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The Ash Mirror

ผู้เขียน: Tyson Roy
last update ปรับปรุงล่าสุด: 2025-09-10 19:35:29

The wind’s voice was ancient—older than memory, older than regret. It howled across the high cliffs of Thornecradle, skimming the black edges where the world fell away, brushing stone that remembered the footprints of gods and the vows of broken queens. It did not sound like wind tonight. It sounded like breath: searching, uncertain, exhaled by a mountain that had forgotten what it meant to hope.

Above, no stars glittered. No moon carved silver from the shadows. Only the void—shivering, watchful, hollow—waited overhead, pressing silence into every fissure of rock.

Saphira stood at the very edge, her cloak wrapped tight, the rough fabric snapping in the unseen gusts. In front of her, the stairs ended in air. There was no path forward, only a carved obsidian arch wreathed in runes older than language. Runes that pulsed, faint and inexorable, with a light no flame dared match.

She stared at the door. No hinges. No key. No way in but knowing.

Footsteps behind her—soft, steady, sure. Seren
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  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   Lucien’s Fall

    The storm rose like a god unburied.No horns.No omens.Just a wind that forgot how to whisper.Ash curled in great spirals across the sky as if the world was remembering how it used to burn. Above Hollowspire, the last of Sirelia’s fortresses in the shattered east, the heavens roared and bled lightless.Lucien stood alone on the cliff.Cloaked in obsidian thread and silence.No guards.No scouts.No orders.Only a dagger.Short. Simple. Forged in Old Fire, the kind that knew how to end queens.He had taken it from Seren’s vault. No note left behind. No promise made.Because this wasn’t justice.It was a reckoning.A prayer without a god.A blade carried for the names that no longer had tongues to speak.He descended through the veil of the storm like something forgotten returning. The storm parted just enough to let him pass, ash sticking to his boots, wind yanking at his cloak like it wanted to pull him back.No one stopped him.No one saw him.Because even the Dustborn guards had learne

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Battle of Greybone Vale

    The war did not begin with horns.It began with breath.A long, silent inhale drawn across Greybone Vale, where thousands stood not as warriors, but as legacies in waiting.Shoulder to shoulder.Steel to ash.Names ready to be remembered or erased.The valley stretched vast and hollow, scarred by old bones that jutted from the soil like history that refused burial.Around them, dead trees stood upright, never felled, never broken.The sky churned without storm.The air pressed down, thick with something older than fear.Even the wolves didn’t dare howl.Atop Widow’s Fang, a jagged stone crest veiled in cursed wind, Seren stood, her ash-draped banner unfurling in the silence like a warning written in flame.Below her, the Ashborn gathered like breath held too long:Witches cloaked in runes that pulsed with waiting.Wolfshifters, half-formed and restless, muscles trembling under fur.Ashblood archers, bows strung, arrows lit, waiting not for the order, but the moment.Across the vale, Sirelia’

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Ash Mirror

    The wind’s voice was ancient—older than memory, older than regret. It howled across the high cliffs of Thornecradle, skimming the black edges where the world fell away, brushing stone that remembered the footprints of gods and the vows of broken queens. It did not sound like wind tonight. It sounded like breath: searching, uncertain, exhaled by a mountain that had forgotten what it meant to hope.Above, no stars glittered. No moon carved silver from the shadows. Only the void—shivering, watchful, hollow—waited overhead, pressing silence into every fissure of rock.Saphira stood at the very edge, her cloak wrapped tight, the rough fabric snapping in the unseen gusts. In front of her, the stairs ended in air. There was no path forward, only a carved obsidian arch wreathed in runes older than language. Runes that pulsed, faint and inexorable, with a light no flame dared match.She stared at the door. No hinges. No key. No way in but knowing.Footsteps behind her—soft, steady, sure. Seren

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Masked Tribunal

    The chamber was carved from obsidian and bone.No windows. No torches.Only one skylight, round, smooth, cold, etched with runes that had long since stopped answering to any moon. The glass glimmered faintly above, not from starlight, but from something deeper. Forgotten.Below, the Tribunal Circle waited.Seven thrones. Arranged like the broken spokes of a wheel shattered by time. None higher. None lower. None bearing crests. Only masks, smooth, faceless, timeless.A place built not to judge by power. But by presence.Seren stood at the chamber’s heart.Not in gold.Not in glory.In woven ash.Her robe was threaded with blood, her own, braided into the seams by hand. She wore no crown. No chain of state. Only the spiral burn across her palm, pulsing like a heartbeat that refused to stop.Tonight was not war.It was reckoning.Before her, thirteen Dustborn war captains knelt.Bound in blacksteel. Heads bowed.Each bore the mark of command, etched in ashblade, or scarred across the eyes.

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   Seren’s Eclipse

    They called it the Night of Blood Silence.Not for what was heard, but for what was finally, utterly unspoken.No thunder broke across the valley’s scarred bones. No dying star lit the horizon with warning. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, refusing to move, refusing even to witness. Even the torch flames along Emberhold’s battered towers shrank from their wicks, as if they, too, understood that the world had turned inside out.Wolves refused to howl. Birds clung to their branches, silent, eyes wide. In the hidden circles of the witches, even the eldest among them cast wary glances at one another and tightened the knots in their circle—old, half-forgotten protective rites rekindled out of ancestral dread. Not one dared give voice to the old words. Tonight, their power would only provoke what waited.And above it all, the moon rose. Bloody, enormous, trembling, impossibly close—a wound torn into the sky, not a lantern, but a living, watching eye.They called it omen, but no pro

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The First Divide

    The first crack in the Dustborn did not thunder.It whispered.Not the sound of walls collapsing or armies clashing. Not even the sharp shock of a knife drawn in the dark. Instead, it came as a breath, trembling through ash, threading itself between hearts too tired for war. It was the ache of memory—a man standing on the edge of his life, facing the emptiness that comes when purpose slips away.Thalor the Flame-Seer, the shadow-voice behind Sirelia’s crownless throne, the mouthpiece of prophecy, the man who once turned tides and bent kings with a word, now found himself alone. The cliffs of Hollowspire rose jagged and high at his back, the valley below cloaked in the colour of dead embers. Even the wind was silent, as if reluctant to witness what must come next.He inhaled the scent of burnt earth, and for a moment, he remembered a time before ashes—a time when he’d carried fire in his hands, not just as magic, but as hope.Behind him, footsteps. Light, careful, respectful, the gait

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