Page 20

ASH

Moonlight falls differently here.

It follows me through the Academy grounds like a spotlight, shifting to illuminate my path despite cloud cover that should conceal me. When I duck beneath an archway, the light bends impossibly around stone to find me. When I press against shadows, they retreat as if burned by my presence.

Tactically problematic. Emotionally... unsettling.

I slip between two guard stations, counting seconds between patrol patterns. Twenty-three steps to the eastern courtyard. Forty-seven to the forbidden archives. All dutifully mapped in my mental floor plan, which expands with each night’s exploration.

Three nights at Velasca Academy and my tech is already worthless.

Satphone—dead the moment I crossed the boundary.

Military-grade tablet—now displays only swirling patterns that coalesce into faces when I’m not looking directly at them.

Even my analog watch runs backward half the time.

Another detail Graves conveniently omitted from my briefing.

No communications equipment means no reporting my findings. No extraction protocols. No backup. The isolation should concern me more than it does. Instead, I feel a strange kind of relief—no orders, no oversight, just my own judgment to follow.

It feels like taking my first true breath of air in far too long.

The memory of that damn combat class lingers in my muscles—the fluidity with which I countered Orion’s attacks, movements I shouldn’t know but executed perfectly.

The heat of his skin against mine, so different from human contact.

The way Finnian watched from the sidelines, detachment giving way to something more intense when Kieran appeared.

Three very different men. Three very different reactions from my traitorous body.

Orion’s dinner invitation hangs in the back of my mind. Should I go? Technically, getting closer to faculty members aligns with mission objectives. Intelligence gathering. Nothing more.

The lie tastes bitter even in my thoughts.

Something pulls at me—a sensation like an invisible cord hooked directly beneath my sternum, tugging gently but insistently toward the southeast. An ancient tree I’ve observed from my window but haven’t yet approached.

Against all logical sense, against years of training and discipline, I follow the pull like an animal obeying instinct over reason.

The tree dominates a small grove, its trunk wider than three people with arms outstretched could encircle. Roots break the surface before plunging back down, creating archways large enough to walk through. Symbols spiral up its bark—not carved but growing naturally, shifting position when I blink.

As I approach, the thorn patterns beneath my sleeve surge with sudden heat. Not the painful cold near iron, but something almost... welcoming. Heat spreads across my chest, up my neck, down to my fingertips. My heartbeat synchronizes with pulses from the ancient wood.

I remove the pendant from around my neck, concealing it in my pocket.

The world fucking explodes.

Colors sharpen until I can distinguish a dozen shades of darkness.

Sounds clarify—I hear mice moving through underground tunnels thirty feet away, the flutter of owl wings high above, the subtle shifting of roots beneath soil.

Scents become information—the age of trees, the passage of specific individuals hours earlier, the subtle shifts in air currents that speak of weather patterns days away.

My knees buckle. I catch myself against the trunk, gasping as the sensory onslaught rips through every nerve. Every cell vibrates at a frequency that threatens to shake me apart. My skin feels too tight, too human to contain whatever awakens inside me.

I place my palm against the ancient bark. It’s warm, thrumming with energy that flows up my arm and resonates with the patterns now visibly glowing beneath my skin. The connection spreads through my entire body—fingertips to shoulder, across chest, into core, down to toes.

“Hello, old friend,” I whisper without conscious intent.

The words emerge in a language I’ve never spoken, yet understand perfectly.

“Dia dhuit, cara.”

Ancient Fae, according to briefing materials. A language I shouldn’t know but feels more natural on my tongue than English ever has.

The tree responds—not with words, but with a surge of energy that courses through me. Information without language. Knowledge without explanation. Like remembering something long forgotten rather than learning something new.

Footsteps approaching snap me to alertness. I slip behind the massive trunk, concealing myself among roots. The connection with the tree doesn’t break. Instead, it extends my awareness outward like tentacles of perception.

It also tugs at my hair, snapping my ponytail free.

I sense three people entering the grove before they become visible, feel their unique energy signatures like distinct flavors against my tongue.

“I still think it’s nonsense,” says a male voice. “The changeling prophecy is just another bedtime story to frighten children.”

“Then why is the Morrigan suddenly visiting the Academy after centuries away?” counters a female voice. “You know she only appears when the Wild Court bloodlines are threatened or revealed.”

“The Morrigan goes where she pleases,” says a third voice, softer than the others. “Though I admit, the timing is curious—arriving just after the human instructor.”

I peer carefully around the trunk. Three students have settled on stone benches facing the tree. I recognize two from my combat class, their expressions now thoughtful instead of skeptical after witnessing my match with Orion.

“What do you think of her, Sivra?” asks the male student, turning to a girl with midnight-black hair streaked with silver, skin so pale it’s almost translucent. “The human teacher.”

Sivra tilts her head thoughtfully. “She’s not what she appears to be.”

“You say that about everyone,” says the other girl, her features more delicate, her demeanor gentler.

“Because it’s usually true,” Sivra responds with a shrug. “But her especially. Did you see how she countered Orion’s seventh form? No human could possibly know that sequence.”

“Perhaps she’s extensively trained,” offers the other girl, though her tone suggests she doesn’t believe it either.

“Or perhaps,” Sivra says, lowering her voice dramatically, “she’s what the prophecy foretold. ‘When royal blood disguised returns, between two courts the balance burns.’“

“Oh, not the prophecy again,” groans the male student. “Next you’ll be claiming the four treasures are about to reunite.”

“They might,” Sivra insists. “All the signs align—the stars, the seasonal shifts, the dreams many of us have been having.”

“What dreams?” asks the gentler girl, suddenly interested.

“Dreams of thorn patterns that move like living things,” Sivra replies. “Dreams of a figure walking between courts, trailing fire and shadow.”

Cold slides down my spine despite the tree’s warmth.

I’ve had those exact dreams since childhood—drawings of them hidden in a box beneath my bed that no one has ever seen.

Swirling patterns of thorn that dance across skin, that pulse with life, that tell stories in a language made of ice and starlight.

“I heard Professor Willowheart has been researching changeling records,” the gentler girl says quietly. “And Prince Nightshade has been unusually interested in our new human instructor.”

“Of course he is,” the male student laughs. “Anything strange or potentially threatening gets Nightshade’s attention. It’s his job to be suspicious.”

“It’s more than that,” Sivra argues. “I overheard Lord Dredge telling Headmaster Valeborn that Nightshade requested all human-Fae interaction records from the past century. He’s hunting for something specific.”

A shimmering light suddenly appears at the edge of the grove, coalescing into a familiar blue-haired figure. Professor Vaelwyn materializes with a twirl that sends his color-shifting robes spiraling outward like a galaxy in miniature. The students freeze, then scatter like startled deer.

“Scampering off to beds, are we?” Viel calls after them. “Wise choice! The night gardens have been particularly... digestive lately!”

He waits until the students disappear before sinking gracefully onto one of the abandoned benches. From my hiding place, I watch as he produces a small silver flask from within his robes and takes a delicate sip.

“You can come out now, darling,” he calls without looking in my direction. “Unless you prefer communing with ancient flora while crouched in what looks spiritually uncomfortable.” He gestures dramatically toward my hiding spot. “The universe has been whispering about your nocturnal wanderings.”

I remain silent, assessing whether to reveal myself or maintain cover.

“Oh please,” he sighs dramatically, “I could sense you the moment I arrived. You’re positively radiating cosmic complexity like a lighthouse on a moonless night.

Except, ironically, in actual moonlight.

” He gestures broadly at the beams that continue to illuminate me despite my concealment.

“The trees have been positively chattering about you.”

I step out cautiously, maintaining distance.

“Nighttime exploration! How delightfully clandestine,” Viel says, offering his flask. “Forbidden nectar from the western valleys? Excellent for sharpening night vision and causing the most extraordinary spiritual visions.”

“I’ll pass,” I reply, eying the flask suspiciously.

“Wise, probably. You’re having enough trouble with prophetic dreams already, I’d wager.” His eyes—now violet with silver streaks—study me with surprising intensity beneath his theatrical manner. “The Moon finds you rather fascinating, darling. She almost never follows mortals so... persistently.”

He glances upward at the silvery light that continues to spotlight me despite cloud cover.