Page 92 of Ashes to Ashes

I bend over, hands on my knees, gasping until the truth constraint releases its stranglehold. “Right. So I’m a magical plant baby with anger management issues. That’s not fucked up at all.”

“Reality often is. Particularly the magical bits.”

Twilight settles over the forest like a predator’s cloak. The cheerful afternoon birdsong cuts off abruptly, replaced by sounds I don’t recognize. Skittering. Clicking. Something that might be laughter but pitched wrong for human throats.

My spine turns to ice. We’re not alone anymore.

“Whispen.” I straighten slowly, scanning the deepening shadows. “What comes out at night in Fae forests?”

“Oh, many things!” His tone stays disgustingly cheerful. “Shadow-weavers who hunt by sound. Bone-singers who mimic human voices. Thorn-cats with claws like razors. Blood-moths the size of dinner plates.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He’s not available for consultation, I’m afraid. Different pantheon entirely.”

Eyes kindle in the darkness like dying embers—dozens of them, blinking in patterns that suggest intelligence, hunger, and something worse than both. They don’t just watch. They calculate. Measure. Price out my meat by the pound.

Not to mention the silence. Every creature holds its breath. Frogs, birds, crickets. Nothing stirs. Nothing chirps.

Adrenaline floods my bloodstream as combat training kicks in. Assess threats. Plan escape routes. Identify weapons.

Except there are no escape routes. No weapons except a knife that felt like touching molten metal earlier. And threats that don’t follow any tactical manual ever written.

And I’m still barefoot.

“Whispen,” I say carefully, “why aren’t they attacking?”

“Protocol.” He drifts closer, his light dimming to avoid attracting attention. “Nocturnal hunters must wait for royal blood to claim territory or submit to being prey.”

“Royal blood.” The words taste like copper and destiny. “You mean...”

“I mean you get to choose. Claim this space as yours by right of bloodline, or...” He trails off meaningfully.

“Or become dinner.”

“Such a colorful way to phrase potential mortality!”

More eyes appear. A sound drifts through the air—sobbing, like a lost child. Except it’s coming from something with too many teeth.

My hands shake as the circle of predators tightens.

“Fantastic. Twenty-eight years of therapy, and it turns out my abandonment issues are actually destiny. Perfect.”

“No one asks for what fate deems necessary,” he replies softly.

I clench my teeth and look to the sky, where blue and purple swirl together as though even the universe here breathes. “I’m supposed to be a combat instructor. That’s it.”

“Ah, but you were never just that.” He floats closer. “And you’ve always known.”

Always known.

That I was more than human. I’ve spent a lifetime on Earth believing that was it for me. Unhappiness in my own skin. Yet here I finally feel alive.

And all I have to do is claim it.

“I never wanted this.” The words tear from my throat.

“Ashlynne,” Whispen smiles with all those pointy teeth. “This is your destiny.”

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