Page 1 of A Storm of Fire and Ash

The King is trash.

Absolute, total trash. I fucking hate him.

Mother and I barely scraped together enough money to cover our house payment, leaving us with scant change for food to put on the table that night.

Every month, we have to give the King money for living on his land—even though we are on the outskirts of the palace.

We aren’t even allowed past the gates unless someone is being punished or killed.

The King likes to put them on display for all to watch. Even us peasants.

With nothing left over for food, I had to hunt.

Yay.

I didn’t mind it. Hunting gave me an excuse to use my bow and arrow, my one obsession since childhood. Mother, of course, said it was a man’s job. But since there was no man in our lives, I filled that role.

Some days, I shamelessly flirted with Landen, the town's best baker—and my best friend with benefits—just to get some free day-old bread.

Occasionally, we fooled around a little; after all, he was very good-looking and was a great kisser.

He also had a nice cock. Not that I had much to compare it to.

Last year, my world shattered when Father was ripped away from us. The grief carved itself into my soul like a brand. I’d screamed to the gods for my magic, begged them to give me power to undo the cruelty that had broken us.

Mages didn’t get their powers until their 18th birthday, when they also received the name of their fated mate.

The gods blessed us with unique gifts and sometimes a prophecy.

Not like the Royal Fae, who were born with magic and only heard whispers of their mate if they were deemed worthy. All Mages were worthy.

Except me.

On my eighteenth birthday—nothing. No powers. No prophecy. No mate. I might as well have been human for fuck’s sake. The gods didn’t find me worthy, and honestly, I couldn’t blame them.

Mother had told me how the Goddess of Love whispered my father’s name to her when she turned eighteen. She’d followed that whisper right to him. They’d been together ever since. She called him her prophecy, even if none had been given to her.

She was gifted with earth magic. She coaxed life back into plants, soothed the soil, even charmed bees. She worked as an herbalist, known in our village for her poultices, teas, cherry wine, and herbal remedies. Every mixture held Magecraft hidden from human eyes.

Her second love was her bees. She tended her hives with a reverence most people reserved for temples, whispering incantations into their honeycombs.

She sold honey and mead in the village—ordinary enough—but what no one realized was that her honey glimmered with enchantment.

A spoonful could calm nightmares, ease pain, or even sweeten luck if taken before a hard journey.

While the townsfolk perceived her as simply a diligent herbalist and eccentric beekeeper, they remained blissfully unaware of the enchantment she wove into her creations.

Father never wanted her to do any of that—with the risk of her being caught—and with his income, she didn’t have to, but now that he was gone, she had to.

I hoped to never find love like that. Love destroys you, and it’s always taken from you.

It never truly lasts.

Mother came from Windaria, the Air Court—a Fae realm of eternal frost and glittering quartz palaces.

She used to describe the sound of the frostbitten winds as music.

But King Thrandor, tyrant of the Air Court, had ruined it.

Obsessed with purging Mages and Warlocks, he set bounties on their heads.

Mother had barely escaped with her life, fleeing into the human realm where she hoped to hide.

However, the scars of her flight ran deep.

Mother rarely spoke of their ordeal; her eyes clouded with memories she’d rather forget.

She forbade me from ever stepping foot in the Fae lands.

Thrandor’s reach, and that of the other three Fae Kings who ruled Fire, Water, and Earth courts, were too dangerous.

Not that the human king was any fucking better.

King Aymon loathed all supernaturals—Mages, Fae, Mer, Vampyrs, Warlocks.

To humans, we were all the same: abominations.

Anyone caught in human lands was tortured and displayed for sport.

Aymon used iron and silver barbed wire to drain magic from his victims, then hung or beheaded them while the crowd cheered.

The only time peasants like us were allowed past the palace gates was to witness his executions.

Father had been Irongate’s finest blacksmith, his forge a place of warmth and rhythm where I spent my childhood. Which was, of course, why the King wanted him.

Aymon abducted Father, forcing him to forge silver-alloy weapons—swords and armor laced with the very substance that crippled Fae and Mages.

Silver had always been our kryptonite, disrupting magic and rendering out abilities ineffective, leaving us vulnerable.

Rumor said Aymon even had Father coat arrows in silver to hunt down the Fae.

If the King had known what Mother and I truly were, we’d already be dead. Luckily for Father, he had always been human.

I forced the troubled thoughts from my mind, exhaling slowly as I adjusted the weight of my crossbow over my shoulder.

Each movement felt heavy as I laced up my worn leather boots.

With a swift motion, I draped my thick, weathered cloak over my shoulders, the fabric dense against the autumn chill that crept into the air.

An unsettling knot tightened in my stomach as I pictured the months to come, bleak and unforgiving.

Without Father’s income, we relied on Mother’s herbs and hives and my hunting.

I helped her gather roots, harvest flowers, and strain honey, while she carefully charmed each jar and infused teas with hidden Magecraft.

Without her magic, the herbs would be just weeds, and the honey just sweet.

With it, they became healing. And without those sales, we would starve.

I made my way to my favorite secluded spot in the woods, a place where the tall trees stood like silent guardians.

The air was crisp and filled with the earthy scent of damp soil and decaying leaves.

I settled down, still as a statue, blending into the mottled shadows of the underbrush, and waited.

.. and waited... the stillness wrapping around me like a comforting blanket.

Suddenly, the soft rustle of dried leaves on the forest floor pricked my ears, pulling me from my thoughts.

I gripped my bow tightly, my fingers brushing against the smooth wood, and turned my gaze to the slender form of a rabbit, nuzzling through the sparse remnants of grass peeking through the fallen foliage.

I took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill my lungs, and closed my eyes for a brief moment, invoking the Goddess of Luck in my mind.

Kalli, be with me.

As I opened my eyes, focusing intently on my target, I drew back the arrow, feeling the tension coil in my muscles.

I released it, and the arrow sliced through the air with a whisper, moving swiftly yet almost languidly, the loose strands of hair by my face dancing in its wake as if time itself had slowed to witness the moment.

“Yes!” I breathed, grateful.

With a rush of excitement, I silently exclaimed my gratitude to the Goddess of Luck for her guidance, leaping into action to snatch the nimble rabbit.

The teachings of my father echoed in my mind, his voice steady as he shared the ancient art of hunting during my childhood. He had taught me that hunting was not merely an act of taking; it was a sacred ritual of sustenance, done with the utmost respect for the lives we claimed.

Before I ever used my bow and arrow on my first kill, he instilled in me the importance of compassion and mindfulness, ensuring I was fully trained to minimize suffering.

We honored the animals that fed us, whispering our thanks as we recognized the cycle of life that connected us all in a delicate dance of existence.

I could almost feel the heartbeat of the forest around me, a reminder of the bond I shared with every creature that roamed its depths.

I gently placed my hand upon the cool earth, feeling the rich texture beneath my palm as I offered a quiet thanks to the life-giving ground.

The air was motionless, heavy with the scent of moss and fresh soil.

I leaned toward the small, still rabbit, its soft fur glistening under the dappled sunlight. I expressed my appreciation for the sustenance it had provided. I carefully removed the arrow from its chest, ensuring a reverent touch that honored the creature.

I started to make my way back to our small cottage. I held the rabbit by its hind legs and tossed my bow over my shoulder. I could have easily taken the life of an animal using my magic if I had it, yet that was not the case.

“Nice rabbit, El!” Landen said as I passed the bakery.

I stopped for a moment. “Thanks. Got any bread to go with our stew tonight?” I gave him my best cheeky smile.

Landen blushed. “You know I got you. One sec,” he said kindly as he quickly went inside. He came right back out and tossed me the bread.

I frowned.

Extra stale.

Just how I liked it.

“Sorry, El. It was all I had today. I already sold everything else.”

I waved him off, “No worries at all. I appreciate you.” His teeth flashed, “See you tonight?”

I started to walk back to my cottage and said over my shoulder, “If you’re lucky.” I didn’t turn back around.

Usually, Landen and I would meet for a drink at the pub and end the night fucking either in the alleyway or behind the bakery, or I’d sneak into his bedroom through his window in the middle of the night for a quickie. It was never serious with us—well, at least for me.

I opened the door to the cottage and slipped off my boots.

THUMP!

“Elara!” Mother scolded. “How many times have I told you not to place the kill on the kitchen table? You’re going to—”

“—get blood into the crevices of the wood and ruin the one nice thing we have,” I finished for her, smirking.

I moved the rabbit to the sink. She huffed but smiled faintly.

Mother cherished this quirky kitchen table, though I still couldn’t understand its allure. The surface was marred with scratches and water stains; its charm stemmed only from the fact that Father carved it himself.

“I appreciate you catching this,” she sighed, wrinkling her nose at the sight of the rabbit, almost as if the mere thought of it made her queasy. Mother eyed the bread. “And I’ll have to extend my gratitude to Landen as well.”

Mother’s aversion to hunting—and the grim task of preparing our meals—left me with the burden of doing so. Not that my stomach was any sturdier; it was just that survival dictated necessity.

“Jonas dropped off a carrot, a potato, and some cabbage,” she continued, gesturing toward the fresh produce piled on the counter. “You can chop them up and add them to the stew.”

The colors of the vegetables contrasted with the muted tones of our kitchen, promising a warm meal despite the chill creeping through the walls.

Mother handed me the fresh ingredients, their earthy scents wafting through the air, and then she carefully set a sturdy pot of water over the crackling flames of the open fire in the living room.

Our cottage was small but cozy: the kitchen with its mismatched chairs, Father’s handmade table, the crackling fire—vital for cooking—, shelves stuffed with books, while a petite loveseat was tucked in the corner and could only seat two.

Two tiny bedrooms down a narrow hall and a small bathroom where the shower’s spout only managed to produce lukewarm water during the balmy summer months, leaving winter’s chill to nip at our skin. It wasn’t much, but it was home.

Mother busied herself with the stew, tossing in vegetables Jonas had left from his garden in thanks for her remedies. I skinned the rabbit, knife gliding with practiced ease.

Her voice faltered when she spoke of Father, grief welling in her eyes. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her tight.

Instinctively, I moved to her side, wrapping her in a tight embrace, feeling her warmth seep into me as if to shield us both from the cold reality encircling our hearts.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I miss him too,” I whispered, trying to infuse my voice with a confidence I didn’t quite feel. “He’s going to be okay. I’ll bring him back, I swear it.” I kissed the top of her head and offered her my brightest smile, a fragile mask against the storm of worry brewing within me.

She responded with a gentle caress, rubbing her thumb along my cheek and tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, her touch a bittersweet reminder of all that was lost.

What she didn’t realize was that every night, when shadows engulfed our home, I heard her soft, heart-wrenching sobs drifting from her room. Each sound pierced through me, a jagged reminder of her sorrow, tearing at the fabric of my already fragile heart.

Her sorrow fueled me.

Tomorrow was my twenty-seventh birthday. I had a feeling my powers would finally come.

And when they did, I would kill the King and free my father.