The Ashes Of His Name Novels & Stories

GRACE'S POV I was determined to prove that I was really under anesthesia and I was only imagining things, so I immediately packed the bag I recognised as an old bag of mine and left my work station. I was waiting for the elevator when someone came and stood beside me. I didn't bother turning to look since I was only being delusional. “Grace? Are you going home?” A male voice asked. I immediately turned to look at the person and I had to hold in my gasp, because standing beside me was Ethan Adams. Yes, the same Ethan who died in my timeline.

"I could see it in your eyes that you were desperate to find the real killer." "Thank you, Detective Taylor." One month later, Aidan was executed. He died in prison. I submitted my resignation to Ravenshire State Medical Center. Then I returned to Ashford Hollow, held a funeral for Aidan, and buried his ashes. After I went back to Ravenshire, I threw everything in my house that belonged to my mother into the trash. Once everything was cleared out, I sold the house. Then I left the country and began a new life. The following spring, I received an email from Detective Taylor. Attached was a letter my mother had written in prison. Her handwriting was neater than I expected.

Scarlett pov He died at our feet. Collapsed mid-aisle, eyes still wide with terror, mouth parted in that last breathless word—“Rogues.” His blood soaked the floor in thick rivulets, trailing from the doorway to the stone beneath his body. No one moved. No one spoke. I stared at the broken warrior—barely more than a boy. I knew him. His name was Ashen. He used to sneak me apples from the kitchen when I trained late. He once cried after accidentally stepping on my foot during a festival dance.

Its owner called out, "Izzy." In the very last moment before I slipped under completely, I found myself wondering whether Cole really was as cold and heartless as his name sounded. I died on the second day of that winter snowfall. After that, Cole threw himself into his work, desperate to numb himself. In just two years, he molded one of his distant relatives into a fully capable company CEO who could stand on his own. Every year, on the anniversary of my death, he would avoid everyone and go to my grave alone to talk to me. In the third winter, he came as usual and sat in front of my tombstone. He started to speak.

All that was left after was a naked man kneeling in the middle of a crater. He screamed trying to push out the pain in his heart but it still sat there. A permanent scar deep in his soul that can never be healed. "By Ash and Dust I swear to destroy you.. I shall be your end Erebus!" His eyes turned glossy and he fell to the ground..

The elder’s heels scraped desperately against the flagstones, his breath catching in a dry, rattling gasp as he was hoisted inches off the ground by raw, unadulterated Alpha fury. "You thought you could bury the truth in the ashes of a burning estate," Julian growled, his voice a low, vibrating baritone that rattled the reinforced steel bars above them. His golden eyes burned with an unnatural, lethal luminance, the primal side of his nature threatening to break free entirely. "You thought you could use my name to slaughter an innocent pack and pin it on a ghost."

The way he looked at it, no one would have guessed it held the ashes of his own flesh and blood. The next very second, he lifted the urn. Without the slightest hesitation, he poured every last bit of his son's ashes into the rainwater drain outside the church.

He straightened, the shift from Garrick-who-makes-jokes to Garrick-who-runs-things happening cleanly the way it always did, the Beta mode settling over him like something he put on and wore well. "His name is Asher," he started. "From Nightfall Pack. Four years ago their pack was wiped out by—" he looked at me directly, "—what they claimed was you." I nodded. I understood what he was saying and what he wasn't saying and I did not need him to navigate around it. The accusation does not surprise me anymore. "Go on," I said. “The servant…” he continued. “Her name is Isora,” I corrected him, my voice flat.

Ash bows his head graciously, “Asher Wild, Prince to the Vampire King of England. But please, call me Ash. Everyone does, it feels weird to have people say my full name now.” The king bows his head, “Her loss, if only temporary, is felt keenly here.” Luther says, and Ash nods,

He’s on the ground, blood soaking into ruined earth, breath coming in broken, wet pulls that rattle more than they sustain. For the first time since I’ve known his name, Asher looks small. I remember the stories whispered about him when I was younger. The warnings. The fear that carried his name farther than his territory ever reached. Seeing him like this feels unreal—like watching a legend rot into something painfully human. Not weak he was never weak but diminished. Stripped of myth. Stripped of fear. Reduced to a body that bleeds like any other. He’s dying. But not fast enough.