Cinders Ashes Novels & Stories

His focus went back to what he held in his hands and that stirred up some questions in my head that I had to ask. He spoke calmly and that reduced the tension in the room. “Are you some type of a genie?” “It’s not a kettle, it's an urn.” “Do you live there?” “I just said I'm a wolf shifter, young girl?” He always has this 5-7 seconds of uncomfortable pause before he speaks, like he tries to formulate words in his head. “My ashes were kept there.” His throat worked Your ash? Please, Emmett, make everything you're saying make sense and be more realistic

She’d come to see the bastard in the ground for herself. Dorian Ashford’s coffin sat there, slick and shiny, all polished mahogany that hollered wealth even as it sank toward the dirt. The priest mumbled some nonsense about peace everlasting, his voice half-drowned by the storm, but Sienna didn’t hear a word. Her eyes were glued to that box, her jaw locked tight. Twenty-seven years of bile churned inside her. He’d left her mom to waste away in a rusted trailer, coughing up her last breaths, while he piled up his shipping billions—money built on the wreckage of the only person who’d ever given a damn about him.

Lira (POV) The air in the cleansing room isn’t just thick—it’s choking. The stench of incense coils through my nostrils like burning hair and spoiled meat. They’ve burned the same mix every time—wolfsbane ash, marrow dust, grave lilies. It doesn’t just linger. It infests. I can feel it creeping under my skin, nesting in the hollow behind my ribs. A curse-wearing perfume.

Moonlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, stretching across the marble floor. I knelt on the balcony, applying a special herbal balm to the skin beneath my ribs—to the scars left by silver weapons thirteen years ago. They still ached. The scars always ached under the full moon, a cruel reminder of a past I fought to forget. "You're still using that balm." I didn't turn around. Kaelen's footsteps were loud on the cold marble. "I thought you'd forgotten that pain," he said. The anger was gone from his voice, replaced by something I couldn't quite place.

If I was Mira, I would be strong. I held the remaining bandage in my hands and walked down the hallway. Like they say, bad news is the first to spread like wildfire. In no less than an hour, the maids already start to whisper, guards started to murmur, eyes scanning the area as they peeped to see if anyone out of their checks could hear them. But I walked silently past them. Like I hadn't heard anything, as if I was just a fly. The missing golds, the ships and now Alpha Darius’ empire was about to be doubted?

And the names that had burned across the world Bianca Ashford, Ash were gone, presumed dead. Yet the ashes never lie. From a crumbling rooftop, a figure descended with unnatural grace. Charred black coat clinging to her, hair tangled, eyes molten gold, she moved like a shadow. Bianca. She paused at the edge of the cathedral ruin, surveying the wreckage with the cold precision of a strategist. The ground was littered with twisted steel and glass. Her gloved hand brushed against a piece of melted obsidian, the mark of Ash, scorched into its surface.

Something deliberate. I leaned forward. “And the general?” The soldier trembled. “Ashes , Your Majesty.” A hush swept the hall. Burned wasn’t unusual. But he didn’t stop there. “And his ashes… were taken.” The hall’s silence transformed into shock. Even I felt my body go still. Ashes taken? Wolves do not touch vampire ashes. They hate us, yes. They kill us when they can—yes. But they leave the ashes untouched. Because they know what vampire ashes mean. They only move ashes when they're trying to cover up the scene for the pathetic humans.

I snapped, pushing past her to open the window wider. “Asphyxia. That's the medical term that covers the entire…concept of suffocation. Just so you know, you know. But it's not like I was trying to kill you, or me. We're too young, and I'm incapable of murder, you know that. I've only ever killed geckos since I was born…” She rambled, trailing off when she saw my death stare. I admit, I was more pissed at the fact that her charred whatever woke me up from my dream. I wished I heard everything my father had to say, but unfortunately, I got woken up abruptly.

“Now we quit letting them write the story for us.” Lucien nods. “We get it all down. The fire. The church. Gideon's part. Elias cleaning up after.” “And the silver?” Ruby asks. I shake my head. “Not yet. They'll twist it into ghost stories or crazy talk.” “Strategic delay advised,” the silver agrees. Outside, Hallowpine starts waking up. Engines cough. Doors bang. Same winter morning routine. They have no idea the mirror's already cracked. They have no idea the thing they were afraid of isn't here to punish anybody.

Each pulse of her footsteps sent a shimmer of life through them, and some of them glowed faintly as she passed. When she finally emerged into a chamber, it was not what she expected. The Cradle of Cinders was not a place of rage or fury. It was a nursery. Warm. Silent. Sacred. A great sphere of fire floated at the center, beating like a heart. Around it, hundreds of small figures slept in embryonic shells of molten crystal—spirits, or perhaps ancestors, not yet reborn. And beside the fire stood a figure cloaked in obsidian robes, their face hidden.