Page 95 of Ashes to Ashes

His expression sobers instantly. “Ah. The painful questions.”

The path curves around a massive oak, and I catch a glimpse of crystal spires in the distance. The Academy. Almost home.

Home.When did I start thinking of it as home?

“They died screaming your name into soil that drank their blood like communion wine,” Whispen says carefully, his voice taking on an odd, constrained quality. “The last Wild Court royals, butchered for the crime of existing. But their sacrifice grew roots—grew you.”

That’s what the Morrigan said. It’s Impossible.

“They screamed my name while they were dying?”

“To give you life,” Whispen says gently.

I sink to my knees. The thorns pulse beneath my skin like a heartbeat made of grief.

“You are vengeance wrapped in royal skin,” he says with sudden fierce pride. “The earth’s middle finger to everyone who thought they could exterminate magic by spilling blood. Grown from genocide, born from the soil that refused to let royal blood die.”

Something in his tone suggests there’s more to the story, but when I open my mouth to ask, that isn’t what comes out. “They died for me?”

“They died to save the royal bloodline. To ensure Wild Court magic wouldn’t vanish forever.” His voice turns fierce with ancient loyalty. “They succeeded, root-born. You are their success story.”

Salt burns behind my eyes, but I blink it back. “What were their names?”

“Cian Moonshadow and Niamh Thornheart.” The names ring with ceremonial weight. “He commanded the earth, she called the storms. Together they could reshape landscapes.”

I touch the thorns beneath my skin, feeling their steady pulse. Their legacy. Their gift. Their final fuck-you to everyone who thought royal blood could be spilled without consequence.

“Will I be able to do that?”

“In time. With proper training. With the right consorts to balance and amplify your power.” His grin returns. “Did I mention the consorts are all devastatingly attractive?”

Despite everything, I laugh. “You mentioned.”

The Academy gates appear ahead, crystal and silver gleaming in moonlight. But something’s wrong. Every window blazes with emergency lighting. Search patterns. Faculty, guards, students—all mobilized.

“Whispen,” I say slowly. “What time is it?”

“Approximately three hours past when a certain royal heir fled her combat trial.” His glow dims. “Also past when emergency protocols activated and certain parties used your absence as... cover.”

My stomach plummets through the earth’s core. “Three hours? I’ve been gone for three hours?”

“Time moves differently when you’re having existential crises in magical forests,” he says matter-of-factly. “Also when you’re claiming royal territory for the first time. Magic is demanding like that.”

“Shit.” I break into a run, bare feet slapping against the path. “They probably think I’m dead. Or kidnapped. Or?—”

“Or finally accepting your destiny,” Whispen calls, easily keeping pace despite his casual floating. “Which, technically, you are!”

The Academy gates recognize me instantly, swinging open without guards or keys. But as I sprint across the courtyard, three familiar scents hit me simultaneously.

Winter storms and shadows from the north wing.

Golden light and old books from the library.

Woodsmoke and growing things from the eastern gardens.

They’re all here. All looking for me.

“Your majesty,” Whispen says with obvious glee, “I believe your consorts are about to converge.”

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