Page 87 of Ashes to Ashes

“I’m a soldier, not a politician.”

“Same skill set. Different battlefield.”

We reach the gardens, but I don’t stop there. Instead, I lead her toward a section where reality grows thin—where Wild Court territory bleeds through dimensional barriers older than civilization.

“Orion.” Her voice carries warning as trees ahead of us grow impossibly tall, their branches reaching toward something beyond normal sky. “Where the hell are we going?”

“Somewhere you can see truth without Academy filters.” I pause at the threshold where manicured gardens transition to ancient forest. “Shoes off.”

“Excuse me?”

“Earth speaks to those willing to listen. But only through direct contact.”

“That’s not—” She cuts herself off, pressing lips together.

“Not what?”

“Scientific. Logical.” Her hands shake slightly as she reaches for her laces anyway. “Dirt doesn’t create magical communication networks.”

But she’s unlacing despite the denial, curiosity warring with trained skepticism.

“Tell me about the pendant. The one you’re not wearing today.”

Her hands still. “How did you?—”

“I can smell the difference. Yesterday you reeked of cold iron suppression. Today you smell like yourself.”

Her toes touch Wild Court soil, and the forest screams awake. The earth recognizes its daughter coming home. Flowers erupt like the soil is celebrating, vines reaching up like a mother’s arms welcoming back the child she grew from bone and blood.

The oath mark splits my skin like a knife wound. Green fire erupts from torn flesh—not quite leaf, not quite flame, but something alive that brands itself into my bones with the intensity of molten gold.

“What the fuck?” Ash spins, taking in the impossible display with a soldier’s assessment rather than wonder. Her hand moves to where her knife would be—empty space that makes her jaw clench. “Orion, what did you do?”

“Nothing. The earth is greeting its daughter.”

“You smell like home,” I say, and the honesty in my voice stops her breath.

“Like what home should smell like. Pine and rain and freedom.” My amber eyes hold hers. “Been guarding spaces for two centuries, waiting for someone who belongs in them.”

“How do you know I belong?”

“Because when you’re here, the forest finally feels complete.”

Movement rustles through undergrowth as Wild Court members emerge from hidden groves. A handful of them—dryads with bark-skin, a satyr whose hooves barely whisper against earth, tree-singers whose eyes reflect forest light.

Heads turn like flowers following sunlight. Ancient magic recognizing its source after centuries of starvation.

Ash immediately shifts into a defensive stance, back to the nearest tree, eyes cataloguing threats and escape routes. Even faced with magic beyond her understanding, she adapts. Assesses. Prepares.

“Easy,” I murmur, but fire licks through my chest with pride. “They’re not enemies.”

“Who are they?” Her voice stays level despite the chaos around us.

“Wild Court. Your people.”

“I don’t have people.” But her throat constricts on the words, truth constraints making denial painful.

“No?”

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