Page 2 of We Were Meant to Burn (Ashes and Ruin Saga #1)

6 months later

Iwas a piece of shit—at least, that’s what my torturer liked to remind me every morning when she strolled into my cell to kick off the day’s festivities.

She wasn’t wrong, not entirely.

I was a lot of things.

A soldier.

An assassin.

Bruja.

That last one was the real kicker, though.

Aguatitlans hated magic with the kind of passion usually reserved for goddesses and lovers, and being Bruja made me their favorite punching bag. Their King Regent seemed to enjoy the game the most.

For years, I thought I was already broken, smashed into the shape of my miserable life by Mother’s hands.

Turns out, I was wrong.

There was still more of me to shatter.

I sat on my metal cot, head bowed, hands clasped like some kind of penitent saint.

My eyes drifted to the faint sliver of light creeping in from under the cell door.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

I didn’t bother denying the insults the guards hurled at me.

Every word was true.

I was all of those things and more—a failure, a disappointment, a disgrace.

That voice in my head, the one that sounded a lot like Mother, made sure I never forgot it.

I’d failed in Yoatl, never even making it to my target: King Rafael.

And because of that failure, I’d been caught like an idiot and dragged into this metal tomb to rot.

I shifted on the cot, curling my knees to my chest as the memories clawed at me.

The things I’d done for Mother.

The shame of it tightened around my chest, squeezing until it felt like I couldn’t breathe.

I was a stain on the House Zaldanna, unworthy of my title, my ancestry, my honor.

My name would be wiped from the histories, a forgotten failure, a cautionary tale.

No more cheers, no more offerings to Las Madres.

Just nothing.

My knees shook as I sat there, trembling like the weight of my losses was too much for them to bear.

Outside, footsteps scuffed against stone, and the door creaked open.

Harsh light flooded the cell, making me squint.

The woman standing in the doorway wore the emerald uniform of Aguatitlan, her mismatched eyes scanning the room like I might’ve stashed something in the corners.

One black and full of disgust, the other gold, whirring with mechanical precision.

Wires coiled through her braided hair, golden cuffs studded with emeralds circled her ears, and her whole body screamed ostentatious wealth and arrogance.

Aguatitlans and their body mods.

They didn’t have magic, so they stitched bits of metal into themselves to make up for it.

It made them formidable in battle, sure, but Mother had underestimated how far they’d take it.

I scoffed at the ridiculous use of real gold and shifted against the light. “Get up,”

the guard barked, her voice sharp and grating. Her eyes narrowed in unison, black and gold.

"The king has summoned you.”

That figured. If Rafael was calling for me, it had to be another week already. Like clockwork, he’d ask the same question, and I’d give him the same answer. The only variable was how far I could spit this time.

“I’ve got nothing to say to him.”

I waved her off, barely sparing her a glance.

"Go bother someone else.”

But a dark part of me—the part I hated to admit existed—almost wanted to go.

It was the only time I saw anything beyond these four adamas-plated walls.

Fresh air, the sky, anything that wasn’t a cage.

Another part of me, the smarter part, wanted to stay exactly where I was. Rafael had a talent for punishment that rivaled Mother’s, and I wasn’t eager to test his creativity again.

Still, no matter how close I was to breaking, I refused to give in. Betraying Rojas, betraying myself, would be the final nail in my coffin, and I wasn’t ready for that.

“That wasn’t a request, you filth,”

the guard snarled, planting her fists on her hips. She glanced at the silver rod strapped to her wrist, the only thing standing between her and the monster sleeping inside me. If it would even wake.

I gave her a flat look, unimpressed.

"Then drag me.”

The worst part of being a prisoner wasn’t the confinement. I’d had worse. Mother had made sure of that. I could survive chains, cells, and solitude. What I couldn’t survive—what I wasn’t sure I even wanted to survive—was the loss of my magic.

It had always been there, a part of me since I was a child. Fuegador, a gift—or maybe a curse—from Quiacatl, Goddess of Death, herself.

It was a relentless fire beneath my skin, burning even when I slept.

An insatiable hunger for life that seeped out of me, corrupting everything it touched. It made me Bruja. It made me a killer. It made me, me.

And now, it was gone. Severed. Like Quiacatl had decided I wasn’t worth her time anymore.

Without my Fuegador magic, I was no one. No longer Bruja. No longer an assassin. Just . . . nothing.

I’d tried.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of times, I’d tried to summon it.

I reached for that familiar heat, the surge of power that had been my constant companion.

But there was nothing.

Not a flicker, not a spark.

Just empty, cruel silence.

Still, I was a soldier.

Beaten down, sure, but a soldier all the same.

And even without my magic, the guard knew I was dangerous.

I could see her fear.

I could hear it in the way her breath hitched and stuttered.

Fear had a scent. A metallic tang, sharp and bitter. It clung to her like a second skin, and even in this pathetic state, I could graze on it like a predator savoring a kill.

“I said get up, bitch,”

the guard snarled.

“And I said, ‘no.’”

I didn’t even look at her, my voice as flat as week-old ale.

"You should really get your hearing checked. Unless, of course, stupidity is just a permanent condition.”

Her face twisted into something feral, lips curling into a sneer like she thought that made her intimidating.

"You’re going to regret saying that.”

Lesson thirty-seven: don’t insult an Aguatitlan’s body mods.

They’re sensitive—like, extra fragile, ego-bruised snowflakes.

Suggest their fancy tech is just overpriced, surgically super-glued scrap metal, and congratulations—you’ve earned yourself a personalized beating.

Not that I was losing sleep over it.

She flicked her wrist, and the taser rod in her hand crackled to life, growing to an impressive four feet.

I had a split second to brace before the rod came crashing into my face, splitting my cheek open in a burst of hot pain.

I yelped—because how could I not?—but she wasn’t done.

She jabbed the rod into my shoulder, and the jolt of electricity hit me like a lightning strike.

My whole body seized, muscles locking up as the current burned through me.

She grinned like she’d just won a prize.

I sucked in a gasp of air, gritting my teeth through the pain.

This was nothing compared to Mother.

Mother knew how to tear you apart, piece by piece, until you were begging for death.

This? This was a warm-up. Still, my body wasn’t what it used to be. I tucked my knees to my chest, curling into myself to shield against the next blow.

The guard’s eyes burned as she stared me down, her gaze heavy with promise.

If I stepped out of line again, she’d make me pay.

Torture me mercilessly.

She wanted me to know she owned me.

Newsflash, I was already spoken for, and she was going to have to do a hell of a lot more than give me a little tickle.

I ran a finger over the bruises ringing my shoulder, where the rod had struck. The skin was tender, the pain sharp. One day, I’d return the favor. Maybe worse. Definitely worse.

“Oye,”

a voice shattered the silence, cutting through the tension like a blade. The guard spun around to face the newcomer.

I froze, my heart giving a dull thud of recognition at the sound of his voice.

Commander Aitan Larix.

He’d been there the day they’d dragged me in, chained and bleeding.

He wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine, but he had this irritating thing about honor and lofty ideals on how prisoners of war should be treated.

Mighty big of him—and utterly pointless—but a loophole I wasn’t above exploiting.

If nothing else, he’d chew out the guard, and watching that was always a small, petty victory.

His black boots scraped against the blood-streaked floor as he approached, his face carved into that permanent mask of grim seriousness he wore like armor.

No emotion, just sharp edges.

Aitan Larix didn’t do expressions—not the human kind, anyway.

He carried himself like a double-edged blade, all precision and purpose, sharp enough to cut both ways.

There was nothing soft about him, nothing that dulled his edge.

Ruthless? Absolutely. Just like me. The only difference was, he probably thought his version of it was noble.

His eyes flicked between me and the guard, taking in the scene.

"What do you think you’re doing?”

he snapped, his voice crackling with barely contained fury as he snatched the taser rod from her grip.

“She was being defiant,”

the guard said, lifting her chin like she was proud of herself.

Aitan’s gaze shifted to me, curled on the cot like a wounded animal. His eyes locked on the blood trickling down my cheek, and his jaw clenched.

"You marked her face,”

he growled, his tone dark and full of menace.

"The king will not be pleased.”

He flicked his wrist, and the rod shrank down to its compact size before he shoved it into the guard’s chest with enough force to make her stumble.

"We’re not through here,”

he hissed, jabbing a finger in her face.

"I expect you in my office at the end of your shift.”

Then, without so much as a glance at me, he stalked into the cell, his indignation practically radiating off him.

"We don’t have time to waste. The king is waiting.”

His white-gloved hand grabbed my arm, yanking me to my feet like I weighed nothing.

I stared at his hand, pristine and stark against the blood and dirt caked on my terra-cotta skin.

The mire of filth I carried from every torture session was smeared all over me like paint on a canvas.

The stench hit him a second later, and his nose wrinkled in revulsion.

“What is that smell?”

he muttered, his head turning as if he could escape it.

“It’s me,”

I said, voice flat.

"Hard to tell under all the grime, I know. Maybe if your people weren’t rationing bathwater like it’s liquid gold, I wouldn’t smell like a corpse left out in the sun.”

His lip curled, but there was something else in his eyes—a flicker of pity. My stomach turned at the sight of it. I didn’t need pity. Especially not from him.

“Get your goddess-damn hands off me,”

I snarled, ripping my arm free.

Aitan frowned but let go. He’d gotten used to my temper by now. Not that it mattered.

“I can walk just fine on my own,”

I spat, venom dripping from every word.

My legs wobbled like jelly, weak and unsteady, but I locked my knees and forced myself to stand tall.

Shoulders back, spine straight.

I wasn’t going to be dragged around like some broken thing.

I might not be what I used to be, but I was still Nix Zaldanna, Princess of Rojas. And I bowed to no one.