Page 195 of Tower of Ash and Darkness
Carrying it to the nearest table, I set it down gently, almost reverently. For a time, I can’t bring myself to open it. I pace back and forth, my gaze flicking to the book and then away, my unease knotting tighter and tighter. Finally, I force myself to sit. My bare hands hover over the worn cover, as if bracing for the inevitable, before I flip it open.
The pages creak softly, the faint scent of age and ink rising into the air. I force myself to turn to the section I know will haunt me most. And then, there it is.
Their names.
Jonathan and Aurora Dire.
The last king and queen of the mortal royal bloodline. Their story unfolds in faded ink. Their inauguration, their rule, their deeds—it’s all here, painted as if they were untouchable. The details paint a picture of a reign steeped in dignity, tradition, and power. Then the notation:no heir.Aurora was barren. Their lineage ended with them.
And then, I see their portrait.
Aurora stands tall, her golden hair framing soft, delicate features. Her royal blue eyes seem to pierce through the page, unforgiving and haunting. Beside her is Jonathan Dire, broad-shouldered and imposing. His auburn beard is neatly groomed, his chestnut eyes brilliant and commanding. Waves of dark hair fall beneath the crown perched on his head, a symbol of a kingdom now lost.
My fingers press against the page, trembling as the weight of my actions presses down on my shoulders. Though the portrait is only ink on paper, their gaze feels unbearable.I don’t remember them—how could I?I was just a babe when it happened. WhenIhappened.
The memories aren’t mine. They were given to me by the woman who raised mebut never loved me. My stepmother made sure I knew exactly what I was from the moment I was old enough to understand.
“You’re a curse, Lailah,”she hissed more times than I could count.“You killed them. You killed an entire kingdom.”
It was the night I was born, she told me. The night it happened. I was found, a wailing infant, in the ashes of a legacy reduced to dust. The Dire Royal Family—Jonathan, Aurora, their court, their people—all gone. Not a single body remained. Justash. The magic that came from me that night was unthinkable, uncontrollable, devastating. I didn’t choose it. I didn’t even understand it. But my stepmother didn’t care. To her, I was a monster—even as a child.
Those words never left me.
My hands press harder against the page, a barrier between me and the shame that has lived with me my entire life. I wasn’t a victim of the tragedy—Iwasthe tragedy. The monster born in the ruins. The creature who reduced an entire bloodline to nothing.
I slam the book shut, the sound reverberating through the silent library. My breath shudders as I lean back in the chair, my thoughts drifting to my mother.
I’ve never known her—never heard her voice, her laughter—but in my mind, I imagine her with crimson hair like mine and striking blue eyes. I imagine her smile, the way she might have looked at me if she’d had the chance. She wasn’t a queen or a noble. She didn’t have a title, a crown, or a place in the grand tapestry of history. She was a servant—a woman who toiled away in the kitchens, scrubbed the endless stone floors of the Dire kingdom, her hands raw from labor, her life unnoticed by those who walked the gilded halls above her.
Harsh, ruthless rage erupts within me. It’s not fair.
Aurora Dire, with her golden hair and delicate features, has her likeness preserved on a page, her life immortalized in ink and reverence, while my mother—a woman who worked, lived, and loved just as fiercely—doesn’t even have a name in these books. No portrait. No mention. No record that she ever existed.
To history, she isnothing. A shadow in the margins, a ghost forgotten by time. Yet to me, she iseverything.
The thought that her life could be so easily erased stirs something deep and furious in me. Her life, reduced to nothing, even though her death was horrific. She was ripped from this world—ripped from me—by the blade of a coward. An assassin sent to snuff out her light, as if she were no more significant than the shadows she worked in. He stole her—not because he had to, but because he could.
The fire inside me grows, white-hot and consuming. My magic flares, crackling faintly at my fingertips. I pace the library as I fight to calm the storm surging within me. Deep breaths. Steady breaths. But no matter how deeply I breathe, the rage remains.
And then, a thought strikes me. My magic flares crackling faintly at my fingertips. The air around me feels charged, humming with a force I can barely contain. It’s not just reacting to me—it’s reaching, searching. My hands tremble as the magic snakes out, invisible tendrils weaving through the library, probing the shadows and the rows of ancient texts.
The room shifts. My senses sharpen as my magic guides me, pulling me forward. I let it take hold, trusting the instinct that’s always been a part of me, even when I didn’t understand it. My feet move as if on their own, boots tapping softly against the cold stone floor. The scent of aged parchment and candle wax grows heavier, wrapping around me like a cocoon.
My magic tugs harder now, leading me toward the left side of the library, where the shelves rise like ancient sentinels. My fingers trail along the spines of books, and though the titles blur past my gaze, I can feel the energy narrowing, focusing. It hovers over a single text, a presence so strong it makes my breath hitch.
The worn leather cover is marked by a familiar symbol—a tree, its roots bleeding crimson. My pulse pounds as I brush trembling fingers over the etched design. The magic surrounding me stills, settling into a quiet hum as if satisfied, as though this is what it had been seeking all along. I pull the book free. The leather-bound cover creaks softly as I open it, the air filling with the faint scent of dust and decay. My eyes skim the pages, each word a tether pulling me deeper into the possibilities unfolding before me.
And then I see it—shadow walking.
The description is haunting, the words vibrating with meaning as if they were written for this moment. The ability to step between life and death, to exist in both realms simultaneously. To walk in the shadows is to be unseen, untouchable. But the warning etched in bold ink sends a shiver down my spine.
Linger too long in the shadows, and you risk being consumed by them.
My jaw tightens as my scarred fingers trace the page, the crackling energy of my magic flickering faintly around me. This spell—it could be the key. If the vault cannot be breached by ordinary means, perhaps one of us could slip into the shadows, crossing that fragile line between life and death to gain access.
The possibilities rush through my mind, a storm of hope and dread mingling in my chest. I snap the book shut, the echo reverberating through the library, a stark reminder of the emptiness around me. My chest tightens as I tuck the tome under my arm and make my way toward the portal.
The air grows colder as I near the spot where I first arrived. My breath escapes in faint puffs of mist, and a chill seeps into my bones, wrapping around my lungs like frost. I rub my hands together, trying to shake the creeping numbness from my fingers. My magic stirs weakly, ebbing low like the final flicker of a dying flame.
