Cinders Ashes Novels & Stories

The Empire's Ashes The wind, a continual reminder of the fall of the empire, murmured through the ruins. With her leather-clad fingers digging amid the ruins of a once-immensity palace, Zara knelt down. In the early morning light, the tall, hollow and cracked marble columns loomed above her, creating long, skeletal shadows. The smell of smoke, of something long burned and forgotten, filled the air. Even though she had been scrounging here for days, the scene remained the same: rusted weaponry, shattered statues, and the remains of a grandeur that had long since lost its significance.

Several staff members lined the base of the stairs, at his service. "Who is he?!" Those slightly new to their world asked, fascination evident in their voices. "You don't know Chen Kamman?! He's the Phoenix of the Bronze Orchid!" Those who had been there for only a few months already knew this and answered eagerly. "Oh! He's the Chen Kamman?!" They exclaimed each time. Everybody had heard of him; his name had been mentioned in global newsrooms, in local market discussions, at workplaces, in schools, in motivational talks, and all over the internet. But people rarely ever met him in person. He never showed up anywhere unless he truly needed to.

I hadn’t washed it yet. However, when I examined the collar, my fingers paused. The button was loose. The thread looked new, like it had been forcibly pulled. I crouched down and opened the shoe cabinet. My pair of hospital slippers sat neatly inside. The soles were clean. I remembered clearly that the last time I wore them, there had been a faint yellowish stain from disinfectant. Now, the soles were gray-white, as if someone had deliberately scrubbed them clean. My breathing tightened slightly, but my expression didn’t change.

Instead, he seemed to be watching the forest with an unusual stillness, as though listening for something that did not belong to the present moment. When she sat beside him, he did not look surprised. “You found her name,” he said quietly. Aisha did not deny it. “Yes,” she replied. Arman nodded once, as though that confirmation was enough. “She used to bring marigolds,” he said after a moment. Aisha felt a subtle shift in her attention. “Marigolds?” He nodded again. “She said they helped people remember warmth. She would place them near the window so the light would touch them first.”

The heart of Ash Valley didn’t just burn—it dissolved, melting the air and scorching the very souls of those who dared stand within it. Ozone and sulfur clawed at Phoenix’s lungs, each inhalation a knife. She stood atop the jagged obsidian dais, three blackened scrolls vibrating violently in her hands, humming like predators circling unseen prey. Below, molten magma glowed with a brutal red, the ash above igniting into ember-like stars, falling as though the sky itself was bleeding.

“The crown reframes the vow, but we still must end the cycle of ashes.” They descended. The ridge broke off into old mining tunnels, carved by the first blood‑vowers, now collapsed, silent. Only the scarred rocks spoke, blackened by centuries of shadow. But the crown glowed gold, guiding them. Sarah moved ahead, blade raised. “Stay close, the tunnels opened into a cavern that smelled of soot and old sorrow. At the center sat the Chamber of Ashes, a circular pit filled with grey ash, embers still glinting. Runes carved into the rim glowed faintly spirals and wolf­moons and broken chains, the air hummed, every breath felt like inhaling regret.

The ash burned my palm, but I didn't care. "You have to," he said, looking at me one last time with golden eyes that were slowly fading into gray. "For them. For us." The airships opened fire again. A rain of silver bullets chewed up the ground around us. Riven roared, his body exploding into a massive cloud of sentient ash. He flew into the sky, a dark storm hitting the first airship head-on. The metal groaned and snapped as the ash clogged its engines, sending the massive ship spiraling into the cliffs.

It did not explode into flame. Instead, the liquid ignited with a soft and rhythmic violet light. It was the Tempered Flame: a new type of energy that combined the raw heat of the sun with the stabilizing resonance of the Silver Moon. Cinder reached out and touched the glowing liquid, and I watched through the pack link as a wave of profound relief washed over her features. The smoke that had been rising from her copper mane vanished, replaced by a steady and healthy radiance. Her scouts, who had been shimmering with an erratic and wavy grace, suddenly stood with a new and solid weight.

Cinders float from the sky, drifting down in large, powdery pieces of hot ash. Smoke thickens the air, choking visibility, but I’m not human—and for once, I’m grateful for the sharpness of near‑immortal eyes. Through the haze, I spot Bethany, the witch Canum once ordered to shove Edge down my throat. She hurls a spell meant to obliterate one of Phantom’s guards, but it misfires, charring a tree into more ash that swirls around us like burning snow.

The first time Seren saw Lucien again, it was not in moonlight. It was in ashfall. The sky above the Ashborn’s last encampment was bruised the color of secrets—muted pewter, the hue of old regrets, as if the heavens themselves refused to forgive what was coming. Cinders drifted with no real direction, falling in slow, ceaseless spirals, soft as dust shaken from the hands of a world too weary to lift itself again. Nothing was warm, nothing glowed. Even the embers in the fire rings seemed cowed into silence.