Page 1 of Ashes and Glass (Cursed Kingdoms)

Cinders

I swept aside a cobweb with a ragged sleeve, my fingers probing the shadows of the attic. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light that pierced through the aged wood, casting long, reaching fingers across the cluttered expanse. My heart thumped against my ribcage—a rhythmic drumming that echoed the urgency of my search. I was hunting for something left behind, a whisper of the past tucked away beneath years of neglect. I knew it hadn't been just my imagination. Maybe today would finally be the day.

A mouse scampered from the dark recesses, darting across my path. I stumbled backward, arms flailing as I sought balance, and collided with an old mannequin. It toppled with a hollow thud, revealing what had been hidden behind it—an ancient chest, ornate but dulled by time.

My fingers traced the intricate lock. No key in sight, of course. But when I pressed my fingertip against the tiny keyhole, a warmth spread through my hand. The lock clicked open, as if recognizing something in my touch that I myself didn't understand.

With trembling hands, I lifted the heavy lid. And there it was. The book. *Her* book.

"Mother," I breathed, the word escaping like a prayer.

I drew it into my arms with reverent care. Memories cascaded through me—visions of her studying this very text in the wee hours while the castle slept. How many nights had I, restless and small, padded through cold hallways to find her? The Queen of Elaria, my beautiful mother, seated behind the heavy oak desk in the library, lips moving silently as she read from brittle pages etched in gold. She would glance up, see me lingering in the doorway, and close the book with a gentle smile. Night after night, she would lead me back to bed, patient and loving—until the night she never came back at all.

Now, ten years later, I'd found it at last. The very tome I remembered that whispered of centuries past. I blew away a thick layer of dust, watching it swirl around me like miniature storm clouds. The cover creaked as I opened it, revealing pages yellowed by time. My fingers traced mysterious symbols marching across the parchment, feeling power pulse from within them. Spells wove through the text, beckoning me deeper into their arcane embrace. Each turn of the page pulled me further into a world both impossibly distant and intimately close—as though it had been waiting for me all along.

"Mother," I whispered again, though no one could hear.

My pulse quickened, excitement coursing through me like wildfire. Here in the forgotten corners of my childhood home, I'd discovered a relic of my heritage—a doorway promising to unravel everything I thought I knew. The air thickened with anticipation as whispered voices of the past urged me forward, guiding my fingertips over the ancient runes.

More than curiosity drove me; it was a need, fierce and unyielding. My mother's spirit seemed to reach from beyond, her voice a faint murmur in the rustling pages. This book bridged her world and mine, and I felt its call deep in my bones. With each page turned, something awakened within me—a dormant spark waiting to be kindled. My journey was etched in these ancient pages, and I stood at its precipice, ready to leap into the unknown.

As I turned another delicate page, I stumbled upon a passage that felt alive. The symbols pulsated with urgent energy, glowing faintly in the dim attic light. Compelled beyond reason, I traced the ancient runes with my fingertips. The air twisted and shimmered before my eyes like heat above flame. Without warning, a burst of fiery feathers erupted from the parchment, and a small, glowing form materialized—a beautiful, multi-colored phoenix unfurling before my astonished eyes.

"I am Flame," it declared, voice soft yet carrying the authority of an ageless being.

My heart thundered, shock and awe flooding through me. Here was a creature of legend, stepping from the pages of my mother's spellbook, radiant and fierce. Its plumage wove a tapestry of reds, oranges, and golds—colors of the sun's own painting. And those eyes, like molten lava pools, held wisdom of centuries within their fiery depths.

"Dear Cynthia Everwood," Flame continued, voice resonating with the warmth of a hearth fire, "I am here to serve as your guide. Your destiny intertwines with the ages, and your magic is a gift bequeathed by blood and spirit."

In that moment, any lingering fear dissolved into innate trust, a recognition transcending time. This magnificent phoenix, born from my mother's legacy, was now part of mine—a guardian, a mentor, and perhaps, in time, a friend. I'd never had a friend before, despite my father's second wife having two daughters near my age.

My fingers still tingled from the book's power but now reached toward Flame with purpose rather than apprehension.

"Guide me, then," I said, my voice steadier than I felt, "for I have much to learn, and my path remains shrouded in shadows."

"Indeed, you do, and indeed, it is," Flame replied, an otherworldly chuckle threading through its words. "But fear not the darkness, for it is within the night that stars shine brightest."

The phoenix gestured toward my hand, motioning for me to turn it palm-up. "Concentrate. Feel the kindling of your spirit ignite within you," it instructed.

Shutting out the attic's gloom, I focused on the warmth beginning to spread through my chest, radiating down my arm. The very pulse of the earth seemed to thrum against my skin. With each breath, I drew in resolve and exhaled trepidation until a spark materialized above my open palm—small and quivering, but undeniably real.

"Control it," Flame urged. "Do not let it control you."

I nodded, beads of sweat forming along my brow. The flame danced, responsive to the cadence of my thoughts. It was a test of wills—mine against the primal force of fire. Again and again, I coaxed the flame higher, only to gently lull it back to a safe glow. Each repetition honed my focus, sharpening it like a blade against whetstone.

"Your magic is more than mere sparks," Flame said, incandescent eyes reflecting the flicker of my newfound skill. "It binds to something greater—the very soul of The Evergreen."

"The Evergreen?" I echoed, the name stirring memories of whispered bedtime stories and my mother's gentle laughter.

"Yes, the sentient forest that cradles this kingdom in its verdant embrace. You descend from its energy and carry it within you. The fairy that watches over the forest is Niobe Verdantia—her spirit nurtures the roots and boughs just as your mother once nurtured you. She will be your protector."

As the flame in my hand steadied, so too did my swirling thoughts. Mother had always spoken of The Evergreen with reverence, her emerald eyes alight with secrets I only now began to grasp. To think her essence and that of my ancestors lived on there, interwoven with whispering leaves and ageless boughs, filled me with a mingled sense of loss and comfort.

"Your fire magic passes through her line," Flame continued. "And with The Evergreen's power, it finds true strength. Together, they bring balance—fire and forest, destruction, and growth. You must learn to wield both with care."

The lesson etched itself into the core of my being. Fire was not merely a weapon or shield—it was a responsibility, a sacred trust between me and the enduring might of nature. My mother's legacy wasn't just about mastering spells but understanding the harmony of all things.

"Let the flame extinguish for now, Cynthia," Flame said softly. "Rest, for tomorrow we forge new paths."

Obediently, I closed my hand, the fire collapsing into a shower of sparks before vanishing completely. Yet the heat lingered, a promise etched in warmth upon my skin.

"Beautiful," I whispered.

"Indeed," came a voice, sharp and unexpected, slicing through the stillness. "But what, pray tell, is so beautiful up here in this dusty tomb?"

I spun the remnants of the spell scattering into harmless wisps. Lady Belladonna stood at the threshold, her piercing gaze sweeping over the attic's cluttered expanse. I had been careless, lost in the thrill of my secret craft. The book lay open, its ancient pages a beacon of my betrayal. Flame had vanished without a trace.

"Nothing, Stepmother," I said, feigning calm and closing the ancient tome. "Merely... reminiscing."

"Reminiscing?" Her eyebrow arched with practiced skepticism. "In the dark, alone, with such fervor? You are an enigma, Cynthia Everwood. What woman enjoys being covered in dust and soot?" She looked me up and down with undisguised disdain. "From now on, I shall call you Cinders Everwood."

Her laughter echoed cruelly through the attic as my face burned with shame. But I could not afford suspicion—my training was too important, the stakes too high.

"Forgive my oddities," I said, adopting an air of indifference I did not feel. "The quiet helps me think."

"Indeed," she repeated, her tone unreadable. She surveyed me a moment longer, a predator assessing its quarry, before turning on her heel. "Do not neglect your chores. Such... distractions are unbecoming."

"Of course, Stepmother." I held my breath until her footsteps receded, the echo of her departure a warning that tolled like a bell in the recesses of my mind.

The weight of what had happened settled upon me as I tucked the book back into the secret chest and dragged the mannequin in front of it. My path was surely fraught with peril, but I would walk it nonetheless—for the power within me, for the memory of my mother, and for the destiny that called from within the heart of The Evergreen.

Dusk draped the village in shadows as I slipped through narrow alleys, the book tucked under my cloak and my heart pounding with a rhythm that matched my hurried steps. The day's end granted me cover, a shield of twilight to hide my secret endeavors. In the heavy folds of evening, I found solace in the cool air whispering against my cheeks.

My destination lay at the forest's edge, where an abandoned shepherd's hut stood, its timbers groaning under the weight of many winters. Here, amidst ruins that others overlooked, I could practice my craft without prying eyes. Within these crumbling walls, I could continue what I'd begun.

I pushed open the weathered door, its hinges protesting. Inside, I placed the book upon a stool and opened it with care. The pages seemed to glow with their own inner light as I released my guide once more.

"Cynthia," Flame greeted, materializing in a swirl of embers. The phoenix paused, tilting its head. "Your stepmother called you something else. Cinders, was it?"

I stared at the dirt floor, shame creeping up my neck. "Yes. She mocks me for always being covered in ash and dust from the chores she assigns. She said only today that she would call me that from now on."

Flame's eyes glowed with unexpected warmth. "And what do *you* wish to be called?"

The question caught me off guard. "I—I don't know. I've been Cynthia my whole life."

"Names have power," Flame said, circling me in a dance of light. "They can be weapons used against us, or shields we claim for ourselves."

I watched the phoenix, its feathers shimmering with an inner fire. A creature of rebirth and transformation. Like me, now learning to wield flame.

"Cinders," I said slowly, tasting the name anew. "Ashes that nurture new growth. Embers that can spark wildfire." I straightened my shoulders. "Yes. I am Cinders. Not because she named me so in mockery, but because I claim it as my own. Fire destroys, but it also renews. It leaves behind ash that fertilizes soil for new beginnings." A smile tugged at my lips. "And like you, Flame, I will rise from those ashes."

The phoenix's eyes gleamed with approval. "Well spoken, Cinders Everwood. Now, shall we continue your training?"

I nodded, extending my palm as the familiar warmth built within me. "Remember," Flame instructed, "each spark you conjure is a heartbeat of the world. Fire is life, warmth, destruction, and rebirth—a delicate balance."

My fingers traced arcane sigils before me. With each pass, the heat in my palm grew, curling around my fingers like a living thing. I focused on the sensation, the burgeoning power that swelled deep within my chest—a fierce joy that threatened to consume me as much as it empowered me.

"Control it. Stoke it just enough, nothing more," Flame cautioned, its own light flickering in concert with the spell I wove.

"Like the Evergreen," I murmured, the forest's name a sacred mantra on my lips, "I must grow with purpose, rooted in strength yet bending with grace."

"Exactly so," Flame said, pride warming its words. "Fire can raze a forest or nurture its growth through ash that enriches the soil. You are the keeper of this flame—its steward and its disciple."

Our exchange was more than mere words; it was a communion of spirits, a sharing of ancient truths that transcended time. As fire danced between my fingers, I felt my mother's presence, her essence woven through the very magic that pulsed around us. Each spell cast, every tendril of fire shaped, was an act of defiance—a declaration that I would not be cowed by fear or circumstance.

"Use your gifts for the good of all," Flame continued, its gaze piercing the veil of my soul. "In your hands lies the potential to heal or to harm. Choose wisely, for the path you tread will leave its mark upon the earth. And remember, yours is not the only type of magic."

"I understand," I whispered back, my legacy settling upon my shoulders like a mantle forged from the stars themselves.

I extinguished the last ember and wrapped myself in the cloak of normalcy once more, the bond between Flame and me sealed in smoke and ash. With one last look at the sheltered glade that had become my sanctuary, I stepped out into the night to make my way back to the castle and the dirty cot on the floor of the servants' quarters where I was now forced to sleep.

As night enveloped the forest, I vowed that I would rise from the ashes of my past, reborn as the architect of my own fate. No longer just Cynthia, the forgotten princess. I was Cinders now—and I would burn brightly.