Page 71

Story: Ashes to Ashes

I take it. Metal goes arctic cold against my palm like it recognizes the earth magic flowing beneath my skin. As it touches me, thorns dim visibly, retreating millimeters beneath flesh. My enhanced awareness dulls to manageable levels.

“Twenty-eight years of wearing a magical muzzle and I never knew it. Someone’s got a sick sense of humor—or a really impressive long-term strategy.”

The warrior watches with interest. “An interesting question. What does your blood tell you?”

My hand rebels against putting the chain around my throat. The thought of re-caging whatever’s awakened makes my stomach lurch with visceral disgust.

Without breaking eye contact with the warrior, I pocket the pendant.

“Choices shape the dawn,” she observes, approval flickering in those ancient depths.

“Right, because nothing says ‘business as usual’ like showing up to Combat Theory covered in mystical dirt with glowing plant tattoos. That won’t raise any questions.”

The warrior’s laughter surprises me—stones grinding together, rough but genuine. “Human schedules persist even as human biology fades. Perhaps this earth-claiming serves purpose.”

“Still waiting on that introduction, by the way. Unless ‘mysterious ancient warrior’ is how you prefer to be addressed. I can work with that.”

She smiles enigmatically. “Names have power, root-born. You’ll learn mine when you’re ready to hear it.”

She steps back, “Path straightens for your return. Follow quickly.”

As if summoned by her words, a trail appears between trees—arrow-straight, glowing faintly blue.

Obviously unnatural after the forest’s usual dimensional fuck-you.

I turn to thank her, but the ancient warrior has dissolved into dawn shadows, Whispen’s golden glow the last to fade.

The path back feels different beneath my transformed feet. Each step sends awareness rippling through soil-infused skin. My clothes stick to me, dirt and plant matter refusing all attempts at cleaning. Thorns pulse hypnotically through fabric, blue-green light painting my skin in alien patterns.

Halfway to the Academy, the real change hits.

Enhanced senses explode like a grenade going off in my skull.

I hear conversations from Academy grounds a mile away. Individual heartbeats of students waking. Specific words floating on impossible air currents.

Scents crash over me in devastating waves. Every flower. Every breakfast cooking. Every person who’s walked this path in the last week floods my nostrils until I gag.

My skin crawls with awareness of every insect. Every shift of wind. Every vibration through earth.

Colors strobe behind my eyelids—too bright, too many, more shades than human eyes should process.

Too much.

Too fucking much.

I stagger off the path, slamming my back against an ancient oak as my knees buckle. The tree’s heartbeat thunders through my spine—massive, patient, older than civilization. My vision tunnels, hands shaking as I press my palms against the bark while my nervous system threatens to overload completely.

“Can’t—too much—” I gasp. “Sensory overload. Like someone turned every dial to eleven and forgot to mention it might scramble my brain.”

“Breathe, root-born.”

The voice cuts through chaos like warm honey poured over exposed nerves, settling something wild in my chest. Low and rough, familiar in ways that bypass my brain and speak directly to newly awakened instincts.

The safety in his scent.

Orion emerges from green shadows like the forest birthed him. No sound of approach. No disturbed leaves. He simply materializes wearing that devastating grin that makes my stomach flip despite the sensory onslaught threatening to tear my skull apart.

He’s dressed for wilderness, not lectures. Leather vest over bronze skin. Boots made for tracking through untamed places. Auburn hair catches early light, red gleaming like living flame.

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