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🖋️ Author’s Note — Enny

Penulis: Enny Tiana
last update Terakhir Diperbarui: 2025-10-30 23:20:16

When I first started writing Kingdom of Ash and Blood, I never imagined how far this story would carry me. What began as a spark — a single image of a woman standing in the ruins of her past — became a journey that taught me more about strength, love, and survival than I ever thought a story could.

Amara Varela was born out of silence and fury. She was every broken piece of the women the world underestimated, every scar turned into armor. Through her, I explored what it means to take back your
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  • Kingdom of Ash and Blood    🖋️ Author’s Note — Enny

    When I first started writing Kingdom of Ash and Blood, I never imagined how far this story would carry me. What began as a spark — a single image of a woman standing in the ruins of her past — became a journey that taught me more about strength, love, and survival than I ever thought a story could. Amara Varela was born out of silence and fury. She was every broken piece of the women the world underestimated, every scar turned into armor. Through her, I explored what it means to take back your power when the world has already written your ending. And Luca Moretti — cold, relentless, and devastatingly human — was her reflection. The storm to her fire. Together, they were never meant to be perfect. They were meant to be real. From the streets of Palermo to the crypts beneath Sicily, from betrayal to redemption, this series became more than just a dark romance — it became a story about what love looks like when it’s forged in ruin. About two people who refused to stay victims of their

  • Kingdom of Ash and Blood    EPILOGUE

    Amara Sicily smelled of salt and wildflowers again. Not smoke. Not blood. For the first time in years, the air didn’t taste like war. The Moretti estate—once blackened by fire—now shimmered beneath the morning sun. New stone replaced the ruins, vines coiling around marble pillars, and the fountain that once ran red now poured clean water again. I stood at the edge of the garden my mother planted before she died. Lavender and rosemary swayed with the wind, fragile but alive—just like me. The crown rested on the stone bench beside me. Black metal, scorched and broken down the middle. I hadn’t worn it in months. Queenship had become a ghost I no longer needed to chase. There was peace in my quiet now. Not the peace of surrender, but of survival. I touched the scars on my wrist, faint reminders of chains long gone. Every mark was a memory. Every ache was proof. The world had called me the Queen of Death. But what they never understood was that I fought so life could mean somethin

  • Kingdom of Ash and Blood    Chapter Two-Hundred and Forty

    AMARA The world ended quietly. No trumpet, no screams — just wind moving through ruins that once echoed with blood and glory. The fire had devoured everything: the altars, the armies, the prayers. All that remained was silence… and us. I buried Damien’s crown beneath the blackened soil of Saint Helena, my fingers raw and trembling. It wasn’t gold anymore — just ash and bone fused together, cold as regret. “I thought I’d feel something,” I whispered. Luca stood behind me, a strip of cloth wrapped around his arm where the flames had kissed him. “You do,” he said softly. “You just don’t recognize it yet.” “What is it then?” “Freedom.” I let out a fragile laugh. “Freedom feels a lot like grief.” “Maybe they’re the same thing.” We rebuilt nothing. The world didn’t need another empire. It needed to remember what it was before crowns existed. So I gave it that — silence, space, the slow ache of healing. The villa was gone, the sea burned black at the edges. Yet somewhere in t

  • Kingdom of Ash and Blood    Chapter Two-Hundred and Thirty-Nine

    AMARA By dawn, the cult had multiplied. From the cliffs, I watched hundreds gather on the shoreline, torches burning even as rain fell. They chanted his name like scripture, eyes glowing with the fever of the faithful. Saint of Fire, burn away our sins. Saint of Fire, cleanse our flesh. It would’ve been almost beautiful, if it wasn’t so terrifying. Luca stood behind me, rifle slung over his shoulder, his expression cut from stone. The world below us was collapsing into worship, and somehow I was supposed to stop it — or become what they feared most. “The longer they kneel,” I murmured, “the faster his legend spreads.” “Then we cut off the tongue,” Luca said. “End it before it takes root.” “You can’t kill faith,” I whispered. “It resurrects itself.” He turned to me. “Then what are you saying?” I looked down at the sea of flames. “If we can’t kill their god…” My voice dropped, cold as steel. “…we replace him.” That was how it began — not with a coronation or prophecy, but

  • Kingdom of Ash and Blood    Chapter Two-Hundred and Thirty-Eight

    AMARA They said the Tiber ran black for three days after Damien burned. Some called it a sign of his ascension — others, his damnation. I called it what it was: blood and ash dissolving in a river that had seen too much of both. I stood on the bridge where I’d told Luca to scatter me. Only now, it wasn’t my body the water carried. It was his. The curse hadn’t killed Damien. It had transformed him. And when he vanished into the flames, I’d felt something shift — like the world had stopped breathing for half a heartbeat. The Veil had chosen a new host. The problem with gods, though, is that they never stay buried. A soft wind brushed my cheek, carrying the scent of smoke and lilies. Somewhere in the city below, church bells rang — not in mourning, but in warning. The people had already begun to whisper his name. Damien Varela. The Saint of Fire. Luca joined me at the edge of the bridge, his coat still damp from the rain. He hadn’t said much since the explosion. Just kept clos

  • Kingdom of Ash and Blood    Chapter Two-Hundred and Thirty-Seven

    AMARA Smoke clung to my lungs like a confession I couldn’t exhale. Rome was burning. Not with holy fire, but something older — something that smelled like revenge. From the balcony of the ruined monastery, I watched the Vatican spire crumble into itself. Bells tolled wildly, as if heaven itself was panicking. Below, people ran through the streets, screaming prayers that went unanswered. Luca stood a few paces behind me, bandaged arm resting against the wall, the glow of dying embers painting his jaw in gold and red. The curse was gone — at least, that’s what I told myself. But beneath my skin, I still felt its pulse. Quiet now. Waiting. “You should sit,” Luca said quietly. “If I stop moving, I’ll remember what we just did,” I replied. He stepped closer. “You saved the world, Amara.” A bitter laugh escaped me. “Did I? Look outside. The world looks pretty damned dead to me.” His silence was heavy. I turned to face him. His eyes — those fierce, sea-dark eyes — studied me like

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