Page 97

ASH

Suppression magic turns my brain to mush.

Each thought crawls halfway up before dissolving. I reach for the bathroom door handle. Miss twice before my fingers remember how solid objects work.

Fine. If I’m bleeding tonight, it’s on my terms.

Davis has gone hoarse behind the locked door. Hours of pleading, getting more desperate. Good. Let him scream himself raw while I prep for what might be the stupidest tactical decision of my life.

The bone sword sits on the bed. Silk wrapping loose enough to show corrupted crystal embedded in ancient bone. Amarantha’s “mercy”—suicide dressed as kindness. The blade pulses with energy that makes my suppressed thorns recoil.

Not happening. Won’t give her the satisfaction.

If I die tonight, it’s my choice.

Through the magical fog clouding my thoughts, I focus on what I actually know:

Trial requires manifesting four ancient treasures. Impossible for one person. That’s the point. Moros wants spectacular failure, public breakdown, so he can swoop in with his life debt “salvation” at maximum desperation.

Fine. I’ll fail. Nearly die trying. When he offers binding in exchange for survival? I’ll take it.

Because Unseelie slavery beats death. Beats Davis breaking what’s left of my mind. Beats Amarantha’s toxic version of care.

At least in Moros’s court, I’ll be close enough to find weaknesses. Plan real revenge.

If I survive the binding process.

The chamber door opens. Seelie guards, armor gleaming like captured starlight. They arrange themselves around me. Not protection—escort duty. Making sure I reach my destination without escape attempts.

“The trial chamber awaits,” the lead guard announces.

White silk clings like burial shrouds. Each fold whispers against my throat. My fingers tremble tying the sash—not from fear, but recognition. Every fiber knows what this outfit means.

Prey dressed for slaughter.

Let them think I’m hollow. Let them believe the suppression worked. Let them feel safe watching the perfect execution.

Ghosts don’t scream.

They haunt.

“Ready.”

The walk through Academy corridors feels endless. Each step carries me closer to potential execution. Students and faculty press against walls as we pass. Faces mixing curiosity with pity.

I see it in their eyes. Pity dressed as fascination. Like they’re watching history unfold, too detached to realize the girl walking to the dais might not be the victim they expect.

I was never meant to survive this.

So I’m going to ruin it instead.

The chamber’s designed to intimidate. Stone walls pulse with silver veins that hurt to look at directly. Spirals twist beyond human perception—architectural warfare that makes my inner ear revolt.

And there, in the gallery, three familiar faces that crack something behind my ribs.

Orion’s guardian tattoos writhe across skin gone gray with exhaustion. Kieran’s perfect posture has cracked—shoulders curved inward, hands shaking. Finnian’s careful composure bleeds away at the edges, amber eyes holding devastation he can’t hide.

Three powerful men, and they look like shit. Exhausted. Defeated.

Good. That sells the illusion.

I’m sorry, I think at them. Sorry you have to watch this. Sorry I couldn’t find another way.

The center of the chamber holds a raised dais surrounded by ward-circles pulsing with containment magic. Four empty pedestals wait for treasures everyone claims don’t exist.

But if that’s true, why does this feel wrong?

Lady Amarantha occupies a seat of honor, violet eyes tracking my movement with predatory satisfaction. She thinks she’s won—that I’ll break under pressure and take her bone sword exit rather than face what comes next.

King Moros lounges in shadows too deep for natural light, ice-blue gaze identical to his son’s but infinitely colder. Spider at the center of this web. We both know exactly what he plans to offer when I start dying.

The Morrigan stands sentinel beside the dais, silver eyes holding ancient knowledge that makes my thorns pulse weakly through suppression magic.

“The candidate will approach,” she announces, voice carrying weight that makes stone tremble.

I walk down the central aisle with measured steps. Each footfall echoing like countdown. White robes flow around me like burial shrouds, and I let resignation settle over my features like a mask.

Let them think I’m brave but doomed. Let them think I’m walking to noble sacrifice.

Not entirely wrong.

“Ashlynne Moonshadow,” The Morrigan continues as I reach the dais, “you stand accused of claiming Wild Court royal heritage without verification. The Trial of Power will determine authenticity through manifestation of the Four Ancient Treasures.”

“Understood.” My voice carries despite the tremor I can’t quite hide.

“Solo manifestation carries significant risk,” she warns. “Magical backlash has destroyed lesser Fae entirely. Do you accept these dangers?”

This isn’t a trial. It’s a guillotine dressed in gold. Performance staged to make the world believe I chose this—chose to fail. Chose to die.

“I do.”

Even though I probably shouldn’t. Even though this might be the last decision I ever make.

“Then let the trial begin.”

Light erupts from the floor like trapped stars breaking free. Ward-circles don’t just activate—they detonate, pressing against my bones with weight that shouldn’t exist. My knees buckle as gravity doubles, triples, becomes a crushing fist grinding me toward marble dust.

My spine straightens with royal authority I didn’t know I possessed.

I force myself upright despite crushing weight.

Stagger into the center circle. Wards close around me like invisible walls.

Suddenly I can’t feel anything beyond this small space.

Cut off from the gallery, from the men, from everything except crushing weight of what I’m about to attempt.

“Call the treasures,” The Morrigan commands.

I close my eyes. Gather what feels like the last dregs of my magical ability. When I speak, my voice breaks with genuine desperation.

“Ancient powers of the Wild Court, I am blood of your blood, magic of your magic. I call to the Cauldron of Life, source of all healing!”

I reach out with everything I have. Calling to a treasure I’ve never seen. Hoping something, somewhere, might answer.

Nothing.

The pedestal stays empty. No light, no magical response, no sign anything heard my call except echo in the vast chamber.

Copper floods my mouth as something tears inside my skull. Vision fractures—chamber splitting into kaleidoscope fragments that refuse to align. Fire races through my nervous system, each nerve screaming as suppression magic turns my own power into acid eating me from within.

“Oh, root-born,” comes a familiar voice, whisper-soft and visible only to me.

Whispen materializes beside the dais, golden light dimmed to barely a flicker, translucent form trembling with urgency.

“They’ve rigged everything! Suppression magic, ward-circles, even the pedestals—all designed to ensure you fail! ”

I don’t react visibly, but catch his frantic gestures from the corner of my eye.

“The treasures can’t hear you through the interference! Your lovely guardians sit there burning with their treasures but the magic won’t let them respond! It’s all a setup, precious one—every bit designed to break you!”

They didn’t plan for mercy. They planned for spectacle. Blood on marble. Pretty girl unraveling under pressure. Cautionary tale for anyone else foolish enough to believe in gods or girls with thorns.

Click. The whole trial’s rigged. Every pedestal, every suppression rune, every fucking stone—choreographed to watch me bleed.

Something snarls behind my sternum.

You want a show? I’ll give you one you’ll never forget.

“But root-born,” Whispen continues, form flickering with distress, “there’s something they didn’t account for. Something beautiful and terrible about what you are!”

Vision blurs with more than blood loss as truth crystallizes. This trial was never about proving my heritage. It was about breaking my will.

You thought I’d beg. You thought I’d shatter. You thought you could bleed me dry and dress it up like justice.

But you forgot something. Ashes don’t stay down.

“I call to the Crown of Destiny!” I continue, voice stronger despite the blood. “Grant me knowledge of all paths!”

Nothing.

The second pedestal stays dark and empty while more blood flows from my nose. In the gallery, I catch movement—Kieran leaning forward, Orion’s hands clenched into fists, Finnian pressing something against his chest.

But whatever they’re hiding, whatever power they might possess, they can’t help me now. Won’t help me now.

I’m alone.

“I call to the Spear of Truth!” Words scrape from my throat like broken glass. “Let honesty pierce all deception!”

Still nothing.

Something roars beneath my ribs, clawing up through vertebrae like a caged animal sensing freedom. Marble beneath my knees cracks in spiraling patterns. Ancient ward-stones pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat, responding to power that shouldn’t exist but refuses to die.

My legs give out and I collapse to my knees. White robes spread around me like spilled milk. Blood streams freely now, staining ceremonial silk crimson. Magical backlash builds with each failed attempt, my body unable to handle channeling divine power through suppressed magic.

But I have to try one more time. Complete the ritual even if it kills me.

“I call to the Stone of Fál!” I scream, putting everything I have left into the attempt. “Recognize your rightful queen!”

The final pedestal remains as empty as the others.

Four treasures called. Four treasures that don’t respond. Four empty pedestals mocking my failure while I convulse on the dais, blood pooling beneath me as magical trauma tears my nervous system apart.

The silence in the chamber is absolute except for my labored breathing and the sound of my own blood hitting stone.

Complete. Utter. Failure.

Through the agony, I hear Orion make a sound like a wounded animal. See Kieran’s ice-blue eyes blazing with helpless fury. Watch Finnian’s careful composure crack completely.

But none of them move. None of them act. Whatever they’re hiding, whatever they could do, magical interference won’t let them help me.

They’ve all been played. We’ve all been played.

“The manifestation has failed,” The Morrigan begins, but I cut her off.

“Stop.” Ancient authority floods my spine as I force myself to my feet. Blood streaming down my face, white robes stained crimson. But my voice carries power that makes the ancient chamber ring. “I invoke autonomy rights.”

Amarantha bolts upright, violet eyes blazing with fury. “What are you doing? This is not the time for?—”

“Autonomy rights supersede trial continuation,” The Morrigan interrupts, and there’s something in her ancient voice that sounds almost... pleased. Silver eyes gleam with satisfaction as she watches me reclaim control. “The candidate may choose her fate rather than have it imposed.”

“I’ve heard the offers,” I continue, looking directly at Amarantha, then at Moros. “Death disguised as mercy. Binding disguised as salvation. Control disguised as care.”

Power floods my spine. Ancient birthright refusing to be suppressed any longer. When I speak, my voice carries weight that makes the chamber stones ring like struck bells.

“But if chains are inevitable, I choose who forges them.”

“You cannot possibly—this is madness! Child, you don’t understand what you’re choosing!” Amarantha rises from her seat like a fury made manifest.

“I understand perfectly.” I meet her gaze with steel in my voice.

“You want to save me from choices you think are wrong. He wants to own me through debt I never truly owed.” I gesture toward Moros, whose satisfaction is turning to concern.

“But I choose the Unseelie Court. Not because I have to. Because I want to.”

“That’s not how this works!” Amarantha’s voice carries desperation now, perfect composure cracking. “The trial failed! You need guidance, protection?—”

“She needs to choose her own path,” The Morrigan says with a smile. Ancient eyes hold something that might be approval. “Even if that path leads through darkness.”

Moros straightens in his seat, calculating something behind those ice-blue eyes. “Binding. Complete binding to Unseelie authority, accepting our protection and guidance for the remainder of your existence.”

The words hit like physical blows. In the gallery, Orion’s face contorts with rage that makes shadows recoil. Kieran goes absolutely still, understanding exactly what his father is offering. Finnian’s careful composure shatters completely.

They’re watching me choose slavery over death.

But slavery to Moros beats the alternatives. Better than bleeding out on this dais. Better than giving Amarantha the satisfaction of my suicide. Better than letting Davis break what’s left of my mind.

Has to be.

“Yes,” I whisper, loud enough for binding magic to hear. “I accept.”

Silver chains wrap around my ribs, claiming me from the inside out. Binding magic settles into my soul, but it feels different than what Moros intended. Still corruption, still invasion, but corruption I chose rather than had forced upon me.

Suppression enchantments shatter under the strain. Clarity floods back like ice water. Just in time to understand the full scope of what I’ve done.

Joke’s on all of you. I just stole the game.

Amarantha stares at me with something approaching horror, realizing her psychological warfare failed completely. Moros’s satisfaction has turned to uncertainty as his perfect trap becomes something else entirely.

And The Morrigan... The Morrigan is smiling like she’s witnessed something magnificent.

“Interesting,” she murmurs, silver eyes holding ancient approval. “Very interesting indeed.”

But as magical chains lock around my soul, as binding magic makes me property of the Unseelie Court, I look up at Moros and smile anyway.

Not because I’m confident. Not because I have a plan. Because I chose this hell on my own terms, and that makes me more dangerous than any of them understand.

“My king,” I say, voice steady despite the blood on my lips and the chains around my soul. “Hope you’re prepared for what you just inherited.”

Binding magic pulses with my heartbeat—silver chains everyone assumes make me powerless.

But chains I choose hit different than chains they force.

And I plan to make that difference cost him everything.