Page 34

ASH

Darkness tastes like soil and suffocation.

Iron and rot coat my tongue. Soil presses against my cheek like a corpse’s palm refusing to let go.

Memory fragments slam through my skull.

Kieran’s arctic touch. Hunters circling. Power exploding through me like lightning-struck trees.

Then nothing.

Absolute fucking nothing.

The space squeezes tighter with each ragged breath. Wood groans around me like a coffin settling into fresh grave dirt.

Buried alive. I’m fucking buried alive.

Panic detonates through my nervous system. Every nightmare I’ve ever had about being entombed crashes through my brain.

Training hammers against my skull—assess, plan, escape.

Nowhere to move. Nowhere to run.

I’m trapped in the earth’s hungry belly. Roots curl around my limbs like skeletal fingers trying to drag me deeper.

Get OUT. Get OUT NOW.

My heart slams against ribs suddenly too fragile to contain the wild thing clawing at my sternum. I thrash against walls that shouldn’t exist. Bark scrapes skin raw. Blood mixes with dirt until I can’t tell where I end and the earth begins.

Every movement makes the space tighten.

Alive.

Trying to digest me.

I scream and scream and scream. It’s as though every emotion I’ve ever buried in my entire life bubbles to the surface, demanding I feel it right here, right now.

No isn’t an option.

Anger at the situation that brought me here.

Every person who has ever lied to me.

Making me feel small in my own skin.

Every time I’ve bitten my tongue to keep my thoughts to myself.

Every suspicion that I was more than I was meant to be.

Then the hope ripped from me as the universe knocked me down, telling me that I’m just Ash.

It all bubbles out into one long desperate scream as my soul fractures into a million little pieces, until my throat is raw and all the tears I’ve kept at bay fall.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, thorns through skin as thorns you trust!”

The voice shatters against my eardrums—childlike but wrong. Sing-song melody carrying notes that make my teeth ache. A glowing orb materializes inches from my face, pulsing violet and gold like a demented Christmas ornament. It bobs closer, heat brushing my bleeding cheek.

“Fantastic. Buried alive in a tree, having a heart-to-heart with discount Tinker Bell. Pretty sure this violates several laws of physics—and possibly my sanity.”

“Language, language, root-born bright! Though cursing suits the endless night!”

Root-born.

The word hits like ice water dumped over my head, instantly stopping my mental breakdown. Electric shocks race down my spine. Something buried deep stirs at that term—recognition crawling through layers of conditioning and deliberately forgotten childhood dreams.

The creature circles my head, casting psychedelic shadows on walls pressing closer. My vision adjusts slowly, revealing I’m wedged inside some kind of hollow tree. Ancient wood pulses against my spine like a living heart.

The air hangs thick with loam and ozone. Thunderstorms and secrets buried in rich soil.

My blood turns to ice. Bile rises in my throat as the weight of what Whispen revealed crashes over me. Not human. Never human. Everything I thought I knew about myself was a lie.

My fingers find worn grooves carved into the bark, smooth like others have climbed this path before.

Others like me? Others who discovered their entire identity was false?

“Cute prison. Very organic. Now how about we discuss my immediate release before I start making this personal?”

“Poor root-born, lost and found! Buried deep but still above ground! The dead don’t cry so desperately—though you will be, dead I mean. Eventually. All root-born fade when light burns bright!”

“Let me guess—mysterious guide with cryptic wisdom and a flair for dramatic timing? Because my day wasn’t complicated enough already.”

The orb giggles—actually giggles—drifting higher with manic glee. “Whispen, wisp, soul-keeper true, bound to thorns and bound to you. Last Will-o’-wisp to walk these lands, tethered by royal bloodline’s hands.”

Will-o’-wisp. The classification surfaces from buried briefing files—truth-bound entities tied to royal Fae bloodlines. Graves had mentioned them once, dismissing them as fairy-tale bullshit for children.

Yet here floats living proof, pulsing violet-gold.

I look down at my arms. Bile rises in my throat.

Dirt isn’t just caked on my skin—it’s become part of me. Thorns spiral past my elbows, twining around my collarbones like living vines seeking sunlight.

This should terrify me.

Instead, something savage whispers deep in my chest. Yes. Finally.

I bite back that thought. Focus on immediate threats. Survival first, existential crisis later. “Truth magic, huh? Funny how ‘truth’ always comes wrapped in fortune cookie philosophy. Care to try simple declarative sentences, or is mystical bullshit part of your brand?”

Whispen zooms closer, warmth radiating from his tiny form. “Up, up, through bark so high! Though watchers hoped your light would die. Your prince of ice stood here grieving, heart frozen but still believing.”

Images surface without permission.

Strong arms carrying me. Unusual warmth against habitual cold. Frost blooming wherever emotion cracked his carefully constructed mask.

Heat floods my chest, dangerous and unwelcome.

Kieran brought me here. Saved me from the hunters, then... vanished?

“Kieran was here?” His name escapes before I can stop it, carrying weight that makes my stomach flip.

“Shadows and worry, ice and hurry, carried you safe then left in a scurry.” Whispen rises, revealing handholds carved into the wood. “Others waited with blades so bright, eager to end your root-born light.”

“Root-born stolen, war-torn, saved from blade and fire’s scorn!” Whispen’s voice shifts to something older, sadder. “Hidden deep where iron bites, dimmed your Wild and royal lights!”

“Royal blood? I’m a soldier who was found eating berries in the woods. The closest I get to royalty is saluting officers. So either your intel’s wrong, or someone’s been playing a very long game.”

“Truth-song sings through thorn and bone, little queen now coming home!”

Heat floods my chest at the thought of Kieran carrying me to safety. Dangerous, unwelcome warmth that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the way he’d looked at me in that clearing.

Like I mattered.

Like protecting me was worth risking everything he’d built over centuries.

I shake my head violently. Can’t think about that now. Survival first.

I start climbing, following Whispen’s glow. Splinters drive deep into my palms, each movement sending fresh awareness through my body—somehow stronger than before, more coordinated despite the cramped space.

“Truth, yes, but mind’s a maze of endless days and countless ways. Watched you born in moonlight bright, watched you train for mortal fights. Stayed hidden while thorns slept deep, now they wake and upward creep.”

I freeze mid-climb, his words like ice water through my veins. “Watched me born. Right. So you’re either the world’s most dedicated stalker or there’s a really disturbing backstory I’m not going to like. Which is it?”

“Blood-bound, soul-tethered, tied by gold—Will-o’-wisps serve legends old. Mother’s magic, father’s line, wove our fates through space and time. Your true name—oh how it sings! Ashlynne of the thorned-crown kings!”

Ashlynne.

The name slams through me like lightning striking ground.

Every nerve ending ablaze.

Not just a variation on what I’ve always known—this resonates deeper. Threaded through DNA I’ve denied for twenty-eight years. My hands shake against the bark. Breath comes fast and shallow. Pieces click into place with the precision of a rifle chambering rounds.

The hollow feeling inside me that’s existed since consciousness began suddenly aches with purpose. I’ve always felt like something was missing. Some essential part locked away behind iron and lies.

The automatic lie tastes like copper and ash, physically painful to even attempt.

“I was found—” I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t voice the story Graves fed me about being discovered abandoned in the woods. Every cell in my body rejects that narrative with violent disgust.

I explode from the hollow into gray dawn light. Fresh air floods my starved lungs. My legs buckle, muscles cramping from confinement. I nearly face-plant into the figure waiting below.

A woman unlike any I’ve ever seen.

She stands like a monument carved from living stone. Battle leathers adorned with feathers that move with their own consciousness. Silver-streaked black hair frames a face beautiful in the way avalanches are beautiful—ancient, powerful, utterly indifferent to human comfort.

Her silver eyes strip away every layer of pretense, seeing through flesh right down to whatever truth lives in my bones.

Every instinct I possess screams warnings—dangerous, powerful, apex predator.

But beneath the alarm, something deeper recognizes her presence.

Not memory but blood calling to blood.

“Ancient warrior with pet lighting effects and a stare that could stop traffic. Let me guess—you’re either here to help or here to kill me. Considering my recent luck, probably both.”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her attention is drawn to Whispen, who transforms the moment he sees her. His manic energy settles as he floats to her armored shoulder. His chaotic light shifts to pure gold, nestling against her neck like a devoted pet seeking comfort.

“Sharp-mother watches, broken-mother heals,” he purrs, earlier madness melting into profound affection.

“And what does my soul-keeper report?” she asks, voice carrying warmth reserved only for him.

“Thorn-patterns spread like spring through bone, earth claimed her—not alone. Three circle close but shadow-blade protects, root-born learning what she expects.”

I watch this impossible exchange. Whispen—death-predicting maniac moments ago—now acts like a cherished companion seeking approval.