Page 110 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

The chill bites harder as I move, but I don’t stop. The thought of the world waiting on the other side of this task spurs me forward.

I move my arms up and down, trying to shake off the chill.

The cold has sunk so deep into my bones that it feels permanent, and every breath comes out in pale puffs of frost. My boots scrape against the stone as I make my way toward the back of the library, where the older, more fragile tomes are stored.

Each aisle looms like a canyon of secrets, the towering shelves casting long, dark shadows .

I scan the spines of the books, my scarred fingers brushing against the brittle leather bindings.

Each step feels heavier than the last, the chill growing more agonizing, and my head lighter with every moment.

My body protests, but I can’t stop. I can’t fail.

Somewhere in these aisles, the answers are waiting.

I just have to find them. My thoughts spiral as I search—endless, gnawing questions filling the void left by exhaustion.

No matter how meticulously I comb through these texts, there’s nothing.

No spell, no ritual—nothing that offers a way to break a blood lineage curse.

This magic isn’t ordinary; it’s ancient, vast, and merciless.

Curses like this aren’t cast lightly. They’re binding, monstrous, and designed to endure.

My mind races as I trail my hand along the dusty shelves.

Who? I wonder. What witch cursed this family, and why?

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m chasing shadows, that the answers I need are just out of reach.

I glance toward the far-right side of the library, where the volumes on royal vampire bloodlines are housed.

If previous vampire royalty employed witches, as my father once did, maybe there’s something here—a hint, a thread to pull.

But my father didn’t just employ witches.

He used them. He sought power—always power.

Every alliance he forged, every decision he made, was driven by his insatiable hunger to dominate.

My role in his empire was no exception. He claimed me as his daughter—not truly, but in name—shaping me into a weapon he could wield.

He gave me power, made me feel like I belonged to something greater.

He never demanded my loyalty because he didn’t have to.

I gave it willingly, because he made me believe in something more.

Even now, I can’t untangle the complicated truth of what he was.

He wasn’t cruel to me, not like he was to others.

With me, there was something softer, something almost human.

And yet, that same man who could show me love without hesitation wouldn’t think twice about destroying anyone—or anything—that stood in his way.

I grip the edge of a shelf to steady myself.

My vision swims again, and I stumble, my shoulder hitting the corner of a shelf.

I wince but push forward. I have to keep going.

The books blur together as I search, the spines and titles blending into a sea of words that offer no answers.

My breaths come out in shallow bursts, each exhale visible in the icy air.

My legs tremble as I move deeper into the library, the cold wrapping tighter around me.

My body feels like it’s shutting down, but I can’t stop now. Not when I’m so close.

The memory of Malachi’s words echoes in my mind. The book with the bleeding tree. Its roots were crimson. I can picture it, clear as day, even though I’ve never seen it. I press forward, each step a battle against the cold and exhaustion threatening to pull me under.

And then, something catches my eye. A title that doesn’t belong here.

The Dire Royal Family.

My breath hitches, my chest tightening at the sight of the name.

The Dires were human—mortals. They shouldn’t be in this section, amidst the histories of vampires.

My fingers hover over the worn leather cover, trembling slightly as they brush against it.

A bitter taste rises in my throat, and memories I’ve fought to bury claw their way to the surface.

I hesitate, my pulse quickening. My teeth clench as I take a steadying breath, finally pulling the book from the shelf.

The leather feels rough beneath my fingertips, heavier than it has any right to be.

It’s not just a record of history—it’s a piece of my past, staring back at me like a ghost I’ve tried to forget.

Carrying it to the nearest table, I set it down gently, almost reverently.

For a time, I can’t bring myself to open it.

I pace back and forth, my gaze flicking to the book and then away, my unease knotting tighter and tighter.

Finally, I force myself to sit. My bare hands hover over the worn cover, as if bracing for the inevitable, before I flip it open.

The pages creak softly, the faint scent of age and ink rising into the air. I force myself to turn to the section I know will haunt me most. And then, there it is.

Their names .

Jonathan and Aurora Dire .

The last king and queen of the mortal royal bloodline.

Their story unfolds in faded ink. Their inauguration, their rule, their deeds—it’s all here, painted as if they were untouchable.

The details paint a picture of a reign steeped in dignity, tradition, and power.

Then the notation: no heir. Aurora was barren. Their lineage ended with them.

And then, I see their portrait.

Aurora stands tall, her golden hair framing soft, delicate features.

Her royal blue eyes seem to pierce through the page, unforgiving and haunting.

Beside her is Jonathan Dire, broad-shouldered and imposing.

His auburn beard is neatly groomed, his chestnut eyes brilliant and commanding.

Waves of dark hair fall beneath the crown perched on his head, a symbol of a kingdom now lost.

My fingers press against the page, trembling as the weight of my actions presses down on my shoulders. Though the portrait is only ink on paper, their gaze feels unbearable. I don’t remember them—how could I? I was just a babe when it happened. When I happened.

The memories aren’t mine. They were given to me by the woman who raised mebut never loved me. My stepmother made sure I knew exactly what I was from the moment I was old enough to understand.

“You’re a curse, Lailah,” she hissed more times than I could count. “You killed them. You killed an entire kingdom.”

It was the night I was born, she told me.

The night it happened. I was found, a wailing infant, in the ashes of a legacy reduced to dust. The Dire Royal Family—Jonathan, Aurora, their court, their people—all gone.

Not a single body remained. Just ash . The magic that came from me that night was unthinkable, uncontrollable, devastating.

I didn’t choose it. I didn’t even understand it.

But my stepmother didn’t care. To her, I was a monster—even as a child.

Those words never left me.

My hands press harder against the page, a barrier between me and the shame that has lived with me my entire life. I wasn’t a victim of the tragedy—I was the tragedy. The monster born in the ruins. The creature who reduced an entire bloodline to nothing .

I slam the book shut, the sound reverberating through the silent library. My breath shudders as I lean back in the chair, my thoughts drifting to my mother.

I’ve never known her—never heard her voice, her laughter—but in my mind, I imagine her with crimson hair like mine and striking blue eyes.

I imagine her smile, the way she might have looked at me if she’d had the chance.

She wasn’t a queen or a noble. She didn’t have a title, a crown, or a place in the grand tapestry of history.

She was a servant—a woman who toiled away in the kitchens, scrubbed the endless stone floors of the Dire kingdom, her hands raw from labor, her life unnoticed by those who walked the gilded halls above her.

Harsh, ruthless rage erupts within me. It’s not fair.

Aurora Dire, with her golden hair and delicate features, has her likeness preserved on a page, her life immortalized in ink and reverence, while my mother—a woman who worked, lived, and loved just as fiercely—doesn’t even have a name in these books.

No portrait. No mention. No record that she ever existed.

To history, she is nothing . A shadow in the margins, a ghost forgotten by time. Yet to me, she is everything.

The thought that her life could be so easily erased stirs something deep and furious in me.

Her life, reduced to nothing, even though her death was horrific.

She was ripped from this world—ripped from me—by the blade of a coward.

An assassin sent to snuff out her light, as if she were no more significant than the shadows she worked in.

He stole her—not because he had to, but because he could.

The fire inside me grows, white-hot and consuming. My magic flares, crackling faintly at my fingertips. I pace the library as I fight to calm the storm surging within me. Deep breaths. Steady breaths. But no matter how deeply I breathe, the rage remains.

And then, a thought strikes me. My magic flares crackling faintly at my fingertips.

The air around me feels charged, humming with a force I can barely contain.

It’s not just reacting to me—it’s reaching, searching.

My hands tremble as the magic snakes out, invisible tendrils weaving through the library, probing the shadows and the rows of ancient texts .

The room shifts. My senses sharpen as my magic guides me, pulling me forward.

I let it take hold, trusting the instinct that’s always been a part of me, even when I didn’t understand it.

My feet move as if on their own, boots tapping softly against the cold stone floor.

The scent of aged parchment and candle wax grows heavier, wrapping around me like a cocoon.