Page 1 of We Were Meant to Burn (Ashes and Ruin Saga #1)

The beach reeked of blood, piss, and death—not exactly a five-star vacation spot. Screams and groans filled the air like some macabre soundtrack. If anyone was looking for a good time, Yoatl Beach wasn’t it.

Me? I was slouched against a rock wall in a cave, trying to keep my guts from spilling out.

My hand was clamped over a wound in my stomach, blood oozing through my fingers.

It hurt like hell, which was saying something considering pain and I were practically on a first-name basis by now.

“Nightshade of Rojas,”

I muttered under my breath, shaking my head.

"The legend, the myth, the idiot who thought this was a good idea.”

My blood-soaked leather wasn’t doing much to inspire confidence, and I couldn’t help but think about all the better ways I could’ve died.

A fast-acting poison, maybe.

A nap gone wrong.

But no, here I was, bleeding out on some goddess-forsaken beach because Mother had miscalculated.

A horn blared in the distance, mournful and pathetic.

Retreat.

My so-called comrades scrambled toward what few ships we had left.

I should’ve felt angry, or betrayed, or something noble like that. Instead, I just felt tired.

“Good plan, guys,”

I called out weakly.

"Run. Real inspiring.”

Not that I was in any position to judge.

I wasn’t dying here out of bravery or honor.

I just couldn’t muster the energy to crawl after them.

Besides, someone had to hold the fort, even if it was just long enough to bleed out in style.

Mother had blown it.

Completely.

In a rare and uncharacteristic move, she’d underestimated Aguatitlan’s tech.

She was usually three steps ahead of everyone else.

But this time? She’d missed the part where our enemies had cooked up magic-suppressors.

An abomination if I ever saw one.

Las Madres had to be rolling in their graves. Still, disgrace or not, that particular stroke of ingenuity turned our entire army into the equivalent of a bunch of helpless kids flailing around with sticks.

What was supposed to be an easy, routine siege on Yoatl Beach, just another notch in Mother’s imperial belt, had turned into an absolute bloodbath.

Instead of glory and victory, we got torn apart.

Literally.

And the worst part? I should’ve been able to stop it.

Thanks to our mutual failures, mother’s and my own, thousands of bodies littered the beach like discarded trash across the black sands.

Torn flesh, twisted limbs, and shattered bone painted a picture of chaos and death.

The air was thick with the coppery stench of blood and the salty tang of the sea.

The roar of the ocean almost drowned out the wet, ripping sounds of the alebrijes tearing into what was left of the dying.

Blood dripped from their talons as they feasted, indifferent to whether their meal had been man, beast, or machine.

The currents swirled with gore, bits of bodies, and the wreckage of airships, mixing in a grisly stew.

No amount of adamas was worth this.

Sure, it was the most coveted metal in all of Corinea.

Harder than steel, light as air, and worth its weight in lives.

Aguatitlan practically sat on a throne of the stuff, thanks to the Lobos Mountains in the north.

But Mother’s hunger for more—more land, more wealth, more power—had brought us to this wretched place, and for what? To feed her empire? To bleed us dry for some shiny rock?

I groaned and slumped against the cave wall behind me, letting its heat seep into my back.

It reminded me of home.

The red sands of Rojas, where the sun blazed and the air hugged you like it had no intention of letting go.

Here, the warmth was the only comfort I had left, a fleeting friend against my clammy skin.

My fingers tingled, and numbness spread.

The blood pooling beneath me didn’t feel hot anymore.

Just . . . wet. I watched as red trails trickled down my stomach and disappeared into the sand, like the earth itself was thirsty for me.

A thick veil of black smoke crawled across the sky, swallowing the sun.

Even the goddess herself seemed to mock me.

‘What a pathetic way to die,’ Tochlin might’ve said.

On enemy soil.

Forgotten.

Left to rot by the same men who once screamed my name in victory.

I couldn’t argue with her.

It was pathetic.

Shot out of the sky like a green recruit.

One clean hit, and I’d been torn from the back of my alebrije mid-flight.

I didn’t hold out hope that the beast would come looking for me.

Unbonded alebrijes didn’t care who you were.

They weren’t loyal. If the beast survived, it was probably halfway back to Rojas by now, just like the rest of the cowards who fled.

I’d have done the same, if I could’ve moved.

The wind cut across the desolate landscape like a blade, icy and unforgiving.

No sun, no warmth, just the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made you feel like death had already arrived.

Maybe it had.

The emptiness around me felt like a living thing, wrapping me in its suffocating embrace.

I sent a prayer to any goddess who might still be listening—I wasn’t above begging at this point.

Just burn my body, I thought.

Give me a shot at the afterlife.

Rojano burial customs probably didn’t mean much to Aguatitlans, but I had to hope someone would honor them.

Hope was the only thing I had left, and even that felt like a lie.

There was nothing left to fight for.

No one left to lose.

Everything—rage, darkness, life itself—was bleeding out of me.

Maybe it was time to let go.

Rest sounded good for once.

But, of course, the goddesses weren’t about to let me off that easily.

A pale figure stalked past, and I forced myself to stay upright.

So much for resting.

Even at the edge of death, peace wasn’t an option.

Someone always had to play the hero, didn’t they? The thought made me snort.

The figure stumbled closer, and as he did, I saw the emerald uniform, the golden stars on his lapels.

Aguatitlan.

An officer, no less.

He fell to one knee, clutching his side, and when his gaze locked on mine, his eyes widened with recognition.

Fantastic.

Nothing like having your face plastered all over your enemies ‘most wanted’ list.

I tried to get to my feet, ready to run—or limp, at least—but before I could move, he pulled a small device from his belt and blew into it.

The shrill whistle cut through the air, and every hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

Reinforcements. Of course. Because things were going so well already.

I had no desire to be captured. I’d rather die here, on this cursed beach, than face the kind of failure Mother wouldn’t forgive. But before I could so much as blink, a squad of fresh soldiers rounded the bend, boxing me in.

Well, wasn’t this just perfect? Because why stop at bad when you can spiral straight into disaster?

I straightened my spine, spat on the nearest soldier’s shiny black boots, and gave him my best glare.

He was young and irritatingly handsome, his blonde hair glowing like he’d stepped out of a goddess-damned painting.

His gray eyes darkened as he looked down at the spittle on his shoe. Yeah, pretty boy wasn’t happy.

“What do we have here?”

a voice drawled, cold and calculating.

The soldiers parted, and there he was: Rafael Aguirre, King Regent of Aguatitlan.

He sauntered forward, his smirk so self-satisfied it made my stomach churn.

He was wearing an all-white uniform—impractical as hell and cut to show off every line of his muscular frame.

And then there was the crown, glittering and absurd, nestled in his dark curls. He looked like he’d walked out of a royal parade, not a warzone.

His amber eyes swept over me, undressing me with a look that made my skin crawl.

There was hunger there, twisted and lecherous, and all I could think about was clawing his eyes out.

“This is a gift indeed,”

he purred, his lips curling into a sly smile.

I bared my teeth in something between a snarl and a smile.

"If you’re going to kill me, get on with it. Goddess knows I’d rather bleed out than listen to you drone on.”

He chuckled, low and smug, and turned to the blonde soldier.

"Bring her with us,”

he said, his tone casual, like he was ordering wine at dinner. Then he added, “Tell no one.”

He glanced back at me with a look that made bile rise in my throat.

I wanted to lunge at him, to rip that smug smile off his face, but my body wouldn’t obey.

With one last, salacious look, he turned and walked away, leaving me to stew in my hatred.

The soldier grabbed a black bag handed to him by one of the others, his steel-gray eyes flicking to mine.

There was something in his gaze—something heavy, unreadable—but I didn’t have the energy or the patience to figure it out.

I flinched as he stepped closer, instinct kicking in, but it didn’t matter.

The bag was already over my head, plunging me into suffocating darkness.

Perfect.

Just what I needed.