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ASH

The Academy Court Chamber stretches before me like a colosseum designed for public execution—ancient stone rising in three perfect tiers while hundreds of High Fae track my movement like predators watching wounded prey.

I’m wearing ceremonial white robes that feel like a burial shroud, hands shaking as I walk down the central aisle.

Each step is a funeral.

Not just for the version of me I’ve been pretending to be, but for the dreams I buried so deep I forgot I’d once dared to want more.

A life outside war.

A love without conditions.

A name that didn’t come with a target on my back.

The stone beneath me hums with ancient judgment. But I won’t apologize for being a weapon they forged then feared. I’ll show them what it means to survive.

Every step echoes through magical acoustics that amplify sound until my breathing becomes a public announcement of terror.

At the chamber’s heart sits a raised dais. Waiting for me.

In the center of that dais, a stone the size of my fist pulses with silver light that makes my thorns writhe beneath my skin. The Truth Stone. Ancient magic designed to strip away every lie, every pretense, every comfortable deception I’ve built my identity around.

“Breathe, precious root-born!” Whispen’s voice sparkles with genuine cheer, his presence invisible to everyone else. “Queens don’t break—they just reorganize into more interesting patterns! Isn’t resilience wonderful?”

But I don’t feel like a queen. I feel like a sacrifice.

The three court sections loom above me like judgment itself.

Seelie delegation glitters with light too perfect to be natural, led by Lady Amarantha Lightweaver whose violet eyes hold anticipation.

Unseelie representatives pool in shadow so deep it seems to drink illumination from the chamber, and at their center?—

King Moros. Kieran’s father sits on a throne of living shadow, his presence making the very air around him dense with authority that presses against my consciousness like a physical weight.

When his gaze finds mine, I see where Kieran inherited those pale eyes—but where Kieran’s hold carefully controlled warmth, his father’s are arctic wastelands that have never known mercy.

And beside him, separated from me by magical barriers I can feel humming with power, sits Kieran.

Something fractures behind my ribs at the sight of him.

Formal Unseelie court attire makes him look like a prince carved from winter itself, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his shadows writhe with barely contained agitation.

His hands grip the armrests of his chair so tightly that frost spreads from his fingertips in geometric patterns.

He wants to reach me, protect me, and can’t.

The Wild Court elders occupy the third section, with the Morrigan at their center like a goddess holding court among mortals. Her silver-streaked hair catches the chamber’s light, and when she meets my gaze, I see millennia of accumulated wisdom—and something that might be sympathy.

Orion sits with them, and I can see the guardian oath eating him alive.

His entire body trembles with the effort of staying seated, amber eyes burning with such frustrated fire that the air around him shimmers with heat.

Blood seeps from where his nails dig into his palms, fighting magical compulsion with sheer will.

And in the Seelie section, almost lost among the glittering nobles, I spot Finnian.

His amber gaze finds mine across the distance, and for a moment I see such desperate love that my throat closes.

His composure is completely gone—hands shaking, face pale, looking like he’s been physically struck by the sight of me walking toward destruction.

All three of them forced to watch while I face this alone.

“Ashlynne Moonshadow,” the Morrigan’s voice carries across the chamber with supernatural clarity. “You stand before the assembled courts to prove your worthiness for the crown of Wild Court royalty. Do you accept the terms of the Trial of Truth?”

My throat closes around words I don’t want to speak. But backing down now would mean death—theirs as well as mine.

“I accept.” The words come out steady despite my racing pulse. Like accepting a mission I know will probably kill me.

“Then approach the Truth Stone and place your hands upon its surface. Know that once contact is made, no lie can pass your lips, no deception can shield your thoughts, and your deepest memories will be shared with all who witness this trial.”

Stone drops into my stomach. Shared memories. Everyone in this chamber will see whatever the stone decides to reveal. Every shame, every failure, every moment of weakness I’ve spent a lifetime hiding.

I force myself forward, bare feet finding the dais. The Truth Stone pulses brighter as I approach, silver light growing so intense it casts shadows behind my ribs. When I place my palms against its surface, agony explodes through my nervous system.

This isn’t magical energy—it’s invasion.

Ancient power burrowing into my consciousness like ice picks driven through my skull, tearing through mental barriers I’ve spent decades constructing.

The stone doesn’t just compel truth—it rips it from my mind, tears it from my soul, and displays it for public consumption like organs spread on an autopsy table.

The moment my skin touches stone, I scream.

Not a sob—a tactical assessment delivered at maximum volume.

This is what violation sounds like when you can’t lie about it.

The sound tears from my throat raw and primal, echoing through the chamber with magical amplification until crystal fixtures ring like struck bells.

Blood erupts from my nose as the stone’s power floods my unprepared system, magical violation so brutal my body convulses like I’m being electrocuted.

“The court recognizes three questions,” the Morrigan announces over my screaming. “One from each realm, designed to test the fundamental qualities required of royal leadership.”

Lady Amarantha rises from her throne, violet eyes gleaming with anticipation. She’s been waiting for this moment, I realize through the agony. Waiting to destroy me in front of everyone I care about.

“Seelie Court presents the first question,” she announces, her voice carrying across the chamber like crystalline bells. “What ugliness do you hide beneath your royal facade?”

The Truth Stone explodes with silver fire that feels like molten metal being poured directly into my brain. Agony beyond description tears through my skull as the stone reaches into my memories, searching for the exact moment of shame that will destroy me most completely.

I try to resist, try to push it away, but the magical compulsion is absolute. It feels like having my mind flayed with broken glass while something with claws sorts through the wreckage.

No, please, not that ? —

Too late. The memory erupts above my head in perfect holographic detail, so vivid that everyone in the chamber doesn’t just see it—they feel it. Every emotion, every sensation, every moment of terror and desperate calculation flooding through their consciousness like a virus.

I’m crouched on a rocky outcrop above the desert basin, scope trained on the narrow stretch of sand skirting Eternal Hollows. The heat warps the air, but not enough to blur the man pacing below.

Greyson.

Even six hundred meters out, I’d know him anywhere—red hair catching fire in the sun, freckled skin Vanessa traced with reverence in every story she told me. Her mate. Her anchor. The one who could make her laugh even when she wanted to burn the world.

My comm crackles. Kendall’s voice this time. “Target acquired. Clear shot. Your call, Morgan.”

But this isn’t just a target. This is the man Vanessa loves. The one who brought her back from the edge more than once. The man who trusted me.

The man now marked as compromised—Persephone’s reach extending too far, the gods uncertain if he’s still working for us... or if he’s become a weapon she’s steering.

“Do you see it?” Kendall again. Tighter now.

I do. Greyson shifts. Touches the center of his chest, where Vanessa used to sleep curled against him. Then he turns toward something only he sees, and for a split second, he looks right up the hill.

Like he knows.

My finger settles on the trigger.

If I don’t take the shot, someone else will. Someone who won’t aim clean. Someone who won’t make it fast.

This way, he goes down quick. He doesn’t see Vanessa’s face twisted in grief.

“Shot confirmed,” I whisper.

The rifle kicks. In the scope, I watch him jerk once, then crumble—hand pressed to the spreading red across his chest. His body hits the sand like something holy breaking.

And I break with it.

The memory continues, but now the stone is projecting my emotions during that kill.

Everyone here feels the cold calculation, the lack of hesitation, the professional detachment I wrapped around my heart to make the shot possible.

They feel how easy it was for me to destroy the person my cousin loved most.

And then it gets worse.

Weeks later, Vanessa calls me.

She’s crying so hard she can’t breathe. “Ash... he’s just... gone. I can’t feel him through the bond. I don’t understand—can you help me? Please. Help me find him.”

My throat closes, feeling the weight of what I know crushing my chest.

I can’t tell her the truth. Can’t say “I killed him” when she’s already falling apart.

But I can’t lie either.

“I’m sure you’ll find answers,” I finally manage. At least that’s not technically false.

“I’m going to search for him. Every realm, every underworld, every pocket dimension. He has to be somewhere.”

Ice spreads through my veins. “V, maybe you should ? —”

“No. He wouldn’t just abandon me. Something happened to him. Someone took him.” Her voice hardens with desperate determination. “I’m going to find him, Ash. Even if I have to tear apart every hell that exists.”