Page 60 of Ashes to Ashes

Communication through darkness—a skill that’s kept me alive thus far

“Report,” Dredge’s voice cuts through shadow like winter wind. Cold. Precise. His impatience bleeds through the connection, making the darkness itself restless. “His Majesty grows weary of incomplete assessments.”

“Subject continues nocturnal exploration,” I select each word like choosing weapons, sharp enough to inform but dull enough to conceal. “Her methods suggest professional training, though her objectives remain... opaque.”

“Combat capabilities?”

I select facts like choosing weapons, each one sharp enough to cut but not deep enough to kill. “Human training. Advanced but ultimately limited. Effective against students, significantly outmatched by faculty.”

The truth, but not the whole truth. I don’t mention how she moves like she remembers combat forms she’s never been taught. How her body flows into defensive positions that haven’t been used since before the courts divided.

“Magical sensitivity?”

Here’s where things get interesting. “The pendant she wears contains significant iron content. Possible protection against influence attempts.”

Not a lie. Though it leaves out my growing certainty that the pendant suppresses rather than protects. The way it burns against her skin when magic rises. How removing it turns her into something that makes ancient trees bend in recognition.

“King Moros grows concerned,” Dredge says, and there’s weight in that phrasing. Notyour fatherbutKing Moros—formal distancing that suggests broader court involvement.“The Council questions whether continued observation serves our interests. They suggest more... decisive action may be warranted.”

Translation: They want her dead. And they’re running out of patience with my reports.

“I require additional time for conclusive assessment.” The words taste like ash, but I keep my voice steady. “Premature action might compromise larger objectives. Her Academy connections create intelligence opportunities we cannot afford to waste.”

The shadow pulses with reluctant acceptance. “His Majesty expects detailed findings at tomorrow’s communication. Prepare to justify continued surveillance over more... decisive intervention.”

The connection dissolves. I withdraw my consciousness, aware that my father’s patience wears thin like ice before spring. Time is running out for both of us.

“Three centuries of perfect control,” I murmur to the gathering shadows as I reform, “and she makes me act like an untrained novice.” The darkness pulses in response—even my magic recognizes the truth I’m trying to deny.

I dissolve back into shadow form, consciousness scattering across the darkness as I seek her familiar signature. The Academy grounds blur past—stone and crystal meaning nothing to my dispersed awareness, only the pull of her emotional resonance guiding me through the night.

There. Moving toward the boundary with purpose that sets my shadows writhing.

I track her approach with predatory focus. The pendant visibly affects her—frost spreading across skin from the contact point, her movements becoming labored as iron fights whatever’s awakening inside her.

Then she does something that sends lightning through my dispersed consciousness.

She removes the fucking pendant.

Power explodes outward like a star being born. Wild magic—raw, ancient, achingly familiar—radiates from her in waves. The patterns beneath her clothing don’t just glow—they live. Actual vines spiral across exposed skin, leaves unfurling, roots extending to anchor in soil.

Wild Court royal markings manifesting in flesh and blood and growing things.

She’s not human. She’s not even Fae in any conventional sense. She’s something the courts destroyed. Something that shouldn’t exist.

Something that makes my dead heart remember how to beat.

She crosses the boundary, retrieves some human device, composes a message with careful precision. Her body language tells the story—tension, controlled breathing, someone navigating impossible loyalties.

Just like me. Orders from handlers. Pressure from controllers. All converging on impossible choices.

The reply arrives fast. Too fast. Her reaction hits me like a physical blow—muscles locking, jaw clenching before she masters herself. Bad news. Accelerated timelines that match my father’s growing impatience.

Two forces closing in on her from opposite sides. And she has no fucking idea.

As she returns toward the boundary, my expanded senses detect movement at the periphery. Multiple signatures converging with mathematical precision.

Boundary hunters. Seelie and Unseelie.

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