers find my pulse point while his other hand rests against my back. “This is a Fae truth constraint,” he says quietly. “But humans usually have more time before it manifests this strongly.”

The constraint finally releases. Air rushes back into my lungs in painful gasps.

“What do you mean?” I croak.

His golden eyes meet mine with new understanding. “Extended exposure to Fae magic gradually affects humanphysiology. The realm protects itself—eventually, no one within these borders can speak direct falsehoods.”

He pauses, studying my face with growing concern. “Though the constraint typically takes months to develop, not days. Your... sensitivity to Fae influence seems particularly acute.”

Of course it fucking does.“Go on,” I gesture to the table, voice still rough.

“Some artifacts transcend individual combat traditions,” he says softly, watching my reaction. “Though I notice the Wild Court sections of these texts have significant gaps. Entire chapters that should exist, but...” He frowns, flipping through pages that end abruptly. “It’s as if someone’s been systematically removing knowledge about Wild Court magic and bloodlines.”

His expression darkens with frustration and something deeper. “Or perhaps someone’s been removing the people who would know such things.”

The page turns once more.

“Oh, here’s a curiosity,” Finnian says, finger tracing an ornate passage in ancient script. “Listen to this—In cases of royal succession dispute, the heir may invoke autonomy protocols to choose their own fate, binding themselves willingly to a court of their choosing.”

He laughs, the sound carrying amusement. “Completely archaic. No one’s used trial law in centuries. The magical price of willing binding is supposed to be enormous.”

“What would that accomplish?” I ask, filing the information away without knowing why it feels important.

“Theoretically? It would allow someone to reject external judgment and create their own terms. But the cost...” He shakes his head. “Ancient magic demands significant sacrifice for that level of autonomy.”

Ancient knowing hums in my bones at his words.

“Fascinating historical footnote, but utterly impractical in modern politics,” he continues, turning to the next section.

On the yellowed parchment, a seed appears on the page. Before my eyes, beneath the seed, roots appear to almost rip through the parchment, slowly covering the seed.

“What’s this?” My fingers trace over the patterns.

“I...” Finnian pauses, his brows pulling low over his eyes. “I’m unsure.”

Vines wrap around the seed and slowly it begins to grow in size, pulsing like a heartbeat.

The patterns beneath my sleeve flare with sudden, searing heat that races from wrist to shoulder. I can’t swallow the hiss that escapes between clenched teeth. The pain is like molten metal poured directly into my veins.

The pendant turns arctic cold against my skin. The opposing sensations tear through me—cold iron versus wild growth, restraint against freedom. I taste copper as I bite my cheek.

My vision narrows to pinpricks, then expands to take in impossible detail—I can see individual threads in the paper, count dust motes in the air.

The room spins. Something buried inside me claws toward the surface. The thorn patterns spread, reaching my collarbone, my fingertips, mapping my veins with green-white fire that pulses with my heartbeat.

Books begin to flutter, pages turning in a windstorm only I can feel. Ink swirls like it’s come alive. The very air thickens, pressing against my skin until I can barely breathe. Every surface begins to glow, responding to whatever’s awakening inside me.

I try to stand but my legs fold beneath me.

I’m falling?—

Strong arms catch me. Old parchment and herbal tea fill my senses as Finnian pulls me against him. He says somethingurgent in that ancient language, syllables vibrating through his chest against my ear. Each word presses against the chaos inside me, creating pockets of calm.

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