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“We have a right to representation,” Graves replies, his steel-blue eyes finding mine across the distance. “If you’re going to judge our asset, humanity deserves a voice in that judgment.”

“Asset.” The word hits like a tactical strike to the chest. After everything I just bled in front of these people, he still sees inventory. Still sees property that belongs to him.

The chamber erupts into chaos around me, but I can barely process it. I’m still connected to the Truth Stone, still broadcasting every emotion as they crash through me in overwhelming waves. Terror at seeing Graves. Relief that Davisis alive. Rage at being called an “asset” in front of people who’ve seen my soul. Shame at being so vulnerable while military personnel evaluate my fitness for continued operation.

The Truth Stone pulses one final time, then goes dark. The magical compulsion releases me so suddenly I collapse forward, hands scraping against stone as my legs give out completely. Blood pools beneath my palms where my nails have torn away from gripping the stone. My entire body convulses with the aftershocks of magical violation.

Every nerve ending feels flayed, every emotion too bright and sharp to bear.

In the sudden silence that follows, I hear footsteps approaching the dais.

“Agent Morgan.” Graves’s voice carries decades of command authority, but something softer bleeds through—concern for a broken weapon he trained. “You look... different. Exposed.”

I try to respond—soldier to commanding officer, asset to handler. But nothing comes out except a sound that might’ve been tactical surrender. Or a declaration of war.

I am shattered. Completely, utterly destroyed. Every defense stripped away. Every lie exposed. Every relationship poisoned by my own revelations.

The worst part isn’t the pain. It’s the shame.

Not the manufactured shame of exposure—but the echoing realization that I’m still asking the same questions I had at fifteen.

Will they still want me?

Am I lovable if I’m not useful?

What if I’ve always been too much or never enough?

But poison’s only deadly if you swallow it.

And I’m done drinking lies—theirs or mine.

I may be shattered. But broken glass cuts deeper than any blade they’ve forged. And I know exactly where to aim.

30

ASH

Blood tasteslike copper and shame.

My body is still here, kneeling in front of divine judgment, but my sense of self fractured somewhere between the eighth memory and the thousandth heartbreak. Am I still Ash, or just the sum of my sins stitched together by trauma and thorns?

The ceremonial white robes cling to my skin, soaked through with the aftermath of having my soul flayed in public.

The Truth Stone sits dark and satisfied beside me, its work complete. Every secret exposed. Every lie stripped away. Every relationship poisoned by my own revelations.

Then footsteps echo through the chamber like a death march.

“Agent Morgan.”

The voice slices through magical aftermath. That familiar authority that’s shaped eight years of being his ghost. Colonel Marcus Graves strides into the chamber flanked by a full military escort, steel-blue eyes cataloging my destruction with clinical satisfaction.

“Interesting performance,” he continues conversationally. “Very... illuminating.”

I try to stand. My legs give out instantly, sending me crashing back to stone that’s probably older than human civilization. Painshoots through my knees, adding fresh wounds to what’s already pooling beneath me.

“She is no longer your concern.” The Morrigan’s voice carries ancient authority that makes crystal fixtures ring like struck bells.

Graves’ laugh is soft. Paternal. Devastating.