Page 88 of Ashes to Ashes

The voice cuts through gathering tension like a silver blade through silk. The Morrigan steps from shadows I hadn’t noticed, her ancient presence making even the trees straighten with respect.

Ash’s posture shifts subtly—not submission but recognition of a superior predator. “And you are?”

“The one who watched the earth give birth to you.” The Morrigan’s silver eyes hold ancient memory. “Your parents diedprotecting Wild Court territory, their blood soaking into sacred ground. “

“I was found abandoned when I was three.” But Ash’s voice wavers, certainty cracking. “Adoption paperwork says so.”

“Found where the soil sheltered what it created.” The Morrigan steps closer, and Ash doesn’t retreat.

“That’s impossible.”

“Is it?” The Morrigan gestures to the flowers blooming in Ash’s footprints, the vines reaching toward her like supplicants. “The soil remembers what it made. When you walk here, you’re visiting your own womb.”

Ash opens her mouth, then closes it. Her mind working through implications while her body vibrates with awakening power.

“I don’t know what I am anymore,” she finally admits, voice rough with honesty that costs her.

“But you feel it,” The Morrigan presses. “The pull toward wild places. The way earth responds to your presence. The dreams of thorns and crowns.”

Ash’s eyes flash brilliant green for a heartbeat before gray reasserts control. “How do you know about my dreams?”

“Because they call to royal blood.” The Morrigan’s voice softens slightly. “But knowledge and acceptance are different things. Bloodline alone doesn’t make a queen.”

“Then what does?” The question slips out before Ash can stop it.

The assembled Wild Court stirs with interest. Several exchange meaningful glances.

“Strength,” calls out a dryad with bark-rough skin. “The crown needs a warrior’s hand.”

“Wisdom,” counters the satyr. “Royal blood without royal judgment destroys all it touches.”

“Choice,” The Morrigan says quietly, silencing the debate. “The willingness to stand for those who cannot stand for themselves. To choose the hard path when easier ones beckon.”

Around us, the Wild Court members nod agreement. But there’s something in their posture—expectation. Assessment.

“You want to test me,” Ash says, reading the room like a tactical situation.

“The crown chooses,” an elder tree-singer steps forward. “But first, the claimant must prove worthy. Royal blood is heritage. Royal strength is earned.”

“What kind of test?” Ash’s voice stays level, but I catch the predatory interest flickering in her eyes.

“Combat,” I answer, understanding suddenly flooding through me. “Trial by combat against a Wild Court champion.”

“Me,” growls a voice from the tree line.

The largest male I’ve ever seen emerges from the forest—eight feet of scarred muscle and wild magic, with antlers branching from his skull like a living crown. Thornback, the Wild Court’s greatest warrior. I’ve sparred with him before and barely survived.

“Shit,” I breathe.

Ash takes one look at her opponent and grins—sharp, predatory expression that sends flames licking up my spine.

“Rules?” she asks.

“No weapons,” Thornback rumbles, voice like grinding stone. “No magic beyond what flows naturally. First to yield or fall unconscious loses.”

“And when I win?”

“You earn the right to consider the crown,” The Morrigan says. “If you lose, you walk away and never return to Wild Court territory.”

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