Page 44

Story: Ashes to Ashes

“I’m not pretending anything,” I say, meeting his gaze directly. The words taste like broken glass in my mouth. “I was sent here as a combat instructor, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. Your students seem to learn something valuable from me, even if it wounded your Unseelie pride that a human could match your court’s techniques.”

His eyes widen fractionally—the most unguarded reaction I’ve seen from him. For a moment, I think I’ve pushed too far.

Instead, he steps forward again, closing the distance I thought he’d surrendered. This time when he reaches for me, there’s nothing gentle in his approach. His hand captures the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair with a grip that should feel threatening but instead sends molten heat pooling low in my abdomen.

Where his fingertips press against my scalp, the ethereal music intensifies—each point of contact creating a distinct note that combines into a haunting melody. The sound resonates through my skull, a symphony only I can hear. This is unique to him, a signature as personal as fingerprints.

“If I were threatening you,” he says, voice a dangerous whisper against my ear, “you would know it.”

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, our faces now inches apart. His gaze drops briefly to my lips, a flash of hunger crossing his features so quickly I might have imagined it. The air between us thickens with possibility, with tension that has everything to do with an entirely different kind of surrender.

His shadows twine more tightly around my legs, climbing higher until they wrap my waist in bands of living darkness.The cold burn of their touch seeps through clothing, creating a counterpoint to the heat building within.

“We will finish this conversation, Professor. Soon.” His voice carries a dual resonance that vibrates through bone and tissue.

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.” His free hand rises to my face, thumb brushing across my lower lip in a touch so deliberate it can only be interpreted as possession. The moment his skin contacts mine, the ethereal music swells, creating a perfect chord that lingers in my mind like a remembered lullaby. “And there’s nowhere in Velasca—nowhere in any realm—that I cannot find you.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be found.”

“Maybe you’re lying to yourself as skillfully as you lie to me.” His grip loosens, though his shadows maintain their hold for several heartbeats longer, tiny stars still pulsing in rhythm with my own heartbeat before gradually fading.

With that, he steps backward into darkness and begins to dissolve—not moving away but literally merging with shadow, particles of blackness absorbing his physical presence until nothing remains but a lingering chill and the scent of winter forest.

I remain against the wall, legs trembling like I’ve run twenty miles in full combat gear. My skin tingles where his fingers traced my face, where his thumb brushed my lip, where his shadows claimed territory. The places where he touched leave ghostly imprints that ache with cold while my core blazes with unfamiliar heat.

I replace the pendant around my neck, feeling the immediate dampening effect as it touches my skin. The world dims instantly—colors less vivid, sounds less distinct, scents muted. Like viewing everything through frosted glass. Like drowning in slow motion.

Yet the ghost of his touch remains.

And it takes everything inside of me not to rush after him.

9

ORION

The forest knows me.

Trees bend as I pass, branches lifting to accommodate my height.

“There’s my beautiful girl,” I rumble against a massive oak’s bark, my palm spreading wide as she shivers under my touch. “You always know exactly what I need, don’t you?”

Home. Not the Academy with its suffocating ceilings. Not the formal courts with their poisonous politics. This—the borderlands between realms, where magic runs raw and untamed.

My skin prickles with awareness. Something’s different tonight. The trees whisper more urgently, their language vibrating through the soles of my feet. The air carries a scent like lightning-struck oak—that distinct combination of char and sap that signals great change.

I touch the spiraling tattoo on my forearm—the blood oath mark of my family line. It burns beneath my fingers like embers awakening, sending pulses of heat through my veins.

“Well, that’s new,” I mutter as the heat spreads up my arm and into my chest, warming me from the inside out like good whiskey.

The encampment materializes suddenly through the trees, hidden by magic rather than distance. Structures woven from living branches arch into temporary dwellings. Fires burn with blue-green flames that release no smoke.

Wild magic doesn’t follow the structured seasonal patterns of the other courts. Where Seelie magic creates controlled beauty and Unseelie magic reveals hidden truths, Wild magic is raw, animalistic. It grants shapeshifting abilities, communion with nature, but at the cost of predictability. The other courts fear us because our power can’t be contained or controlled.

I duck beneath the entryway arch, my shoulders too broad for the opening until I turn them sideways.

“Still building these like you’re expecting hobbits instead of warriors,” I announce, ducking through with deliberate slowness that makes my point without theatrics. My presence fills the space instantly—not asking for attention, commanding it.

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