Page 212 of Ashes to Ashes

I close my eyes. Gather what feels like the last dregs of my magical ability. When I speak, my voice breaks with genuine desperation.

“Ancient powers of the Wild Court, I am blood of your blood, magic of your magic. I call to the Cauldron of Life, source of all healing!”

I reach out with everything I have. Calling to a treasure I’ve never seen. Hoping something, somewhere, might answer.

Nothing.

The pedestal stays empty. No light, no magical response, no sign anything heard my call except echo in the vast chamber.

Copper floods my mouth as something tears inside my skull. Vision fractures—chamber splitting into kaleidoscope fragments that refuse to align. Fire races through my nervous system, each nerve screaming as suppression magic turns my own power into acid eating me from within.

“Oh, root-born,” comes a familiar voice, whisper-soft and visible only to me. Whispen materializes beside the dais, golden light dimmed to barely a flicker, translucent form trembling with urgency. “They’ve rigged everything! Suppression magic, ward-circles, even the pedestals—all designed to ensure you fail!”

I don’t react visibly, but catch his frantic gestures from the corner of my eye.

“The treasures can’t hear you through the interference! Your lovely guardians sit there burning with their treasures but the magic won’t let them respond! It’s all a setup, precious one—every bit designed to break you!”

They didn’t plan for mercy. They planned for spectacle. Blood on marble. Pretty girl unraveling under pressure. Cautionary tale for anyone else foolish enough to believe in gods or girls with thorns.

Click. The whole trial’s rigged. Every pedestal, every suppression rune, every fucking stone—choreographed to watch me bleed.

Something snarls behind my sternum.

You want a show? I’ll give you one you’ll never forget.

“But root-born,” Whispen continues, form flickering with distress, “there’s something they didn’t account for. Something beautiful and terrible about what you are!”

Vision blurs with more than blood loss as truth crystallizes. This trial was never about proving my heritage. It was about breaking my will.

You thought I’d beg. You thought I’d shatter. You thought you could bleed me dry and dress it up like justice.

But you forgot something. Ashes don’t stay down.

“I call to the Crown of Destiny!” I continue, voice stronger despite the blood. “Grant me knowledge of all paths!”

Nothing.

The second pedestal stays dark and empty while more blood flows from my nose. In the gallery, I catch movement—Kieran leaning forward, Orion’s hands clenched into fists, Finnian pressing something against his chest.

But whatever they’re hiding, whatever power they might possess, they can’t help me now. Won’t help me now.

I’m alone.

“I call to the Spear of Truth!” Words scrape from my throat like broken glass. “Let honesty pierce all deception!”

Still nothing.

Something roars beneath my ribs, clawing up through vertebrae like a caged animal sensing freedom. Marble beneath my knees cracks in spiraling patterns. Ancient ward-stones pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat, responding to power that shouldn’t exist but refuses to die.

My legs give out and I collapse to my knees. White robes spread around me like spilled milk. Blood streams freely now, staining ceremonial silk crimson. Magical backlash builds with each failed attempt, my body unable to handle channeling divine power through suppressed magic.

But I have to try one more time. Complete the ritual even if it kills me.

“I call to the Stone of Fál!” I scream, putting everything I have left into the attempt. “Recognize your rightful queen!”

The final pedestal remains as empty as the others.

Four treasures called. Four treasures that don’t respond. Four empty pedestals mocking my failure while I convulse on the dais, blood pooling beneath me as magical trauma tears my nervous system apart.