Page 16

ASH

I arrange weapons in neat rows on my bed—combat knife, ceramic backup, garrote wire disguised as a hair tie.

The fabric shifts against my skin, adjusting to my movements before I make them. Not normal cloth—something alive. It whispers with unnatural softness, accommodating each stretch like it’s eager to please.

Twenty minutes until my first class.

Finnian should be arriving soon to escort me to the training arena—one of many locations in this place that apparently refuses to stay put. I review my lesson plans one final time, mentally categorizing exercises based on the student information he provided last night.

My fingers absently trace the collection of river stones I discovered in my quarters, their surfaces still warm from when I removed the pendant briefly before dawn. The patterns they formed then—a constellation I couldn’t name—haunt me still, the image burned into my retinas like a camera flash.

A knock at my door interrupts my preparations—three rapid taps followed by what sounds like someone playing a brief musical flourish on the wood itself. The pattern reverberates through the room, making the stones on my table tremble faintly in response.

Definitely not Finnian. His knock last night had been measured, precise—much like the man himself.

This knock sounds like chaos given physical form.

I open the door to find Viel, dressed in robes dyed in swirling jewel tones that shift as he moves. A silver dagger dangles from one ear—an actual weapon, not jewelry.

“Professor Morgan!” he announces, sweeping into an elaborate bow.

“Viel Vaelwyn, at your service. The universe conspired to redirect poor Finnian into tedious curriculum meetings.” He straightens with theatrical flair.

“I volunteered for escort duty because the cosmos whispers you need a guide who understands dramatic entrances.”

He invites himself into my quarters with a theatrical flourish. His scent makes my nose tingle uncomfortably—ozone and something spicy like lightning striking a cinnamon grove.

“I appreciate the assistance,” I say neutrally, gathering my teaching notes and stowing the last of my weapons. The knife slides against my ribs with reassuring solidity.

“Oh, darling, you absolutely cannot navigate this place alone,” Viel laughs, the sound like silver bells that shatter against my eardrums. “The training arenas relocate weekly based on lunar cycles and campus mood swings. Last month it put the underwater combat chamber directly above the library.” He gestures dramatically toward the door.

“Took weeks to dry out the ancient wisdom. Very traumatic for the texts—some of them are still emotionally scarred.”

“Emotionally scarred... texts?”

“Oh yes, the grimoires are particularly sensitive. One started crying whenever anyone mentioned water magic. Tragic, really.”

Wonderful .

We arrive at the training arena—vast space, impossibly larger inside than out. Thirty students assembled in court groupings: Seelie gleaming near windows, Unseelie in shadowed corners, Wild Court in the middle with clothing of feathers and bark.

“Your playground, Professor,” Viel announces dramatically. “Good luck. May the universe align in your favor—you’ll need every cosmic advantage available.”

He disappears in a swirl of color-shifting robes, leaving me alone before my first class of immortal beings with dubious opinions of humans.

No pressure.

I move to the center of the arena with measured steps, adopting the stance that has served me through countless military briefings—feet planted at shoulder width, back straight, hands clasped loosely behind me.

The position projects authority while maintaining readiness for movement in any direction.

Or at least that is what I hope they see when they look at me.

Half the class steps back when I move, hands drifting toward weapons. They’re not watching a demonstration—they’re assessing a threat. Unseelie students track my movements, calculating angles. One draws a finger across his throat. Not joking. Planning.

My stomach tightens with a flicker of uncertainty I’d never admit aloud.

“My name is Professor Morgan,” I begin, pitching my voice to carry without shouting. “I’m here to teach adaptive combat techniques developed through human military evolution.”

A tall student with silver-blue skin and elongated fingers makes a dismissive sound like ice cracking. “What could humans possibly teach Fae about combat? We’ve been perfecting battle techniques for millennia.” His voice carries a harmonic undertone that vibrates against my sternum.

Exactly the opening I need.

“Congratulations on the participation trophy.” I move forward, covering the distance between us faster than he anticipates.

His eyes widen, pupils dilating as he instinctively leans away from my sudden proximity.

“Now tell me—when’s the last time someone surprised you in combat?

When’s the last time your techniques faced genuine innovation instead of the same recycled forms? ”

His mouth opens, but no response emerges. “I—that’s not?—”

“That hesitation?” I let my smile turn sharp. “That’s your answer.”

A few students shift uncomfortably. Others lean forward with new interest.

“I’ll need a volunteer,” I announce. “Someone confident in their combat abilities.”

Several hands rise immediately. I select a muscular student with bark-like skin who practically vibrates with eagerness to humiliate the human instructor.

“Name and court affiliation?” I ask as he approaches.

“Briar Thornfist, Wild Court combat specialist,” he replies with a predatory smile that reveals teeth slightly too sharp to be human. “Third-year advanced weapons training.”

“Perfect. Choose your weapon, Briar.”

He selects a practice sword nearly as long as I am tall, blade glimmering with blue-black energy. I choose a simple wooden staff. The wood warms against my palm, grain shifting like muscle beneath skin.

“The objective,” I explain to the class, “is to disarm your opponent by recognizing patterns and adapting to them. Strength means nothing if you can predict movement.”

Briar takes position, his stance textbook perfect—balanced, powerful, and entirely predictable to anyone who’s studied their techniques.

“Begin whenever you’re ready,” I tell him.

Briar lunges forward, sword arcing in a high-to-low diagonal slash. I recognize it immediately—Unseelie Form Three, documented in Graves’ briefing materials.

Instead of raising my staff to block, I step inside the arc of his swing, pivoting so the blade passes harmlessly behind me.

The move puts me inches from his exposed side, close enough to smell the sap-like substance that serves as his sweat.

It’s sweet and earthy, triggering a flash of recognition so profound my vision blurs for a microsecond.

I tap my staff lightly against his ribs. “Point noted. Again.”

Anger flickers across his face, bark-plates darkening like wood soaked in water. His next attack is a complex sequence—feint high, strike low, followed by a rapid thrust toward my midsection.

I recognize the general pattern from the briefing materials, but something else happens as I watch him move—a deeper recognition that bypasses conscious thought, as if my muscles remember something my mind doesn’t.

I don’t think. I act.

My body moves with feral certainty, instinct older than thought.

“You’re telegraphing your intentions,” I tell him, focusing on tactical analysis to quiet the questions rising in my mind. “Your right shoulder tenses before overhead strikes. Your weight shifts to your left foot before thrusting attacks. Again.”

His bark-like skin darkens with frustration. He launches into a more aggressive sequence—a whirlwind attack that combines elements of multiple forms. The blade blurs with speed that would overwhelm an ordinary human opponent.

This sequence wasn’t in my briefings. I shouldn’t know how to counter it. Yet as his blade arcs toward me, my body moves with a certainty that feels ancient, responding to patterns I’ve somehow always known.

“Enough playing,” he growls, eyes darkening to solid black. The temperature around him drops several degrees as he channels magic into his blade. The practice sword now trails a green substance that hisses through the air like angry snakes.

I don’t comment on this clear violation of sparring rules. Instead, I watch his form, noting how the magic alters his balance. When he attacks again—a horizontal slash empowered with wild-magic—I duck beneath it and pivot inside his guard.

The end of my staff connects with his wrist at precisely the pressure point that triggers involuntary muscle release.

His fingers open reflexively.

The practice sword spins from his grasp.

I complete my movement, staff coming to rest lightly against his throat.

“Pattern recognition,” I say calmly, stepping back and lowering my weapon. “Briar executed his techniques perfectly. The forms themselves were the vulnerability—too established, too recognizable to someone who’s studied them.”

A girl with silver hair and Seelie-bright eyes raises her hand.

Her glow flares bright enough to hurt my eyes.

“That’s Wild Court royalty technique. Pre-division era.

Impossible for humans to know.” She pauses, the glow around her intensifying with excitement.

“That was a modified Wild Court form from the pre-division era.”

The room falls silent. My heart stutters, missing a beat before resuming with painful force.

“An interesting observation,” I reply, keeping my voice steady though my stomach knots with sudden nausea. “Combat evolution often develops parallel techniques across different traditions. Similar problems frequently yield similar solutions.”

She looks unconvinced.

A ripple of whispers spreads through the students. I catch fragments.

“...moved like Wild Court royalty...”

“...impossible for a human...”