Page 1 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

W hat had once been sealed from the elements now stood exposed, fractured by the quiet ruin of magic that had passed through.

The night was restless. Wind howled through the towering spires of the castle, threading through stone like whispered omens.

The scent of iron lingered in the air, thick and unyielding, as though the land itself still bled from old wounds.

Beneath the sky, dark with the weight of unspoken promises, a child cried.

She was too young to understand the devastation she had wrought.

Archways, once carved with stories and saints, now slouched in their decay—their elegance fractured, their purpose forgotten.

Marble columns lay broken like the bones of giants, and stained-glass windows gaped with hollow eyes, their colored shards buried in dust. What remained of the grandeur whispered of a kingdom brought low—not by war, but by something far older.

Far hungrier.

At its center, the throne room lay in eerie silence, its grandeur faded, its walls heavy with memory.

No bodies remained, no remnants of flesh or bone.

Just ash, drifting in the still air—the only evidence that life had once breathed here, that voices had once echoed off stone—silenced forever.

A haunting echo of the destruction that had unfolded in mere moments.

And at the center of it all, a babe with piercing blue eyes sat untouched by the void she created.

Her tiny hands rested atop the cold stone, delicate dark veins visible beneath translucent skin, pulsing with life amid the desolation.

Faint scars marred her fingers and wrists, pale lines that seemed to shimmer in the dim light, hinting at the unnatural power that had surged through her.

Tear stains traced paths down her cheeks, remnants of the cries that had unleashed the devastating magic.

A shadow stood at the edge of the ruin, unmoving.

The assassin had been here for one purpose.

The kill had been clean, swift—an end that should have been absolute.

Yet, as he stared at the child, a tempest of emotions raged within him.

Anger coiled tightly in his chest, a searing heat that threatened to consume him.

The mother's final moments replayed in his mind—the fury in her eyes, the desperation in her voice as she fought not for herself, but for this child.

Her screams echoed through his memory, each one a dagger to his conscience.

Pain lanced through him, sharp and unrelenting. It was an ache that settled deep in his bones, a glaring reminder of the life he had taken and the innocence that remained. The child's mere presence was a testament to his failure, a living, breathing symbol of the line he had crossed.

His fingers twitched with the urge to rectify the imbalance he had created.

He could end this now—a quick, merciful conclusion to the tragedy he had set in motion.

And yet, he remained frozen, paralyzed by emotions he could not understand or control.

He lingered only a moment longer before the distant echo of footsteps sent him retreating into the shadows. He did not look back.

A figure entered the ruined hall.

The young maid stopped short, the breath stolen from her lungs at the sight before her. Ash. Nothing but ash. It coated the marble, the tapestries, the remnants of a kingdom that had once stood mighty. She could almost taste it, the air thick with the scent of smoke and decay.

She stepped forward, hesitant, her hands trembling. The queen’s chambers were gone. The great hall, the corridors, all reduced to silence and dust.

And then she saw her.

The child.

She was impossibly small against the ruin, impossibly still.

A chill ran through the maid’s spine, as she knelt beside her.

The babe shifted, her eyes meeting the maid’s with a gaze too steady, too knowing for a child so young.

The maid was drawn immediately to the dark veins and faint scars on the child’s fingers and wrists, an unsettling sight on such tiny hands.

The maid’s throat tightened.

She should leave her. She should run and pretend she had never stepped foot here.

But her hands were already moving, already reaching for the child and pulling her close.

The girl was warm.

Alive. Untouched by the destruction around her .

The sun was beginning to rise, streaking the sky with pale gold. Light slipped through the broken windows, cutting through the dust, but it did not bring warmth. Holding the child tightly to her chest, the maid turned and left the ruins behind.

By the time the sun fully crested the horizon, the babe was gone.