From Sand And Ash Novels & Stories

And he employed two words where there should’ve been twelve lines. “Desert Storm.” The sand erupted around his feet and he sent it. It cut through the distance, compound links abounding as each one fell to the weight of the spell. It grew as it moved. Climbing higher with each distance covered, as fire would. Like an angered flame, it cut a path between Gyra and Lacra, intercepting them. It was just sand. For all its size, it was just that: sand; a gesture rather than an attack.

I told him. “Now it is in it.” he said after few seconds. “Sandy! Sandy are you still angry at me?” I asked with little high tone so that she can hear even when she is far away. “Ofcourse not Asha. I should ask you for forgiveness. I behaved so badly towards you. I am so sorry.” Sandy replied. “I can understand Sandy. Just forget about it. Now tell me are you angry?” I asked her. “I am. I am so much angry that I want to kill him with my bare hands.” She replied and what I felt in her voice is not angry. It is just pain.

We began the laborious walk out into the sand hills, the ground slipping away from beneath us, and the sand ranging from hot to burning. “The sands can grow so hot that they become glass,” the woman said. “See, look,” she picked up a piece juggling it from hand to hand to cool it, before passing it around. “The lighter the sand, the looser it is underfoot, and where you see these, you know that the sand has become very hot, and may still hold that heat.” “I think the soles of my boots are melting,” the younger man commented. “Very likely,” the woman agreed. “The sands can burn the skin so be wary.”

He stirred the fire until it burned hotter, more light pushing back the dark. “What is it?” he asked, only when her breathing had evened out. “We have stories,” she said. “About things that live between. Not here. Not… wherever here isn’t. Tall. Fair. Beautiful. Terrible. They like crossroads, Edges. People who don’t quite belong to one world or another.” “Ashford lodge in the woods with a Beacon inside it probably counts as an edge,” he said. “Yes,” she said. “We call them different things in different tongues. Tamawo. Other names. It doesn’t matter which one it is. They all like to bargain.”

I tried to convince her as she sniffled and finally hugged me while I patted her back. “We're good now?” I chuckled now, and a heavy weight lifted up my chest. “Yes! But still, play with me!” She giggled like a toddler and started to pick and throw sand at me while I did the same, happily. “I'm coming after you!” I shouted playfully once Aria had thrown a handful at me. “No!” She giggled softly again until I sharp tore across the field. My head tilted towards the place, Mira? “Blood!” She shouted and I hadn't realized I ran towards her until I heard me pant heavily beside her.

Asmo's every step in the shifting sands echoed his unwavering determination, while Satan's commanding presence seemed to cast a looming shadow over the unforgiving terrain. Their battle unfolded against the backdrop of swirling sands and blistering heat, each combatant driven by their own fierce motivations. The clash of steel and the crackling of energy filled the air, a visceral manifestation of their inner turmoil and the weight of their convictions. As the confrontation reached its zenith, the motivations driving Asmo and Satan intertwined, revealing the complex web of emotions, loyalties, and ambitions that had led them to this moment. Their conflict became not just a physical clash, bu

Chapter 14 : The Stalemate ASHFORD The desert takes something out of a man and gives something else back, and I'm still not sure I've made peace with the trade. Three days riding the border scrub, sun flaying the back of my neck raw, sand finding its way into every seam of my armour until I stopped noticing it , and somehow, underneath all that, the only thing my mind kept circling back to wasn't the ride at all. It was her.

I said, "I don't know what would make you think that Asher is the father of my baby?" "He is your mate, why can he not be the father?" I frowned, "So I say the sand of this earth is made from diamonds that fell from the sky and so it was?" Fiona frowned, she looked confused, probably at the direction the conversation was suddenly turning to. "What are you saying?"

That's how most of the stories end. But since I left the Wildlands, there has been only this endless trudging, slogging, tramping, clumping. And sand. So much sand. It's like a fine mist that you don't even notice is inside your ears, your nose, crusting your eyelashes, coating your teeth and your tongue, until you try to take a sip of water and swallow a mouthful of sand. Or wipe your face and fine grains of sand get in your eyes and sting and don't come out until you've wasted water rinsing them out.

Only to see horror in front of me. I was back in front of the house, but our house looked torn and burned down, as if it has been deserted for decades. Where the green lawn used to be was no more, and instead, it was just dry land and ashes. Where the majestic fountain with perfectly sculpted angels stood no more, and in its place were 14 gravestones, 13 of them containing the names of my siblings. I saw the 14th one right in front of me, with a big gravestone that has my name. The grave was empty, but somehow, I felt like it was waiting for my dead body.