Page 66

ASH

I wake to sunlight pouring through the window, right at my face, as though that damn ball of fire is singling me out.

It honestly might be.

The Academy responds to royal presence in strange ways, and apparently that includes weaponized morning sunshine. I roll over and turn my head to see I’m alone in Kieran’s massive bed, silk sheets tangled around my bare legs.

I’m not mad he isn’t here. It allows me a moment alone—a moment to think and assess all the delicious achy parts of me.

My body hums with satisfaction, nerve endings still sensitive from Kieran’s thorough attention. He didn’t just touch my body—he made my hunger holy. For the first time in my life, wanting felt like power instead of weakness.

But the satisfaction fades as reality creeps back in. Last night felt like claiming power, but this morning feels like facing consequences.

The memories are still soft around the edges, like snow melting beneath sunrise. But underneath the glow? Consequences sharpen like blades.

I want to hold onto the version of me from last night. The one who demanded pleasure without apology. But I can already feel her slipping beneath the weight of politics, expectation, fear.

What if last night was the only moment I ever get to just want something—someone—without consequence?

What if choosing him means un-choosing everything else?

My body still hums with the memory of Kieran’s touch, but my mind races with what it means. How do I look Finnian in the eye knowing I chose someone else’s bed? How do I prepare for trials that will strip away every pretense when I’m not even sure who I am beneath them?

The woman who surrendered to Kieran’s ice and shadows feels like a stranger wearing my skin. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe I’m finally becoming who I was always meant to be, instead of who I was trained to be.

“Good morning, your deliciously conflicted majesty!” Whispen’s voice sparkles with genuine cheer, shattering my contemplation. “What a lovely day to contemplate all the ways your happiness might destroy everything! Isn’t personal growth wonderful?”

I fling an arm over my eyes and breathe deeply, inhaling the lingering scent of winter storms and pine that clings to everything in this room. “Not now, Whispen. I’m trying to figure out who the hell I am this morning.”

“The way Prince Ice-Touch made you forget your own name last night?”

Fire scalds up my throat. “You weren’t supposed to be watching!”

“I wasn’t watching!” His blue light strobes with indignation. “I was diplomatically absent! But oh, the magical resonance was absolutely delightful! Royal satisfaction tends to announce itself across several dimensions—like cosmic fireworks celebrating impending doom! So festive!”

“Magical resonance of—never mind. I don’t want to know.” I groan and throw a pillow at his glowing form. He ducks with a delighted cackle, but his light dims just a touch—like he knows what’s coming next.

“Want to talk about it?” he offers, voice quieter. Less sprite, more soul keeper.

“Not even a little.”

“Thought so.” A pause. “But I’ll be here. You know, if existential dread starts eating through your glitter armor.”

It’s stupid how comforting that is.

I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest. “What time is it? And don’t say something cryptic about time being an illusion.”

“Mid-morning. Which means you have approximately eight hours until the Trial of Truth begins at twilight.”

Stone drops into my stomach. Today. Today I have to prove my worth to a society I didn’t know I belonged to, yet I do. It’s a knowing that exists deep in my bones—I belong here more than I’ve ever belonged anywhere in my entire life.

“Eight hours,” I repeat, anxiety spiking through post-orgasmic bliss.

“Eight hours to prepare for three questions that will strip you bare before every court representative in the Academy.” Whispen’s tone turns serious, though his needle-sharp grin remains.

“The Trial of Truth isn’t just ‘prove you’re royal, here’s your crown.

’ Oh no, root-born, it’s much more fun than that.

It’s ‘prove your soul is worthy to wield the power that comes with divine blood, or die trying.’“ His grin turns razor-sharp. “Isn’t that delightful?”

Every time I speak a truth out loud, I wonder if I’ve just signed my own death sentence. Visibility has always meant vulnerability. Power has always meant punishment.

But hiding didn’t save me before.

And I’m done playing a ghost in someone else’s war. This is my skin now—etched in thorns and truths I’ve bled for. So let them come. Let the courts bare their teeth.

I’m not walking into that trial to beg for space.

I’m walking in to take what was always mine.

My stomach lurches. “What kind of questions?”

“The kind that force absolute honesty about what you fear most, what you desire most, what you’d sacrifice most.” He floats closer, needle-sharp teeth catching the light.

“Truth constraints amplified to the point where even thinking about lying causes physical agony. Evasion could sever every magical bond you’ve formed. ”

Lightning strikes behind my ribs at the threat. Every bond. That means Kieran, the debt between us, whatever’s developing with Finnian and Orion—all of it could be destroyed if I can’t answer honestly enough.

“I need to prepare.” I scramble out of bed, looking around for my clothes. “I need to understand Fae customs, trial procedures, what’s expected?—”

“You need the scholar.” Whispen’s grin turns knowing. “Lucky for you, I may have mentioned to a certain amber-eyed professor that you’d require emergency education this morning.”

“You told Finnian I was here?” Mortification burns through me.

“I told him you’d need help preparing for trials that could reshape the political landscape. Where you spent the night is... contextually apparent to anyone with functional magical senses.”

Shit. Of course it is. I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes, my hair is thoroughly mussed, and I probably smell like Kieran’s winter magic. The walk from his quarters to mine—or to wherever Finnian is waiting—will be a parade of shame through Academy corridors.

“Where is he?”

“Library archives. Private study room seven. And root-born?” Whispen’s expression turns uncharacteristically gentle. “He’s not angry. Hurt, perhaps. But not angry.”

The distinction cuts deeper than outright rage would have.

I pull on yesterday’s clothes with as much dignity as possible, finger-combing my hair into something resembling order. The thorn patterns beneath my skin glow faintly through the fabric—visible proof of magical awakening that anyone with eyes can recognize.

“Wish me luck,” I mutter, heading for the door.

“You don’t need luck,” Whispen calls after me. “You need honesty. Try not to die of it.”

The corridor outside Kieran’s quarters might as well be a gauntlet.

Students cluster in small groups, their conversations dying as I pass.

Faculty members cast meaningful glances at my disheveled state.

Even the Academy itself seems to be judging me—crystal fixtures brightening as I walk beneath them, announcing my presence to anyone within a mile radius.

“Professor Morgan,” Lady Shimmerwell’s crystalline voice stops me cold. “How... eventful your morning appears to be.”

I turn to find her watching with predatory interest, violet eyes cataloging every detail of my walk-of-shame appearance.

“Lady Shimmerwell.” I keep my voice carefully neutral. “Lovely morning.”

“Indeed. Though some mornings carry more... significance than others.” Her smile sharpens. “I do hope you’re prepared for today’s proceedings. The courts have such high expectations.”

The threat wrapped in politeness makes my thorns pulse with warning. “I’m sure they do.”

“Until twilight, then.” She glides away, leaving behind the distinct impression that she knows something I don’t.

Three Seelie students cluster near the main staircase, their whispered conversation dying as I approach. I catch fragments—”political implications” and “Unseelie alliance” and “scandal.” One meets my gaze directly, eyes bright with curiosity rather than judgment.

“Professor Morgan,” she says with a slight curtsy. “We’re rooting for you today.”

The unexpected support makes something fracture behind my ribs. “I appreciate that.”

Near the library entrance, an Unseelie representative I don’t recognize makes careful notes in a leather journal, his gaze tracking my progress. Making reports. Cataloging evidence. Building cases.

The political ramifications of my choices hit fresh—this isn’t just about personal relationships. It’s about alliances and power structures and three courts trying to position themselves for whatever comes next.

By the time I reach the library, whispers follow in my wake like autumn leaves. The worst part isn’t the judgment—it’s the vulnerability. Every person who sees me like this knows I spent the night in someone’s bed. The loss of privacy feels like losing armor before battle.

Through the library windows, I can see the hourglass in the sky tilting. Libra rising on the eastern horizon—a symbol of balance, of judgment. Of being weighed and found wanting. Or worthy.

Study room seven sits tucked away in the archives’ deepest section, hidden behind shelves of texts so ancient they predate written language. I pause outside the door, suddenly uncertain.

What if Whispen was wrong? What if Finnian is angry? What if seeing me like this—rumpled and satisfied and obviously fresh from another man’s bed—ruins whatever fragile connection we’ve built?

Before I can lose my nerve, the door opens.

Finnian stands framed in warm amber light, his usually perfect appearance slightly disheveled.

Dark hair falls across his forehead, and his cream-colored shirt is wrinkled like he’s been running his hands through it.

Books lie scattered around him like he’s been pacing, thinking, maybe questioning everything he thought he knew about what he wanted.