Chapter 143

Ashley's POV

I strolled through the healing tents, my body still weak but strengthening by the day. The healers had advised me to rest, to lay in bed, but I couldn’t do it. There was too much to be done, too many who needed help.

And, frankly, having the time to lie in bed gave me too much time to think about what I had done. How close I was to dying. If I had found it all worthwhile.

In the other tent was a young werewolf soldier who lost his leg in battle. He was hobbling around on crutches, practicing walking from one end of the yard to another, with his face distorted in frustration and with pain.

“You are doing great,” I said, walking to him.

He looked up, startled. "Lady Ashley. I can't believe you're here."

"Just Ashley," I corrected. "And where else would I be? We all made it through the same battle. We all carry the same scars."

He looked down at his missing leg. "Not all the same."

“No,” I said, putting my finger against the silver scar on my cheek. "But scars nonetheless. Physical or otherwise."

I trained him for a bit, gripping his arm to prevent him from toppling forward until he could balance. Other wounded soldiers looked on — some with visible wounds such as missing limbs or burns, others with invisible wounds that were revealed only in their haunted eyes.

We were all damaged. All broken in different ways. But we lived, and that had to mean something.

An hour later I emerged from the tent and began trudging through the camp. The exertion quickly tired me, but it felt good to feel good enough to be moving; doing something useful instead of just lying uselessly on a bed.

"Ashley?"

I looked up to see Jane, Diana's step sister, waddling towards me. She was very pregnant, her belly massive, her face puffy from the strain of late pregnancy.

"Jane," I said neutrally. We had never been friends. She had been mean to Diana for years when everything changed.

“I’ve got to have a word with you,” Jane said, panting. "May I?"

I indicated a bench and we both sat down gingerly.

"How are you feeling?" Jane asked.

"Better. Weak, but alive. What do you want, Jane?"

She flinched at my bluntness. "I wanted to apologize. For the way I treated you before the war. For everything I said and for everything I did.”

I studied her face, searching for sincerity. What stood out to me, however, wasn’t love at first sight; it was calculation. Desperation.

"Let me guess," I said. "Caleb is treating you poorly. You are miserable in this marriage. And you expect me to ask your pardon and put in a word with Diana for you.”

Jane's face went red. “That is not why I apologized.

"Is it not? Then why now? Why not now, before the war, while you can still get out of there?”

She turned away, her eyes brimming with tears. "Fine. You are right. Caleb is awful. He blames me for everything. Says I am not as pretty as Diana, not as strong, nothing. He drinks and gambles, and disappears for days at a time, abandoning me pregnant.”

“That’s awful,” I said, and I sincerely did. Nobody was asking for that. “But it doesn’t change what you did to Diana. Years of cruelty and contempt don’t vanish because you said sorry one time.”

"I know that. But I am trying to be better. I see how Diana has changed, and risen above all that our father and I missed her do. I want to be better too."

I wanted to believe her. But I had made the mistake of trusting too many wrong people.

“Then be better,” I said evenly. Not also for Diana's approbation or my recommendation. Be better, because right is right. Help people. Be kind. Bring your child up to be nothing like your father.”

Jane nodded slowly. "You are right. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“You can get involved by volunteering in the healing tents. There are people there that want help, who don’t care how you came here, what you were before and where you stand now. Just help them. Every day. That is how you get better.”

She appeared to be taken aback, as if she hadn’t actually expected any real advice. "I can do that."

"Good. And Jane? Do not use Diana to make yourself look important. If you really want a change, it can’t be so that something comes out of it.”

"I understand."

She left, and I hoped she really would volunteer. But I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

Later that day, Elder Miriam came to me and asked for a favor. Ashley, we have a group of young witches who are eager to study combat magic. “Do you think they could learn self defence?"

I hesitated. “I don’t know if I am the best teacher. I made so many bad mistakes during the war.”

That's why you should teach them. They need to be taught by someone who knows the price of getting it wrong.”

I thought of Kael and that he was dead because he’d saved me from being reckless and stupid. That about my need for retaliation had nearly got me killed.

"Alright," I said. "I will do it."

The following morning, fifteen young witches assembled in a field for training. They stared at me, part-awed and part-frightened. Most of them were teenagers, barely old enough to have been participants in the war but certainly old enough to have been shaped by it.

"Before we start," I said, "I need to share something with you about me. In the war, I floundered, made the worst possible decisions. I let my anger control me. I felt apart and wanted my revenge. And thanks to my own stupidity, a man I had come to know as Kael died protecting me!"

The young witches looked shocked. They likely heard the legends of me being a hero, sacrificing my own body, so that I would destroy the shadow creatures.

“I’m not a hero,” I said next. "Or at least, I didn’t used to be. I had to discover, through the hard school of experience, what it means to fight smart— not just fighting hard. I had to be taught that saving lives is more important than getting even.”

I brushed a hand to the silver scar on my face. "This scar still reminds me of the mistake that I made. Of times I put my trust in the wrong people and decisions I regret. I used to hate it, I used to try and cover it up with magic or hair, whatever I could.”

I brushed my hair away, revealing the complete cicatrix. "But I am done hiding it. Well, this scar is the evidence that I survived my mistakes. That I was allowed to be saved. And I’m not going to squander that opportunity.”

One of the young witches put up her hand. "What changed? How did you become brave enough to mess up, then ultimately sacrifice yourself?”

I thought about that carefully. "Someone believed in me. Our Luna, Diana, forgave me when forgiveness was not owed to me. She provided a purpose greater than my own misery.” And when I was called upon to show my mettle, dying for the sake of others was better than living in cowardice.”

"Were you scared?" another asked.

"Terrified. But I did it anyway. That is what courage is. Not fearlessness but action despite the fear.”

We practiced blocking up simple defensive spells for the rest of the morning. And I taught them how to make shields and how to dodge incoming attacks, and how to size up threats fast.

But, more than that, I taught them to think. To consider consequences before acting. To grasp that each decision in battle had ripples, consequences for others.

"Magic is strong," I repeated after we were done. "But wisdom is more powerful. A light spell merrily cast at the right time can be much more dangerous than a heavy one foolishly cast. Remember that."

The witches thanked me, and ran off. I felt fine, better than I had for days. Teaching it to them had returned me to what I fought for, why. Sacrificed.

Not of glory, not redemption, nothing to prove to nobody.

It was about saving the next generation. About how we ensured that they did not repeat our mistakes.

That evening I stood by a brook, alone, gazing at myself in the water. The silverscar on my face caught the oncoming sunset, shiningalmost.

I lifted my hand and traced it with a finger. It no longer hurt, hadn't for a while. But it was permanent, a mark I’d bear for the rest of my life.

Good, I thought. Let it remind me. Keep me humble and cautious and wise in its shadow.

I was Ashley. I had failed, had betrayed, had nearly died. But I had also learned and grown, and changed.

It was not a scar of shame. It was a mark of survival. Of second chances.

And I was going to take advantage of mine.