Page 74

ASH

Blood tastes like copper and shame.

My body is still here, kneeling in front of divine judgment, but my sense of self fractured somewhere between the eighth memory and the thousandth heartbreak. Am I still Ash, or just the sum of my sins stitched together by trauma and thorns?

The ceremonial white robes cling to my skin, soaked through with the aftermath of having my soul flayed in public.

The Truth Stone sits dark and satisfied beside me, its work complete. Every secret exposed. Every lie stripped away. Every relationship poisoned by my own revelations.

Then footsteps echo through the chamber like a death march.

“Agent Morgan.”

The voice slices through magical aftermath. That familiar authority that’s shaped eight years of being his ghost. Colonel Marcus Graves strides into the chamber flanked by a full military escort, steel-blue eyes cataloging my destruction with clinical satisfaction.

“Interesting performance,” he continues conversationally. “Very... illuminating.”

I try to stand. My legs give out instantly, sending me crashing back to stone that’s probably older than human civilization. Pain shoots through my knees, adding fresh wounds to what’s already pooling beneath me.

“She is no longer your concern.” The Morrigan’s voice carries ancient authority that makes crystal fixtures ring like struck bells.

Graves’ laugh is soft. Paternal. Devastating.

“Isn’t she? Tell me, after what we all just witnessed, do any of you still want her?”

The question lands like acid poured into an open wound, twisting until I can’t breathe. Not love her. Not protect her.

Want.

As if I’m still on the auction block, my worth reduced to utility, loyalty, obedience.

It’s like they’re projecting my own insecurities back at me, amplified by a thousand. My pain, my need to be wanted and loved. Reduced to this broken and bleeding moment.

But I’m not theirs anymore.

Not his. Not theirs. Maybe not even mine. But I’ll die before I let them put a price tag back on my soul.

In the gallery above, three pairs of eyes burn with different types of fury that make the air itself crackle with dangerous potential.

Kieran’s ice-cold calculation—shadows writhing around his boots as he leans toward his father’s obsidian throne. I catch fragments of whispered words, precise as blade strikes: “The human’s emotional signature reads wrong. Obsession, not love. And he reeks of iron suppression magic.”

Finnian’s rage—amber eyes blazing with protective fury that turns crystal fixtures molten.

His hands shake as he processes what systematic suppression means: every headache I blamed on stress, every moment of disconnection I attributed to exhaustion, every time I seemed smaller, dimmer, less myself.

Orion’s primal devotion—gripping the gallery rail so hard stone cracks beneath his fingers. The guardian oath burns between his thumb and forefinger like a brand, ancient magic clawing at his bones as Academy barriers fight something older and angrier.

Three courts. Three approaches. Three men who see my destruction and choose different ways to burn the world down for me.

“Did you see how easily she killed that boy?” Graves continues, pulling up holographic footage that makes bile rise in my throat. “Greyson MacLeary. Age twenty-four. His only crime was existing in the wrong place when we needed a political statement.”

The numbers hit like hammers against bone—twenty-seven missions, forty-seven kills, eight years of being his perfect weapon. The scope crosshairs center on Greyson’s face. Laughing. Alive. About to die because I pulled the trigger without hesitation.

Without fucking hesitation.

“She didn’t question orders,” Graves continues, each word a nail in my coffin. “Didn’t consider alternatives. Zero psychological breakdown.” His voice carries decades of command. “Perfect weapon. Perfect soldier.”

My thorns writhe beneath my skin, responding to emotional agony with physical pain that makes me double over. Everything I’ve built with them—every moment of connection, every desperate kiss, every whispered promise—crumbling under the weight of who I really am.

A killer who destroys everything she touches.

“Twenty-seven missions,” he states with mechanical precision. “Forty-seven confirmed kills. She’s been my most effective asset for eight years.”

Asset. Not daughter. Not student. Not person.

Tool.

“The fascinating part,” Graves adds, moving closer until his presence looms over me like a thundercloud, “is how quickly she bonded to new handlers.” His concern sounds genuine, paternal. “Stockholm syndrome. Classic trauma response in assets with her profile.”

The implication hits like venom spreading through my veins.

Everything I feel for them is just trauma response. Conditioning. My feelings aren’t real—they’re programming.

“Stockholm syndrome manifests as intense emotional attachment to authority figures,” Graves explains to the assembled courts like I’m a case study he’s been observing. “The subject believes herself to be choosing her bonds freely, but she’s actually responding to carefully constructed stimuli.”

The doubt claws at my chest with razor-sharp talons.

Eight years of Graves’ careful conditioning.

Positioning himself as father figure, protector, the only person who understood my broken edges.

Did he train me to seek that dynamic? To crave authority figures who would control my choices while making me believe I was free?

What if everything I feel is just programming? What if I’m not choosing them but just responding to familiar patterns of control disguised as care?

“The question,” Graves says with shattering gentleness, “is whether these gentlemen want a partner or a damaged asset who’ll attach to anyone who provides structure.”

Movement at the chamber entrance draws every eye. Davis drops to his knees beside the dais, and his voice carries that gentle tone I remember from late-night debriefings when the nightmares got too bad.

“Ash.” The way he says my name—like I’m something precious that might break—makes something fracture behind my sternum. “You know I’ve always cared about you.”

The performance is flawless. Wounded eyes. Trembling hands. The perfect picture of a man finally confessing feelings he’s been hiding.

“I’ve been protecting you this whole time,” he continues, reaching toward me like I’m a wounded animal that might bolt. “Come home with me. Let me take care of you properly.”

Graves nods approvingly, steel-blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Agent Davis has been Specialist Morgan’s partner for three years. Their bond predates any... magical influences.”

The implication hangs heavy in chamber air that suddenly feels too thick to breathe: human love is real, Fae bonds are artificial.

I want to scream that it’s all performance, but doubt claws at my chest. Davis has been there. Steady. Human. Real. What if Graves is right? What if everything I feel for them is just magical confusion layered over psychological damage?

What if the only authentic thing I’ve ever felt is the familiar weight of being owned?

In the Unseelie gallery, King Moros’s attention sharpens like a predator scenting blood as Kieran’s whispered intelligence reaches him.

“How fascinating,” King Moros declares, rising. His voice carries across the chamber like winter wind cutting through flesh. “Truth magic reveals such... illuminating discrepancies.”

Graves’ confident smile falters for the first time since he entered.

“This human’s emotional signature,” King Moros continues with clinical precision, “reads as obsession, not love. Possession masquerading as partnership.”

Davis goes rigid beside me, still kneeling but suddenly tense as a wire about to snap.

“But most intriguingly...” King Moros’s smile turns feral, revealing teeth sharp enough to tear flesh. “He reeks of iron suppression magic. Tell me, Agent Davis—how long have you been drugging her?”

The chamber erupts.

The accusation detonates through my consciousness like lightning striking a tree and splitting it down to the roots.

“The coffee,” I breathe, memories crystallizing with horrifying clarity. “Jesus Christ, every fucking briefing, every late-night talk. You’ve been dosing me for three years.”

Davis’s face goes white as bone, performance cracking down the middle like a mask hit with a hammer.

“Every mission briefing,” I continue, truth spilling from my lips as the Stone’s residual magic forces honesty. “Every late-night conversation. You’ve been dosing me with iron supplements.”

The words taste like poison and revelation. “Keeping me weak. Keeping me human.”

With the deception exposed, something fundamental shifts in my body. The thorns beneath my skin don’t just pulse—they sing, magic flowing freely for the first time in years.

I’ve been living half-dead, suppressed by systematic poisoning disguised as care. Now that the fog lifts, I see it clearly.

Davis never loved me.

He loved control. He loved silence. He loved a version of me that never fought back.

But the version that’s waking up?

She’s not silent anymore.

It should feel overwhelming. Instead, it feels like taking my first real breath after drowning.

“It was for your own good!” The words explode with desperate conviction. “You were perfect—human, real, mine. I couldn’t let them turn you into some magical princess who doesn’t need me anymore.”

“You’ve been poisoning me for three years.”

The memories fracture like old film stock catching fire.

Every coffee. Every calm smile. Every time I thought I was just tired, just broken, just human.

He made me this way.

He kept me small. Called it love.

But what I feel now—this wild, roaring thing beneath my skin—it doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t shrink for anyone.

“I’ve been loving you for three years!” His military composure cracks completely. “Every coffee, every mission, every moment I kept you safe and human and with me. That’s love. Real love.”