Ashen Storm Novels & Stories

They say dragons never truly die. No matter how many times you kill them. ―Suzanne G. Rogers,?Jon Hansen and the Dragon Clan of Yden Randolph Belishaw stumbled down the alleyway, falling against a trash bin. His cold body shook. He couldn't think. Couldn't speak. Blood trailed down his cheeks as he clawed the sides of the metal dumpster and tried to stand. Must get to Jodie. Must warn Mikhail.

to me. A salty breeze drifted in through the half-open window, carrying the scent of the sea. In this unfamiliar city, the past slowly blurred, fading into the distance. It turns out, even the deepest love and the fiercest hatred will eventually be worn down by time into nothing but a sigh. But some sighs come far too late. Outside the window, snowflakes fell in silence, like shattered stardust scattered by fate, lighting the road that led me to my new life. The End

He stands behind me, arms crossed, a shadow refusing to be drawn in. The old rogue begins to speak. “She came in the season between the moons. The one with no name. The one where wolves forgot their howls. She wore no crown. No mate-mark. No Alpha’s scent.” The hum continues beneath her voice, like breath rising from old earth. “She walked alone into the Bone Lands, where no pack claimed the soil. Her hands bled spiral. Her eyes burned red. Her name was ash. Her tether already severed.” A shiver ripples through the pack. No one looks at me.

Tears streamed down my face, dripping into my father's ashes and staining them dark. I did not wipe my face. I did not respond to Stella. I did not look at Hudson, who stood beside her with an undisguised smirk. I reached out with trembling hands, gathering the ashes little by little, trying to put them back into the urn. "I'm sorry, Dad... I'm so sorry... this is my fault..." Hudson had his arm around Stella's waist. He let out a theatrical sigh. "Damon, don't take it too hard. The man is already dead. Besides, this was your own carelessness..."

I’m the storm. Asher glances at me, eyes widening for the briefest moment, then back at his enemies. He doesn’t stop fighting. I lunge, intercepting another wolf charging at him. Together, we form a deadly tandem, instinct and skill combining seamlessly, though I’ve never done this before.

Kaelen was at their head, his body a low, fluid line of predatory grace, his mind a cold, calculating machine that was processing the storm of information pouring through the bond. The Ashen Paw were no longer an army. They were a mob, a tidal wave of feral rage and betrayed purpose. They ran through the valley, their former discipline shattered, their movements a chaotic, unpredictable dance of violence. They ignored the Varek cavalry, their focus absolute, their senses locked onto the scent of their tormentor.

Morgan Blackstorm didn't allow Ashley to haggle and decided directly. ***

And Ashen gasped. “Grayson,” he whispered, voice trembling, “I see something—” I grabbed him immediately. “Ashen, stay with me.” Hamish stepped closer, eyes wide. “Describe it. What do you see?” Ashen’s voice shook violently. “A silhouette. Not Solven. Not Ateron. Something… whole.” “What does it feel like?” I asked. He shuddered. “Like… it’s mine.” Hamish’s voice dropped. “Ask it its name.”