Page 210

Story: Ashes to Ashes

The Crown pulses against my chest one final time—not with power or ancient knowledge, but with the acid recognition that sometimes, despite everything you know and everyone you’ve been, you’re still just helpless witnesses to someone else’s tragedy.

Outside the windows, morning gives way to afternoon light that paints everything beautiful and deceptive.

Soon, everything ends.

And all we can do is watch.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to no one in particular, the words carrying passionate regret that threatens to crack my chest open. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find another way.”

The apology hangs in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre that hasn’t been lit yet.

Three hours until we discover that love, knowledge, and desperate hope are no match for political machinery designed to grind individual lives into acceptable outcomes.

Three hours until we learn that sometimes, despite everything you know and everyone you’ve been, you’re still just helpless witnesses to someone else’s tragedy.

42

ASH

Suppression magic turnsmy brain to mush.

Each thought crawls halfway up before dissolving. I reach for the bathroom door handle. Miss twice before my fingers remember how solid objects work.

Fine. If I’m bleeding tonight, it’s on my terms.

Davis has gone hoarse behind the locked door. Hours of pleading, getting more desperate. Good. Let him scream himself raw while I prep for what might be the stupidest tactical decision of my life.

The bone sword sits on the bed. Silk wrapping loose enough to show corrupted crystal embedded in ancient bone. Amarantha’s “mercy”—suicide dressed as kindness. The blade pulses with energy that makes my suppressed thorns recoil.

Not happening. Won’t give her the satisfaction.

If I die tonight, it’s my choice.

Through the magical fog clouding my thoughts, I focus on what I actually know:

Trial requires manifesting four ancient treasures. Impossible for one person. That’s the point. Moros wants spectacular failure, public breakdown, so he can swoop in with his life debt “salvation” at maximum desperation.

Fine. I’ll fail. Nearly die trying. When he offers binding in exchange for survival? I’ll take it.

Because Unseelie slavery beats death. Beats Davis breaking what’s left of my mind. Beats Amarantha’s toxic version of care.

At least in Moros’s court, I’ll be close enough to find weaknesses. Plan real revenge.

If I survive the binding process.

The chamber door opens. Seelie guards, armor gleaming like captured starlight. They arrange themselves around me. Not protection—escort duty. Making sure I reach my destination without escape attempts.

“The trial chamber awaits,” the lead guard announces.

White silk clings like burial shrouds. Each fold whispers against my throat. My fingers tremble tying the sash—not from fear, but recognition. Every fiber knows what this outfit means.

Prey dressed for slaughter.

Let them think I’m hollow. Let them believe the suppression worked. Let them feel safe watching the perfect execution.

Ghosts don’t scream.

They haunt.

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