Page 91

ASH

Davis’s voice echoes from the locked bathing chamber, muffled but increasingly frantic.

“Ash! Open this door! We need to talk about last night—about what you think happened versus what actually?—”

I tune out his manipulation attempts, focusing instead on the crystal-clear fury that’s replaced last night’s magical haze. My skull throbs where I slammed it against the wall during our struggle, and my palm stings from crystal cuts, but the pain feels clean. Real. Mine.

The suppression enchantments still pulse through the chamber like a slow heartbeat against my temples, but something fundamental shifted when I cracked his skull open.

Not my magic—that remains buried deep, struggling against invisible chains.

But my sense of self, my absolute refusal to be anyone’s victim again.

“Ash, please! I know you’re confused, but the trial is tomorrow and we need to prepare you properly?—”

Tomorrow. Twenty-four more hours of whatever psychological warfare they have planned. Twenty-four more hours of fighting for pieces of my own mind.

Let him rot in there. Let him explain to Amarantha why he failed to complete whatever conditioning they had mapped out in careful detail.

I pace toward the pearl-carved windows, watching Seelie citizens move through gardens that shift and rearrange themselves with each step. Perfect. Controlled. Wrong in ways that make goosebumps rise along my arms despite the chamber’s perfect temperature.

A soft chime echoes through the chamber, the sound seeming to emanate from the walls themselves.

The quality of light shifts, becoming warmer, more golden, and Amarantha’s voice carries crystalline authority that somehow reaches every corner despite no visible speakers: “Good morning, dear one. I trust you rested well? Breakfast awaits whenever you’re ready to join me. ”

The invitation sounds warm, maternal even. Like hot chocolate offered by a grandmother who actually gives a damn about your wellbeing.

But after last night, I recognize the steel beneath silk for what it really is.

I turn from the window, studying the provided gown laid across the massive bed.

Silk that shifts between pearl and silver, cut to emphasize my youth and apparent vulnerability.

The fabric clings in ways that make me feel exposed, displayed.

If Amarantha wants to see a compliant prisoner, I’ll give her exactly that performance.

Davis’s protests fade as I dress, his voice becoming background noise to the sharp focus settling over my thoughts.

Guards materialize in the corridor beyond my door—not appearing suddenly, but emerging from shadows like they’ve been waiting.

They fall into formation around me. Not protection—escort to ensure I reach my destination without detours or escape attempts.

The breakfast parlor exists in defiance of natural law, all flowing curves and impossible angles that make my eyes water when I try to focus on any single element.

Sunlight streams through crystal windows that somehow face three different directions simultaneously, creating rainbows that dance across surfaces carved from what looks like compressed starlight.

The disorientation makes me blink rapidly, vision struggling to process geometry that shouldn’t exist.

Beautiful. Perfect. Wrong in ways that make my skin crawl with primitive recognition of predator territory.

Lady Amarantha sits at a table that could seat twenty, though only two places are set.

She rises as I enter, violet eyes scanning my appearance with methodical precision—cataloging the dark circles under my eyes, the slight tremor in my hands from suppressed adrenaline, the careful way I hold myself like someone expecting attack.

“You look refreshed,” she says, though her tone suggests she’s noting the opposite. “I was concerned the quarters might prove... overstimulating for someone unaccustomed to Seelie amenities.”

The memory of Davis’s hands on my skin flashes through my mind—invasive, possessive, wrong—but I keep my expression neutral. “Your hospitality has been illuminating.”

“Has it? How wonderful.” Her smile could cut diamond, beautiful and sharp enough to draw blood. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss before tomorrow’s proceedings.”

She gestures to the chair across from her, and I settle into it, my body immediately registering how the seat positions me slightly lower than hers. I have to tilt my chin up to meet her eyes, neck straining against the subtle dominance display wrapped in perfect etiquette.

Amarantha serves tea with movements so precise they could be choreographed, each gesture a small performance of perfect hostess behavior. The liquid steams with colors that shouldn’t exist—purples that shift to gold to silver—and I notice she doesn’t drink from her own cup.

“I imagine you’re feeling apprehensive about the trial,” she begins, settling across from me with predatory elegance. “It’s only natural. Such a momentous test of one’s... authenticity.”

Her voice carries warmth that wraps around my throat like silk, making each breath require conscious effort. The tone mothers use when they’re about to explain why your dreams are unrealistic, why you should accept limitations for your own good.

“I’m prepared to do whatever’s required.”

“Of course you are, darling. That’s what makes this so tragic.

” She leans forward with the expression of someone delivering difficult but necessary truth, and the endearment slides off her tongue like honey laced with poison.

“You’re going to attempt something that will destroy you, and everyone who claims to care about you has allowed it to happen. ”

Her concern wraps around me like suffocating velvet, creating obligation where none should exist. My shoulders unconsciously straighten in response to her attention, body automatically seeking approval despite my conscious resistance.

“What do you mean?”

“The Four Treasures, dear one. Do you truly understand what you’re being asked to manifest?

” Her voice carries gentle concern that makes refusing her guidance feel ungrateful, almost cruel.

Like rejecting medical advice from someone trying to save your life.

“Ancient artifacts of such power that they’ve remained hidden for centuries.

Lost, some say. Others whisper they’ve chosen guardians who keep them secret for. .. personal reasons.”

“I was taught that royal blood?—”

“Oh, sweet child.” Amarantha’s laugh sounds like breaking bells, soft and musical and somehow wrong. “Who taught you such things? The same people who’ve been keeping you ignorant of your true nature for months?”

She reaches across the table to touch my hand, and the moment her skin contacts mine—cold as marble, smooth as silk—something shifts in my mind.

I reach for Finnian’s words about treasures and find only shadows where certainty used to live.

Important details dissolving like sugar in rain, leaving me grasping at fragments that may or may not be real.

Her touch feels like silk wrapped around steel, gentle pressure that doesn’t hurt but somehow makes resistance impossible. Like being held underwater by someone who keeps telling you it’s for your own good.

“Think carefully,” she continues, her voice taking on hypnotic quality that makes disagreement feel not just wrong but foolish. “Have any of your... companions ever mentioned possessing ancient artifacts? Ever displayed power beyond their stated abilities?”

I try to remember Finnian’s class, his careful explanations about treasure bonding, but the details slip away like water through my fingers. My face must show the confusion because Amarantha’s smile grows more satisfied, more predatory.

“The fact that you must search your memory tells us everything,” Amarantha says with false sympathy that somehow makes me feel stupid for not remembering clearly.

“If they truly cared for your wellbeing, wouldn’t they have prepared you properly?

Wouldn’t they have ensured your success rather than allowing you to face impossible odds? ”

Her words reshape reality with subtle precision, like an artist touching up a painting. My confusion becomes evidence of their neglect. My uncertainty becomes proof of their deception. The gaps in my knowledge become weapons turned against the people I trust.

“Maybe they don’t know?—”

“Or maybe they know exactly what will happen when you attempt solo manifestation.” Her grip on my hand tightens just enough to remind me she’s controlling this conversation, that I’m small and lost and dependent on her guidance.

“Magical backlash, dear one. The kind that doesn’t just fail—it destroys.

Body, mind, soul. Everything that makes you. .. you.”

She releases my hand and returns to her tea, violet eyes watching my face with clinical precision.

The warmth withdraws like tide going out, leaving me somehow cold despite the chamber’s perfect temperature.

The sudden absence of her attention feels like abandonment, making me desperate to earn it back despite every rational instinct screaming warnings.

“You know what I find most heartbreaking about your situation?”

The question hangs in the air, and I realize she’s waiting for me to ask. To beg for her insight like a child seeking approval from the only adult who seems to understand.

“What?” The word emerges smaller than intended, and I hate how desperately I want her answer.

“You believe what you feel for them is love.” Her smile carries maternal disappointment that drives acid through my veins—the same feeling I got as a kid when Margaret looked at me like I was broken beyond repair.

“But love without guidance is merely chaos. Love without structure becomes destruction. Love without proper control...” She shakes her head sadly. “Well. Look where it’s brought you.”