Page 25 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)
LAILAH
I t’s been three days since the announcement of our engagement. I haven’t seen Jason, not that I’ve made any effort to find him. Instead, I’ve buried myself in the library, hiding among shelves of ancient books and brittle pages, trying to keep my mind too busy to think.
The truth is, I don’t want to see him. I don’t know how to face him without the anger surfacing—anger at his betrayal, at the lies, at the plan we’re both caught in. But no matter how deeply I dive into the words on these pages, I can’t stop thinking about Casper either.
Casper . His name lingers in the back of my mind, an uninvited, persistent whisper I can’t shut out.
The memory of his smirk, the way his voice slid under my skin like a blade—it all follows me here.
Even now, the dagger he had when I saw him, the one with the ancient inscription etched into its surface, is the reason I’m here.
“Ashient mienth hatonian ashia”.
The phrase claws at me, a puzzle I’m desperate to solve, if only to keep my thoughts from straying too far.
I rise onto my tiptoes, stretching my arm toward the weathered book of languages perched just out of reach.
My fingers lightly brush its worn spine, but it slips further back, evading my grasp.
A frustrated sigh escapes me as I drop back onto my heels, defeated.
I take a steadying breath, taking in the library’s scent of parchment and aged leather.
My frustration gives way to determination as the energy begins to stir in my fingertips.
Closing my eyes, I let the magic flow. It surges from my hands, reaching for the book like an invisible tether.
A faint hum fills the air as the book trembles, then slides gracefully from its resting place, hovering briefly before floating into my hands.
The magic dissipates as quickly as it came, leaving behind an icy chill that creeps down my spine.
It always does—burns cold, not like frost, but like something that settles beneath my skin and flares when I breathe.
I cradle the book carefully, running my gloved fingers over its ancient, dust-covered binding.
An embossed symbol catches my eye, highlighted by the soft candlelight: a delicate flower encircled by a ring that tapers into a teardrop—or perhaps a drop of blood.
I try not to use my magic for ordinary things.
It builds when I ignore it—simmering beneath the surface, waiting to be let out.
And when I finally give in, even for something small, the chill stays longer, like a punishment.
Still, I use it—quietly, carefully—forcing it back down each time as if it were easy.
It never is. But restraint feels like the only thing I have left.
The world sees a monster. But beneath the weight of expectation and power, I am still just a woman—aching to feel normal, to feel warm, even if only in silence. But magic doesn’t care. And the chill it leaves behind reminds me I am not human, not truly.
My pulse quickens as I turn toward the library table, the book pressed protectively to my chest. I set it down gently, almost afraid it might shatter beneath my touch, and sink into the creaking wooden chair.
My fingers hover hesitantly before flipping it open.
The scent of old ink and brittle pages rises, wrapping me in a cloak of quiet anticipation.
My eyes dart across the delicate script, searching for the phrase "Ashient mienth hatonian ashia. "
Carefully, I turn each page, the whisper of parchment beneath my gloves broken only by the crackle of fire in the hearth.
The pages reveal the rise and fall of an ancient vampire bloodline that once thrived in the desert of Palinoa.
These vampires, known as the Sunkeepers, built their empire under the scorching sun, a feat unmatched by any other lineage.
Their cities rose from the sand like carved jewels, shimmering beneath the relentless heat.
They relied on witches—rare even then—whose magic was the key to survival in the harsh desert.
These witches were revered for their power, which brought life to the barren wasteland, summoning water to sustain the Sunkeepers and weaving wards to protect their cities from invaders and the deadly desert storms. In those days, it was said a single witch could live nearly four centuries, before fear and hatred began to shorten their years.
But their alliance was one of necessity, not trust. The Sunkeepers valued the witches’ magic, yet their awe was tinged with suspicion.
Over time, the witches’ bloodlines began to weaken, their power growing scarce.
Without a witch, the wards failed, the water dried up, and the empire began to crumble.
The Sunkeepers fell prey to enemies they had long kept at bay, their grand cities reduced to ruins swallowed by the shifting sands.
The text tells of the final witch of Palinoa, a lone figure who stood against the tide of destruction.
In her dying breath, she was said to have cursed the land, ensuring no vampire or witch would ever again rise to power in the desert.
I trace the lines of ancient script with my fingers, the story a haunting echo of what I know to be true.
One witch every century. Never more than one at a time.
The words seem to pulse with meaning, connecting the past to the present in ways I can’t yet understand.
Closing the book, I lean back, staring into the flickering candlelight, my mind racing.
The weight of centuries and their history presses down on me, a stark reminder of what it means to carry the title of the only witch of this age.
As the fire in the hearth fades to embers and the once-bright candlelight wanes, the silence of the library becomes absolute, the air still.
Without realizing, I’ve let the hours unravel, quiet and unmarked like threads slipping through unseen hands.
I push the book aside and rise, stretching the ache from my back.
My boots echo softly against the floor as I make my way toward the farthest corner of the south side.
“I must be searching in the wrong area,” I mutter under my breath, the sound barely audible against the soft creak of the wooden floor beneath my boots.
I begin my search in the most ancient tongue, one believed to trace back to the Sunkeepers themselves.
Their language, distinct and fluid, was built for the chants and rituals that sustained their precarious existence in the desert’s unforgiving embrace.
But as I comb through the text, something feels off— Ashient mienth hatonian ashia doesn’t quite belong to that era.
The words feel too mournful, as though they were born from a time of loss rather than survival.
Maybe it’s not a language I should be searching for, but a place.
The thought stirs me into motion. I move quickly, the ache in my back forgotten as my feet carry me toward the section of the library that houses the oldest records.
My hand hovers over the spines of books, their leather covers cracked with age.
The titles, faded from centuries of neglect, offer only fragments of their contents.
Finally, I stop in front of a thick, dust-covered tome with a single word etched into the spine: Interitus.
I pull it from the shelf, its weight heavy in my hands, and return to the table.
The book’s cover is embossed with a symbol—a crescent moon cradling a rose, a design that feels both familiar and unsettling.
My fingers trace the worn surface before flipping it open, the pages crackling softly in protest, enveloping me again in the scent of aged parchment.
The history of the witches and vampires of Laygwyen unfolds before me, piece by piece, their story more fragmented than whole.
The union between their kinds was unlike anything else in recorded history.
They didn’t simply coexist—they bonded, their lives entwined in ways that defied the natural order.
Though they could never bear children, they wove their magic together, creating something neither could achieve alone.
Their spells reshaped the land, binding it to them so tightly that the forest itself seemed alive, a living testament to their connection.
But as I turn the pages, the tone shifts, the words darkening like a storm creeping over the horizon.
The text hints at desperation—a growing fear among the witches that their power was draining faster than time could replenish it.
Their bonds with the vampires, though born of love and trust, seemed to consume them.
Without heirs to carry on their bloodlines, they began to fade, their magic unraveling one fragile thread at a time.
I pause, my eyes lingering on a passage written in jagged script, its author’s hand shaking as they recorded their final thoughts:
Our union is both our strength and our undoing. What we built together will one day bury us.
The words linger, heavy and unrelenting. I close the book gently, my mind racing with the significance of what I’ve read. The union that once seemed so perfect, so harmonious, had been doomed from the start.
I look up at the rows of books surrounding me, the room’s silence almost alive, as though the library itself is watching, waiting. Somewhere in these pages—or perhaps beyond them—is the truth I seek.
As I wander through the aisles, I eventually reach the end of one of the historical sections.
A slim, unassuming volume catches my eye, tucked between two larger ones.
I pull it down, its worn cover almost inconspicuous compared to the gilded bindings surrounding it.
Opening the book, I find its pages filled with fairy tales, their stories passed down through generations.
As I flip through the delicate parchment, a familiar title stops me cold: Long Lost Bloodline of the Laygwyen Forest.