Embers of the Light Series

EMBERS OF THE LIGHT: BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE - BREAKING POINT

The house looked cheerful in the glow of the setting sun, with its pale-yellow siding and white wraparound porch, it was a scene straight out of a movie. But for Maya, dread overshadowed any charm the scene might have had. She stood frozen at the gate for a moment before shoving it open and heading up the walkway. The eerie silence greeted her as she pushed the door open. Usually, her mother would be bustling in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes or the murmur of the TV filling the space. Instead, it was quiet. Too quiet. Maya peeked into the kitchen and saw her mom sitting at the table, a steaming cup of tea in her hands. Her mom’s expression stopped her cold, icy, disappointed, and tired all at once.

“We need to talk,” her mother said, her voice tight. “Your principal called me, as I’m sure you’re aware. Let me tell you, I am beyond pissed. What were you thinking? Why do you think it’s okay to not come straight home after school? Especially when there’s already a problem. Your behavior has gone completely off the rails, Maya. Sit down.”

Maya’s stomach twisted into knots. She had known this conversation was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier. She hesitated, staring at the chair her mother had pointed to. The pit in her stomach deepened as she plopped into the seat.

“You know she had it coming for years,” Maya said, trying to keep her voice steady. “We’ve never gotten along. She’s always hated me, and I don’t even know why. Remember that time she pulled my hair when we were kids? It’s just gotten worse ever since then.”

Her mom’s lips thinned into a grim line. “It’s not just about this fight, Maya. It’s everything. You’ve been barely passing your classes, you’re arguing with everyone, and now you’re getting into physical altercations. I understand things have been stressful lately, but this… this is unacceptable. You cannot go around fighting people just because you don’t agree with them. Your opinion doesn’t make you right and them wrong. We’ve had enough.”

“But Mom—” Maya started.

“Enough!” her mom snapped, cutting her off. “It’s never your fault, is it? It’s always someone else’s. You need to take responsibility for your actions. Your father and I don’t know what to do anymore. We’ve tried to teach you better than this. We’ve… we’ve made a decision.”

Maya’s heart skipped a beat. Her mom’s voice wavered, a rare occurrence, and Maya’s unease deepened. “What decision?” she asked, her voice rising.

Her mom slid a glossy brochure across the table. The words Mountain Valley Academy glared back at her in bold letters. “We’ve decided to send you here to finish out your senior year,” her mom said quietly. “It’s a boarding school, close enough that we can visit, and you can come home for the holidays.”

“You can’t be serious!” Maya’s voice cracked. “Are you trying to get rid of me? Am I that much of a disgrace to your perfect little family? I’m not going to some school in another province! You can’t do this to me!”

“You’ll go, Maya,” her mom said firmly, her patience fraying. “It’s done. We’re lucky they even accepted you with your record. You leave right after Victor’s visit and your birthday. I suggest you come to terms with it.”

Her mother stood abruptly, placed her teacup in the sink, and walked away, leaving Maya sitting in stunned silence. The world felt like it had tilted on its axis. Maya stormed out the back door, taking the old, worn path through the woods before she said something she couldn’t take back and made matters worse than they already were. Anger boiled in her chest, familiar, dangerous. She had always been a hothead, but lately, it scared even her. She couldn’t control the outbursts anymore. No one in her family understood. Not even Victor, her older brother, could grasp it, though she wished with all her heart that he could. Victor. Just thinking about him made her chest ache. He had always been her best friend, her rock. His absence over the last year left a void no one else could fill. As the tears spilled down her cheeks, she whispered, I don’t know where you are, Vic, but I could really use you right now.

***

Across town, Ezra was mid-bite of his sandwich when his phone buzzed on the table. Without checking the caller ID, he swiped to answer. “Hello?”

“Ezra. It’s Vic.”

Ezra nearly choked. Of all the people he hadn’t expected to hear from, Victor topped the list. He quickly set his sandwich down, coughing slightly. “Hey, man! How are you? It’s good to hear from you.”

Victor’s voice was steady but tinged with exhaustion. “I’m alright, I guess. Things are… rough here, but I don’t have time to get into that. I need a favor.”

“Anything. You know that.”

Victor sighed. “Can you talk to Maya for me? Mom told me she got suspended for fighting. That’s not like her, Ezra. I know she’s been taking my being gone hard, but this… this is different. I don’t know what’s going on with her.” Ezra’s stomach sank. He hadn’t known about the fight, but Victor’s concern mirrored his own.

“Of course,” Ezra said. “I’ll talk to her. I’ve noticed something’s been off with her lately too. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Thanks, man,” Victor said, his voice softening. “I hate to dump this on you and run, but I gotta go. Take care of her, alright?”

“Always,” Ezra promised.

As the call ended, Ezra leaned back in his chair, his half-eaten sandwich forgotten. Worry gnawed at him. He hadn’t told Victor about his relationship with Maya, it wasn’t his secret to share. But as Victor’s words echoed in his head, he couldn’t help but wonder if their relationship was part of what was troubling her. Something was weighing on her, and he was determined to figure out what.

CHAPTER TWO - BEFORE THE STORM

The old fort wasn’t much to look at anymore, but it was still Maya’s sanctuary. Its shingled roof sagged in places, and the wooden walls were rough with years of weathering, but it felt like home. She leaned against the splintered walls, her knees pulled to her chest, gazing at the streaks of moonlight cutting through the small windows. The world felt like too much tonight, but here… here, she could breathe.

“Knock, knock. Anyone home?” Ezra’s voice broke the quiet, warm, and teasing. She turned to see him peering through the small window, his blond hair catching the light. “Can I come in, or do I need an invitation?”

Maya shifted to the side, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Come on. But be careful, you’re about five times bigger than this place now.”

He grinned as he ducked through the low doorway, his broad frame making the small space seem even smaller. Settling awkwardly on the floor beside her, he shook his head. “Man, this seemed a lot bigger when we were kids. I feel like a giant in here.”

“That’s because we were kids, and you are a giant,” she said, her voice soft. “Dad built it for us when we were tiny. Mom wouldn’t let him put it in a tree, said a ‘play area in the sky’ was too dangerous. So, we got this instead. It was perfect back then.”

Ezra glanced around, the corners of his mouth lifting in a fond smile. “It still is, in its own way. This place has seen everything. Remember when you ran away? You were, what, eight?”

Maya groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Oh gods, don’t remind me.”

“Oh, I’m reminding you,” he said, laughing. “You dragged a cooler out here, taped a ‘NO PARENTS ALLOWED’ sign to the door, and declared your independence. But your mom? Ruthless. She made your favorite dinner, opened the kitchen window, and let the smell waft out here. You barely lasted an hour before sneaking back to the table.”

Maya laughed despite herself, the memory bringing a flicker of warmth to the heavy ache in her chest. “I’d completely forgotten she did that. Mom was ruthless back then. Really something,” Maya said, letting a small chuckle escape.

Ezra’s grin softened as he looked at her. “She still is. And speaking of ruthless, what’s going on, Maya? Your dad said I might find you out here, and he seemed… worried.”

Maya’s smile faded, and she shrugged, her gaze dropping to her lap. “I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “Everything just feels… wrong. Vic’s gone, and every time I see the news, it’s like I’m bracing for the worst. Then there’s this other thing. I found out Mom and Dad are sending me to a boarding school. They didn’t even ask me. They just decided. And now, it’s like… I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m losing everything and everyone all at once.”

Ezra’s expression darkened. “Boarding school? What are you talking about? I didn’t hear anything about that.”

“Of course, you didn’t,” she said bitterly. “No one tells me anything until it’s too late. They think this is some magical fix for me or something. As if shipping me off is going to solve all the problems Vic left behind. I already lost him, and now they’re taking you away too. How is that fair?” Her voice broke, tears spilling over as she buried her face in her hands.

“Hey, hey,” Ezra murmured, pulling her into his arms. “You’re not losing me, okay? No matter what happens, I’m not going anywhere. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

She clung to him, her tears soaking into his shirt. “I can’t do this, Ezra. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he said softly, resting his chin on the top of her head. “And you’re not doing it alone. I’ve got you. Always.”

For a moment, she let herself believe him. His arms were warm, solid, steady, a refuge she didn’t know she needed until now. “I love you,” she whispered, barely audible.

Ezra froze for a beat, then kissed the top of her head. “I’ve loved you for years,” he admitted, his voice so soft it was almost lost in the night.

They sat there in silence, the weight of her worries momentarily lifting as they held on to each other.

***

Far away, under the blazing desert sun, Victor stared at the unappetizing tray of food in front of him. “I swear, Adams, they’re trying to kill us with this. Whatever this is, it’s not a brownie.”

Across the table, Liege Lieutenant Adams shrugged, already reaching for the dessert. “Chocolate’s chocolate,” he said, popping it into his mouth without hesitation.

Victor shook his head, laughing. “You’re going to regret that later.”

“Worth it,” L.L. Adams said through a mouthful. “You’re lucky, though. You’ve got leave coming up. I’m stuck here for at least two more months before I even think about going home.”

Victor leaned back, his thoughts drifting. “Yeah, I just wish it didn’t take so long for approval, but I’m ready for it. Things have been rough back home, though. Maya, my sister, she’s been acting out like crazy. Fights, trouble at school. I don’t even recognize her anymore.”

L.L. Adams nodded. “Family drama’s the worst. So, you think you’ll be able to help her out while you’re there?”

Victor shrugged. “I hope so. I just need to get there first. The waiting’s killing me.”

As if on cue, a familiar voice called out. “Banner Captain Kutz.” Victor straightened as High Warden Rodriguez approached, papers in hand.

“At ease,” the H.W. said, handing him the stack. “Your leave orders just came through. You’re shipping out tonight at 18:00 on a transport. All the details you need to know are in there. Safe travels and may the gods go with you.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Victor replied, saluting as the H.W. walked away.

L.L. Adams grinned. “Looks like your wish just came true. Don’t forget about us little guys while you’re enjoying your mom’s apple pie that you keep going on about at home.”

Victor laughed, grabbing his tray. “Don’t worry. I’ll be thinking of you while I’m eating seconds or thirds.” L.L. Adams chuckled, shaking his head as Victor left the mess hall.

Back in his quarters, Victor tossed a few changes of clothes and his personal belongings into his duffle. He couldn’t leave behind his letters and photos, even if it was just temporary. The thought of home, of his own bed, his mom’s cooking, and seeing Maya and Ezra again, was the only thing keeping him grounded. As he slung the bag over his shoulder, he headed for the phone queues. He didn’t have much time before he shipped out, but he needed to call home. He needed to hear their voices, to remind himself of what he was fighting for, and that he would get to see them soon.

FLAMES OF THE LIGHT: BOOK TWO

CHAPTER ONE - ASHES ON THE WIND

The forest swallowed the sound of their passage. Seven wolves, and their six riders, moved like mist through the trees. Maya clung low against her guardian’s shoulders, one hand tangled in her silver fur, the other gripping the edge of her cloak as the wind tore across her face.

The cloak was new. It was a gift, they all received from the elders just before they embarked on this journey. Midnight black, fastened with a silver clasp in the shape of a crescent fang. “For the road ahead,” one of the elders had said, pressing it into Maya’s arms like it could protect her from more than the cold.

They hadn’t had time to thank them. The celebration, the fire, the music, the brief triumph had all ended in an instant. A lone wolf had bolted into the center of camp, sides heaving, fur matted, and exhausted. He shifted as he reached the firelight, becoming a wiry man, whose eyes looked like they hadn’t slept in days.

“Light Cohen…  is…. is…  dead,” he’d forced through heaving breaths.

Gasps had rippled through the gathering. Then came the chaos. The celebration didn’t end. It simply stopped, like a story cut off mid-sentence.

Now, they rode, no words or mourning, only motion.

Ezra rode a little ahead, his guardian fluid and sure beneath him. He hadn’t looked back, but she could feel his presence just the same. That quiet steadiness that steadied her in turn. Victor and Poppie rode near the center. They didn’t speak, but there was something in the shape of their silence that felt shared. Jasmine and Liam followed behind, their wolves keeping pace like shadows.

Maya’s guardian kept its head low, moving with the focus of something older than instinct. She let herself sink into its rhythm, the cold wind pulling at her cloak, the stillness settling deep in her bones, and then it happened.

The world shifted. It began with a light. A flicker, soft and golden, at the edge of her vision. It wasn’t firelight or sunlight. It was something else, something inside her. Then the forest dimmed. She didn’t close her eyes or fall, but in the span of a breath, the trees vanished. She stood in a wide field of snow, alone and barefoot. The sky churned above in shades of red and gold.

Poppie stood in front of her. Her hair danced in an unseen wind, her eyes glowing, her hands raised. Fire spilled from her palms like water. Maya tried to move, tried to speak, but she wasn’t able to move or utter a single word. The snow beneath her feet burned, and the wind whispered in a voice she couldn’t quite place, but she had definitely heard it during her childhood.

Be ready Maya. It’s coming.

Behind Poppie, wolves made of light and smoke circled slowly, their eyes glowing gold. One of them turned toward Maya and growled, not in threat, but in grief.

Poppie’s lips parted. Her voice came quiet and clear, “You won’t have long. You must be ready Maya. It’s coming.”

Then she stepped back into the fire. The flames rose around her. The world went white, ash filled the air, the snow scattered, and Maya came back with a jolt. She was still riding, still cold, and still solidly on the back of her guardian. Her guardian never faltered, never missed a step.

Ezra looked over, alarm flashing in his eyes. He had felt the change in the air. “Maya?” he questioned.

She drew a breath, steadying herself. “I’m fine,” she said. Not a lie, but not exactly the truth either.

Behind her, Victor shifted. She caught the movement from the corner of her eye, his hand tightening the straps of his pack, like he feared it might be taken. She frowned but said nothing.

You must be ready.

She didn’t know what it meant, but she believed it.

***

Victor hated this part. The silence that wasn’t quite silent. The rhythm of paws on frozen earth, space between breaths where things felt like they might fall apart if anyone spoke too loudly. The forest stretched ahead, tall and brittle. His guardian ran effortlessly beneath him, every movement smooth and assured, the world blurring around them in the pale light of morning. He shifted slightly, adjusting the weight of his pack. The motion was automatic, thoughtless, until his fingers brushed the top seam and memory surged up behind it.

The book. He hadn’t thought about it since The Cellar. Aunt Lily had handed it to him herself, behind the bar in the empty tavern she ran as both a front and a refuge. She hadn’t said much, just looked him in the eye and pressed the leather-bound journal into his hands. “This is my life’s work, our family’s history. For both of you.” No explanation. Just that and then she sent him and Ezra on their way.

Everything after that had been chaos. Escaping the tea house, reaching the camp, training, the sudden flight to the forest, and the trials. If he were honest with himself, everything had been chaos since the bombing he lived through while overseas. The book had sat in his pack the entire time, untouched. Now, for the first time, he felt its weight again.

Ahead, Maya rode silently, her black cloak fluttering behind her like a shadow. Her shoulders were straight, but not relaxed. Ezra rode a short distance ahead, casting glances back when he thought she wouldn’t notice. She’d told him she was fine. Victor knew better. He knew her better than that.

Something had changed, subtle, but deep. He didn’t know what she’d experienced, but whatever it was, it had shaken her. He unzipped the top of his pack just enough to touch the spine of the book. It felt colder than he remembered. He could give it to her now, ride up beside her, and hand it over. Say, this was meant for both of us. You should see it, but something made him hesitate.

“Maya’s quiet,” Poppie said beside him. Not really a question, just a simple observation.

Victor nodded. “She said she was fine.”

“You believe her?” she asked.

He gave a small exhale, “Not at all.”

Poppie didn’t say anything to that. She just kept riding beside him, steady as always. “I think something’s shifting,” she said finally. “In her, around her, around us all really.”

Victor didn’t answer. He already knew she was right. Maya turned, just a glance over her shoulder, but her eyes caught his. There was no blame in them, but something was definitely burning behind them. He let the book slide back down into the pack and zipped it shut.

Not yet.

***

The clearing was narrow and rimmed with pine, quiet in a way that felt almost respectful. They’d been riding for hours, and while no one complained, Maya could feel the wear in her bones. She dismounted, boots crunching against frost, and gave her guardian a quiet thank-you. One by one, the others followed suit, cloaks catching on low branches, packs hitting the ground in quiet rhythm.

The wolves shifted, with quiet grace. Muscles rolled beneath silver fur, limbs lengthened, and paws became hands, steady and calloused. Where gleaming coats had stood moments before, now stood people, tired, capable, tethered to something ancient.  Selene brushed long black hair behind her ear and nodded to Dorian, who was already fading into the trees to scout. Eira tossed a pine cone at Finn, who snatched it mid-air with a grin and flung it back harder. Kara paced the edge of the clearing, already checking escape routes. Torin cracked his knuckles and stretched like a gargoyle come to life.

Jasmine squatted near the fire pit, striking flint with steady hands. Poppie and Aiden dropped beside her, talking in hushed tones, and Liam rummaged through the supplies with quiet efficiency. Ezra crouched beside Maya handing her a canteen without a word, then waited while she drank.

“I saw something,” she said quietly.

His attention sharpened, but he didn’t speak.

“I was riding. Then suddenly… I wasn’t. I was standing in the snow. The sky was red and gold. Everything was wrong. Poppie was there. Barefoot. Her hands were full of fire.”

Ezra didn’t interrupt.

“She looked at me and said, ‘You must be ready.’ Then she stepped back and vanished. The snow shattered into ash.” Maya shook her head slowly. “It wasn’t a dream.”

Ezra’s jaw tensed, but he only said, “You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been so sure of anything.”

Victor crossed the clearing then, silent until he was beside them. He dropped his pack and unzipped the top flap. “I should’ve given you this sooner,” he said. “Lily gave it to me before I made it to camp.” He pulled out the small leather-bound book, worn at the edges but intact. “She didn’t explain what was in it. Just said it was her life’s work. Our family’s history. For both of us.” Maya reached for it slowly. Her fingers brushed the leather cover, and something inside her flared, quiet and deep.

Ezra leaned in slightly, eyes flicking across the worn edges. “You going to open it?”

Maya stared at the book for a long moment. “Not yet,” she said. “We’ll know when it’s time.”

A short distance away, Finn’s voice cut in, “I’m just saying, ration bars are a crime. Whatever gods designed these things had no taste buds.”

“Maybe it’s not about taste,” Eira muttered. “Maybe it’s about survival.”

“Then we’re surviving in misery,” Finn groaned.

“Better than dying in comfort,” Kara replied.

Torin rumbled a laugh. “Depends on the comfort.”

Poppie rolled her eyes. “Some of us are trying to have a peaceful moment.”

“Oh come on,” Finn said, grinning. “If you can’t make bad jokes at the end of the world, what’s the point?”

“You’ve only been here five minutes,” Jasmine said, dry as kindling. “And I already know that’s your default setting.”

“I’m consistent,” he replied brightly.

Liam pulled a tin from his bag and set it in the center of the circle. “Everyone shut up. I found real tea.” That got their attention, even Kara looked mildly impressed.

Maya watched the scene unfold, banter, barbs, laughter edged in fatigue, and felt a flicker of warmth stir beneath the weight of the vision.

You must be ready.

Maybe none of them were, but they were hers and they were still here.

CHAPTER TWO - THE PATH AHEAD

By midday, the clearing had turned colder, not in temperature, but in atmosphere. The low fire had burned down to its last embers, leaving a soft curl of smoke rising toward the pale sky. The scents of pine and ash hung in the still air, mingling with the quiet rustle of movement as the group prepared to leave. No one spoke about it, but the energy had shifted. The short rest had done what it could, fed their stomachs, warmed their limbs, softened their silence, but it hadn’t lifted the weight pressing down on them. It followed them like a second shadow. Not grief exactly, and not fear, something heavier, anticipation maybe. The kind that sinks in your stomach before a storm.

Maya crouched near the dying fire, gloved fingers brushing fine ash from the surface of a flat stone. The book Victor had given her, Aunt Lily’s book, sat beside her wrapped in cloth. She hadn’t opened it. She wasn’t ready. Not yet.

You must be ready.

The words from her vision still whispered at the edge of her thoughts. She straightened and glanced around. Selene and Torin were packing supplies with practiced hands, speaking little but moving in perfect rhythm. Poppie moved with Liam near the tree line, folding clothes and resecuring bundles. Jasmine stood slightly apart, her cropped black hair tousled by the breeze, her eyes scanning the woods. Dorian had just returned from a scout loop, slipping through the trees with a quiet nod to Victor.

Ezra was close, adjusting the clasp on his cloak, eyes moving from face to face like he was cataloging the mood of the group. Victor stood nearby, arms crossed, his posture as still and braced as ever. The edges of the group buzzed with low conversation.

Finn held up a dented food tin, squinting at the contents. “This was labeled stew. There is nothing stew-like about it.”

“You’ve had worse,” Eira replied, tying off a bedroll.

“I’ve had nightmares with better consistency,” Finn said, dropping it with dramatic offense.

“Then don’t eat it,” Kara said flatly.

Finn flashed her a smile. “Who said I was going to?”

Torin, now standing at full height beside the packs, gave a low grunt. “Somebody shut him up before I do.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Finn muttered, but quieter this time.

Ezra leaned toward Maya. “They’re tired, but they’re still joking. I’ll take that over silence.”

Maya gave a short nod, eyes scanning the line of cloaks and movement. “Tension’s better than quiet. Means we’re still paying attention.”

Victor approached, nodding toward the trees. “Dorian says the path ahead looks clear. But we shouldn’t get comfortable.”

Ezra straightened. “Noted.”

Maya turned to grab the book, still wrapped in its cloth. She slid it into her pack, adjusting the strap carefully. The weight pressed evenly against her spine, heavy, but familiar. The air around them changed. One by one, the guardians began to shift. They didn’t need prompting. Limbs bent, forms folding inward, silver fur rising and curling over skin like mist before it settled into muscle and motion. In the space of a breath, human figures were replaced by wolves, each one powerful, silent, and familiar.

Selene shifted first, golden eyes catching Maya’s as she moved to stand quietly at her side. Eira and Finn transformed nearly in sync, both grinning through sharp-eyed glances as they lined up beside each other. Kara gave a quiet nod to Jasmine, who swung onto her guardian’s back with practiced ease, her hand tightening in the thick fur. Poppie stepped beside her wolf, fingers brushing through the silver coat before she mounted. Liam climbed up without a word, his focus already turned toward the woods beyond.

Torin shifted last, slower, deliberate, but when he stood, solid and grounded, it was like the earth itself had taken shape. Ezra mounted with ease. Victor followed with a quiet glance toward Maya. Maya stepped to Selene, placed her hand on Selene’s shoulder, and climbed up. The wolves moved forward into formation. Leaves whispered as their paws stirred the forest floor, and the clearing fell silent behind them.

“We move,” she said and they did.

***

The forest swallowed sound like it was hoarding it. Liam sat low against his guardian’s back, scanning the trees with a practiced stillness. Pine needles blanketed the path, muffling the movement of wolves and riders alike. The deeper they went, the more the silence settled, not peaceful, but purposeful. It clung to the bark, hung between the branches like a warning no one had spoken aloud. There were no birds, no scurrying paws in the underbrush. Not even the soft tick of wind shifting the higher limbs.

Just the sound of them, thirteen guardians moving as one, threading through the forest like they didn’t belong here. His gaze flicked to Maya ahead, her back straight, her hands still against her guardian’s fur. She hadn’t spoken since they left the clearing. Not to Ezra or Victor, not to anyone. Whatever she’d seen, whatever had shaken her, she was holding it close.

Ezra rode just to her left, visibly watchful but careful not to crowd her. His posture had shifted subtly since that morning, more protective now, like he was bracing for something no one else could see yet. Victor rode just behind them, his eyes constantly moving, not anxious, but aware, always assessing. Liam turned slightly, checking behind him.

Poppie was near, calm on the surface as always, but he could see the tension in her fingers where they curled around the thick silver fur of her guardian. Her eyes met his briefly. No words passed between them, but something did. She felt it too. Ahead, the trail twisted through a thicker patch of trees. Dorian emerged from the shadows, signaled a change in direction, then disappeared again without a sound.

Liam tightened his grip slightly. The tree came into view just past the bend. It would’ve been easy to miss if he hadn’t been looking, but the light caught it just right, enough to make the marks stand out. Scratches, long and uneven, not from an animal or the weather. Definitely deliberate. The kind of thing you left behind when you wanted someone to know you’d been there.

His guardian’s stride didn’t break, but her head shifted slightly as they passed. She’d seen it too. Liam kept his expression still, but his senses had gone sharp. His skin prickled beneath his cloak. The air wasn’t just quiet, it was heavy, waiting. He reached up, slowly adjusting the strap of his pack like it was nothing, but his fingers brushed the hilt of his blade as they moved.

His instincts, honed on long walks through dangerous woods, on too many days spent tracking things that didn’t want to be found, told him the truth. They weren’t alone, maybe not being followed. Maybe not being watched, but something had passed through this place before them and it was recently. The trees remembered. And now he would, too.

He let the distance stretch between him and the others just enough to scan the edges of the trail again. Nothing, but the silence carried the weight of expectancy now.  He looked forward, eyes tracing the rhythm of Maya’s guardian, the shift in Ezra’s shoulders, the steady roll of Victor’s stride. They didn’t see it yet. They would and soon.

***

The forest had gone silent in a way that didn’t feel natural. Ezra rode beside Maya, keeping pace just behind her shoulder. The shadows overhead had deepened into something close and unmoving. Light barely filtered through the canopy now, dim and still, like the forest had paused to hold its breath. Ezra didn’t trust it.

The path beneath them had narrowed, growing uneven, packed earth laced with tangled roots and damp leaves. Maya rode straight-backed, silent. He could see the tension in her grip on Selene’s fur, the set of her shoulders. Whatever she’d seen in that vision, it hadn’t let go of her. Ezra kept scanning. The formation behind them remained tight, Victor to the right, Jasmine and Liam behind, Poppie not far from them. The wolves moved quietly, alert but not reacting.

Ezra could feel something beneath the surface. It wasn’t nerves, not with this group. It was an expectation. Then it happened. A flicker at the edge of his vision, too fast, too dark, and then a Shade burst from the tree line. Ezra barely had time to shout, Maya’s guardian was already shifting left, intercepting the lunge. Jasmine’s wolf veered sharply to cut off the flank. In an instant, chaos erupted.

The Shade was wrong. All teeth and shadow, its form flickering, warped with long limbs and a gaping mouth that moved without sound. It lunged again, and Ezra was off his wolf in a flash, blade drawn before his boots hit the ground. He met the thing mid-air, steel slicing across where its shoulder should have been. The impact staggered it, but didn’t drop it.

“Shade!” Jasmine’s voice rang out through the trees.

Another burst of motion behind them, more shades emerging like smoke, two, maybe three, too fast to count. The guardians reacted instantly, silver blurs leaping forward. Kara collided with one in a shower of pine needles. Torin took another down with raw mass, his wolf form hitting like stone. Ezra circled back toward Maya, watching her guardian pivot to keep her protected.

He dropped low and cut upward as a second shade dove toward Poppie. Liam was already there, intercepting with his blade. The two of them moved in sync, practiced, fluid, their rhythm built from time and trust. Jasmine drove her blade into one of the shades, twisting hard. It let out a terrible, dry crack, then scattered into ash that hung in the still air.

The last one faltered. Ezra saw it, hesitating, turning. It didn’t flee, not exactly. It withdrew, fading into the underbrush like it had never been there at all. And just like that, they were gone. The silence returned, but it was heavier now. Ezra stood still, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The others regrouped slowly, fanning into a loose circle. Maya remained mounted, her guardian still braced beneath her.

Victor stepped forward, eyes on the tree line. “They’re not supposed to be this far out.”

Ezra nodded. “The trials ended. The shades should have stayed near trial grounds.”

Jasmine flicked blood, or what passed for it, from her blade. “They didn’t.”

Ezra crouched near the base of a tree where the shade had first broken through. The ground was soft. Stirred. Recently.

“They were waiting,” he murmured. “Or they were following us.”

He looked up at the trees, still, untouched, too quiet. “Something’s wrong,” he said.

No one disagreed.

***

The ledge was larger than it looked at first, wide enough for the whole group to spread out, with a rough stone shelf backing into the tree line and a slope of broken pines dropping away into open sky. From here, they could see everything, miles of forest, distant peaks. A horizon fading into dusk. Too open for her taste, but at least it meant they couldn’t be flanked.

Jasmine stepped off her Guardian and dropped to a crouch, stretching her legs out slowly. Her wolf padded a few steps away before shifting back, silver fur folding inward, limbs reshaping. Kara was already half-changed by the time Jasmine straightened. Finn and Eira arrived behind her from a final scout loop, both wolves alert, golden eyes catching the fading light.

The others followed in silence. Victor, as usual, said nothing. Just dismounted, checked the perimeter, and began gathering dry wood. Ezra and Maya arrived together, Selene steady beneath her rider. Maya slid off in one motion and moved toward the fire without a word, the cloth-wrapped book still cradled in one arm. She looked tired, but more than that, she looked watchful. Like whatever had stirred in the forest hadn’t fully passed.

Jasmine watched as Liam slid from his mount and moved toward the edge of the ledge, his eyes scanning the treetops below. Poppie joined him a moment later. They spoke, but Jasmine couldn’t hear the words. That was fine. Jasmine didn’t feel like talking either. She turned toward the drop. Below, the forest looked like it had been painted in ink, thick, dark, and quiet. The sky above was fading to violet and steel, and beyond the black ridges, the distant line of mountains rose like shadowed teeth on the horizon.

That’s where the stronghold would be. She didn’t need to be told. She could feel it. It was a pull beneath her ribs of something old, something inevitable. She sat down on a flat rock near the cliff edge, arms braced against her knees. The stone was cold beneath clothing, but she didn’t care. Ezra dropped beside her a moment later, lowering himself with quiet precision. Not too close, not too far.

“They came fast,” she said.

He nodded once. “They moved like they knew exactly where to go.”

That was the part she hadn’t said aloud. It wasn’t just the attack. It was the way the shades had moved, deliberate, targeted, and not at random.

“They weren’t hunting,” Jasmine said.

Ezra didn’t answer right away. He picked up a loose pebble and rolled it between his fingers. “They were testing something,” he said finally, “or someone.”

That made her spine tighten. A stillness settled over them, the kind that had nothing to do with cold or wind. She looked sideways at him. His face was unreadable, but there was tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there that morning.

“What do we do with that?” she asked.

Ezra looked back toward Maya, who sat near the fire. She hadn’t opened the book, not yet, but she hadn’t let it go, either.

“We stay sharp,” he said. “And we don’t get caught off guard again.”

Behind them, the fire cracked as Victor added more wood to the small flames. Selene sat beside Maya in her human form now, speaking low. Dorian passed silently behind the line of gathered packs, checking gear without needing direction. Torin stood like a statue near the tree line, watching.

Jasmine stared out across the ledge. They were higher than she realized. The forest below dipped into rolling shadows. Somewhere beyond that, past the far hills, the stronghold waited, hidden in stone, swallowed by time.

She didn’t want to sleep, not yet, but she was tired of bracing for the next thing.

“I’ll take first watch,” she said.

Ezra didn’t argue. He never did.

ASHES OF THE FALLEN

CHAPTER ONE - THE NAME IN THE SCROLL

The wind howled like a living thing against the stones of the cliffside monastery, rattling shutters and seeping through ancient mortar as if even the sea itself was trying to find warmth. Lyra didn’t flinch. She sat cross-legged in the archive chamber’s lowest vault, ink-stained fingers hovering above parchment, her breath fogging in the cold. The room had no windows, no warmth, only stone, scrolls, and the silence of the forgotten. She preferred it that way.

Her candle burned low beside her, casting a fragile pool of light across the crumbling manuscript she’d been restoring for weeks. The ink was old, older than anything the monks trusted her to touch when she was younger. Now, at twenty-six, she was the only one still willing to do this work. Most of the brothers had long since gone blind or bent with age, their memories as faded as the texts they guarded, but Lyra remembered everything. She remembered every ink pattern, every breath of dust that lifted from a cracked scroll, and even every whisper in the stone when the wind grew cruel. Tonight, it was cruel.

She stood and stretched, her spine cracking beneath her layered linen tunic. On the far wall, rows of sealed drawers waited, untouched for decades, maybe centuries. Most weren’t labeled, some were locked, but all were sacred. Something strange had happened earlier that day. A tremor, not as strong as an earthquake, had rolled through the monastery. It was caused by a single gust of wind strong enough to shake the foundation. And when it did, one of the sealed drawers had slid open, just an inch.

Lyra stepped closer now, heart slow but steady, candle lifted in one hand. The drawer was halfway up the stone wall, worn brass etched faintly with a symbol she didn’t recognize. It wasn’t quite a script, but more of a mark. She set the candle in a niche and reached for it. It didn’t resist. Inside lay a tightly rolled scroll wrapped in faded crimson ribbon, brittle with time. A wax seal still clung to the center, barely.

She held it up to the light, brushing off dust with careful fingers. There was no inscription, just the shape of a handprint pressed into wax. A shiver traveled down her spine. She shouldn’t open it, but she would. She always did. With the precision of a scribe and the reverence of a thief, she broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. The language was unfamiliar at first, curved lines, sharp angles, something between music and a command. But as her eyes adjusted, the letters began to shift, allowing themselves to be understood.

She blinked. It was a list. A very long one. Each line bore a name. Some she couldn’t pronounce. Others stirred something at the edge of her memory. Beneath each name was a symbol, like a signature or sigil, perhaps. She skimmed down, heart quickening. There was power in this. Whatever it was, this scroll wasn’t meant to be found. It didn’t belong with the liturgical texts or even the apocryphal vaults. This was older. Older than the monastery. Older than the war between realms, she’d only ever read about in fractured myth.

Then her candle flickered, and her eyes caught it. A name near the end of the list. Her breath froze in her lungs. LYRAEL. Her knees hit the floor before she realized she’d stumbled. The scroll trembled in her hands. It was a mistake, it had to be, just a coincidence, a similar name, a trick of the mind, but beneath the name was a mark she recognized. A half-moon wrapped in thorns. She had dreamed of it her whole life, on stone walls, on her skin, on the backs of her eyelids.

She stared at the name again, feeling heat rise beneath her skin. Not just from fear, but from recognition. A part of her that had always been sleeping was stirring, stretching, awakening. Above her, the wind screamed through the cracks in the stone as if it, too, recognized her now. And far beyond the safety of the monastery, something shifted in the dark. Something was coming.

The scroll trembled in Lyra’s hands, the parchment impossibly warm for something so old. She read the name again, heart stuttering in her chest. LYRAEL. The shape of it didn’t just look familiar. It felt like hers in some deeper, unspoken way, like breath she’d forgotten how to exhale. She wanted to believe it was a coincidence. A trick of a ruined scroll. A scribe’s error. But deep down, she already knew better.

Fingers numb, she gently rerolled the parchment and slipped it into a wrap of cloth she kept for damaged texts. Her mind was already spiraling, half logic, half instinct, but her hands moved with the practiced precision of someone who’d been handling sacred words since childhood. She blew out the candle, cradled the scroll to her chest, and climbed the worn stone steps back toward her quarters, the flickering torchlight of the hallways brushing faint gold across her cheekbones. The monastery had grown still in the hour since vespers, no footfalls, no murmured prayers. Only the distant crash of sea against rock, and the wind threading through the arches like something searching.

Her room was small, with bare stone walls, a single narrow bed, a wooden chest, and a low table always cluttered with parchment and tools. She pushed the door shut with her shoulder and slid the bolt quietly into place. Then she sat, scroll unwrapped, fingers pressed against her temples. She stared at the name again. LYRAEL. It was her name, but stretched, ancient, something older than speech. She said it aloud once, softly, as if speaking it too loudly might summon something. The air didn’t shift, but something inside her did.

She exhaled slowly, set the scroll aside, and leaned back against the stone wall, legs still folded beneath her. The monks had always told her her past didn’t matter. That who she was could be rewritten through devotion. That she was found, not lost. But if this scroll was real… If this name meant what it seemed to… Then she wasn’t just found. She was hidden.

A knock on the inside of her skull pulsed once, then faded. She pressed her fingers harder against her temple, trying to will the storm inside to quiet. The monastery felt smaller suddenly and to still, like the walls were listening. She stood and crossed to the narrow window carved into the wall. Outside, night had swallowed the sea in shades of ink and silver. Clouds moved fast, as if stirred from beneath. There was no moon tonight. But there was… light. A strange shimmer, buried behind the cloud line, flickering like lightning, but there was no sound, no thunder.

Lyra narrowed her eyes. Then she saw it. A figure, dark against the cliffside path far below, barely distinguishable from shadow, cloaked, tall, unmoving. She blinked, looked again, still there. Her heart thudded in her chest, not from fear, but from a deep knowing. She yanked on her cloak, stuffed the scroll into her satchel, and slid quietly from the room. She didn’t light a candle, didn’t need to. Her feet knew the paths of this place better than they knew rest. Down the hallway, past the chapel, through the outer gate, and down the stone-cut steps to the lower courtyard.

The wind met her like a warning, tugging at her hood. The figure was still there, just beyond the last arch that overlooked the sea. Back turned to her, still as the cliff itself. She approached, slow but certain. Ten paces. Five. Two. The figure turned, a glimpse of a face beneath the hood, shadowed, masculine, eyes like a thunderstorm. Recognition flashed in them, and then he was gone, no step, no movement, just absence. Like he’d never been there at all.

Lyra’s breath caught. She stepped forward, reaching the spot he’d occupied. There, etched into the stone, glowing faintly like something cooling after being burned, was a symbol. The half-moon wrapped in thorns, fresh. She stared, stunned into stillness, until a whisper threaded through the air around her, not in her ears, but in her mind.

“You were not lost. You were hidden.”

The words weren’t hers, but they knew her very soul. The voice vanished as quickly as it came, leaving behind a silence that felt too still, too hollow. Lyra didn’t move. She stood frozen at the cliff’s edge, one hand still hovering above the strange symbol carved into the stone. It pulsed faintly, then dimmed, as if it had only ever existed in the space between moments. Between memory and magic. Between who she was and whoever she had once been. Her pulse refused to settle.

“You were not lost. You were hidden.”

The words rang again in her head, not like sound but like truth settling deep in her core. She glanced around the empty path, then down the slope toward the crashing waves below. There was no sign of the man, if he’d even been a man at all. It should have unsettled her, but it didn’t. She felt stirred, changed, but not afraid.

Lyra turned back toward the monastery, her breath shallow. The storm overhead crackled, light glinting behind the clouds like a fuse lit beneath the sky. She walked quickly but deliberately, her boots crunching over loose gravel, the satchel with the scroll pressed tight to her side. Whatever this was, it wasn’t over. It had only just begun.

When she slipped back into the monastery’s main hall, it was darker than before. The torches along the walls had gone out, odd, but not impossible. The wind had strange habits in this place. Still, it made the shadows stretch longer, and the silence more suffocating. She moved fast, keeping to the wall, winding through stone corridors that curved like veins toward the center of the structure. Toward the scriptorium, where she kept her ink and knives, her translation books, and, more importantly, her locked journal. She needed to write it all down before it blurred. Before someone else tried to take the memory from her.

The moment she opened the door to the scriptorium, she knew something was wrong. The air smelled… burned. Not the smoke and fire, smell, but pure ozone and lightning. She stepped inside. The room looked unchanged, her tools on the desk, scrolls stacked neatly, the ancient tome she’d been restoring just as she’d left it, but the mirror above her desk had cracked down the center. And carved deep into the wood, just below it, was the same symbol. The thorn-wrapped moon. Lyra swallowed hard. Someone had been here, not hours ago, mere minutes ago. And then, just at the edge of hearing, she caught something. A whisper of robes, a breath where there shouldn’t be one. She spun, heart racing, eyes sharp. No one, but the hairs on her arms, stood on end.

She grabbed her journal and dropped the scroll beside it, hands moving fast. She scribbled down what she could. She added the name, the figure, the symbol, and the voice. She didn’t even stop to breathe until the last line was inked. You were not lost. You were hidden. Her hand trembled. A low rumble rolled beneath the floor, distant, deep, something old. Lyra looked up, eyes darting to the ceiling, to the stone arch, to the trembling lantern swinging above the door.

Then everything went still, silent. But the silence didn’t feel empty anymore. She stood, every instinct screaming that something had opened tonight, and not just a drawer in the archive. The gate was creaking. Not the one built of stone and metal. The one built of secrets and sealed names. Lyra turned slowly toward the door, the last of the storm’s light flashing against the cracked mirror behind her. And in its fractured surface, for the briefest of seconds, she didn’t see her own reflection. She saw wings. Torn. Burning. Falling through stars. Then the vision was gone.

But the burn in her chest remained.

CHAPTER TWO - THE EDGE OF SILENCE

The burn in her chest pulsed again, low, steady, like the echo of a name she hadn’t spoken aloud in lifetimes. Lyra clutched the edge of the desk, knuckles white, eyes fixed on the cracked mirror. The wings were gone now. Only her reflection remained, pale and hollow-eyed in the dim light, her breath ghosting across the fractured glass. But the memory of what she’d seen clung to her skin.

Torn. Burning. Falling through stars.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She forced herself to inhale, slow and controlled, the way the monks had taught her as a girl: control the breath, control the body, control the mind. But no breath could smother the truth now. She wasn’t changing. She was remembering.

The scriptorium pressed close around her, the cold of the stone walls sinking into her bones. She backed away from the desk, the journal still lying open with her frantic scrawl:

You were not lost. You were hidden.

The lantern above the door swayed gently on its chain, creaking faintly. She frowned, glancing toward the ceiling. There was no draft or open window. The silence wasn’t complete anymore. It felt stretched, weighted, like the hush before a storm or the long, tight pause before a voice speaks. She crossed to the door, fingertips grazing the heavy wood. The cool iron bolt slid back with a faint scrape.

The hall beyond was darker than it should have been. The torchlight flickered too low, casting long, uneasy shadows along the stone. The air still tasted faintly of ozone, like a storm had passed through, yet left no sign. Cautiously, she stepped into the corridor. For a moment, she simply stood, the cold seeping up through the soles of her boots, her breath fogging faintly in the chill. She knew she should turn back, lock the door, wait for morning, pretend none of this had happened.

But her feet carried her forward, past the worn arches, past the sleeping chambers, past the chapel where the brothers would soon gather for dawn prayers. Something was pulling at her, not a sound, not a voice, but a thread tied to her ribs, tightening, guiding, calling. And as she turned a corner, she stopped dead. A figure stood in the hall ahead, tall, hooded, and eerily still.

The light caught the faint curve of a pale face beneath the hood, eyes glinting like storm light. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak, but Lyra knew, without a doubt, that he had come for her. Lyra’s fingers twitched at her side, instinct pulling her back a step, even as something inside her leaned forward. The hooded figure remained still, his gaze locked to hers.

Her throat worked around a dry swallow. “Who are you?” she managed, her voice rough.

The figure tilted his head, just slightly. Just enough for the edge of his mouth to catch the faint light. “Lyrael,” he said softly.

She flinched. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “That’s not my name.” But even as she said it, she felt the lie burn across her tongue.

The figure took one step forward. His cloak stirred faintly around his boots, not brushing the ground, but moving as if caught in a wind only he could feel. Lyra’s heart hammered, the pulse in her chest syncing to a rhythm she didn’t understand but recognized all the same.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, voice barely above a breath.

A long pause stretched between them, deep, intense. Then, quietly, like a memory, he said, “You called us.”

Her stomach lurched. She took another step back, boots scraping lightly over stone. “I… I didn’t call anyone.”

“You opened the scroll,” the figure murmured. “You spoke the name. You marked the seal.” His eyes gleamed. “You’re awake.”

Her skin prickled, every hair standing on end. She shook her head again, backing up another step. “No. No, I didn’t mean—”

“You remember,” he interrupted softly. His voice wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t kind, either. It was something much deeper, much older.

A thread tightening around her ribs, just like before. “I don’t know you,” Lyra whispered, but her chest ached. Her fingertips burned and somewhere deep in her mind, a door she hadn’t known existed began to crack open.

The figure stepped closer again, his shadow spilling long across the floor, and for the first time she realized. He wasn’t alone. Behind him, farther down the corridor, other shapes stirred. Dark figures, cloaked, and silent. Not an army, not yet, but enough. Lyra’s breath hitched. Her feet shifted, ready to turn, to run and then the figure’s hand lifted, palm open, and fingers spread.

“Lyrael,” he said softly, almost tender. “Come back to us. Come back to me.”

Lyra’s chest tightened, the burn in her ribs spreading like a slow, rising fire. The words pulsed through her, not just in her ears, but deep in the marrow of her bones, as if her blood itself recognized them. She shook her head hard, fists clenching at her sides.

“I don’t know you,” she whispered again.

But the figures behind the hooded man were already stepping forward, shapes emerging from shadow, their presence folding over the narrow corridor like the closing jaws of something ancient and patient. Her heart lurched. Her body wanted to turn, to flee, to vanish back into the scriptorium, into the bolted door, the desk, the ink-stained safety of who she thought she was, but her feet stayed rooted. Because deep inside, beneath the rising panic, a voice stirred. It wasn’t theirs, but hers, You were not lost. You were hidden.

Her breath caught, sharp and ragged. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to crush the words down, but they surged up like a wave, carrying with them fragments she couldn’t control. A battlefield of light and shadow. A voice calling her name, not Lyra, but Lyrael. Flashes of hands reaching and wings burning. She staggered back against the cold stone wall, gasping. The hooded figure watched her calmly, no rush in his stance, no threat in his voice.

“You remember,” he murmured again, softer this time. “It’s why you woke the seal.”

Seal. The scroll. Her eyes snapped open, darting to the satchel at her hip. The parchment pulsed faintly inside, as if sensing the nearness of the one who spoke. Her fingers twitched toward it.

“Don’t,” the figure warned gently. “Not here. Not now.”

The figures behind him moved closer. Their presence wrapped around her like a net. Lyra’s breath shook. She could run. She should run, but every instinct told her it wouldn’t matter. They weren’t here to drag her away. They were here because she had called them. Even if she didn’t understand how.

The figure extended his hand again. “Come back to us, Lyrael,” he said, voice low. “Before the others find you first.”

Others. Her pulse jumped. There were more. The thought hit her like a jolt, slicing through the fog. Her body surged into motion, shoving away from the wall, shoving past the first few steps of panic. “No,” she choked, stumbling back. “I… I don’t—”

A sound split the air. A roar, deep, shuddering, shaking the very bones of the monastery. The hooded figure’s head snapped up. The shadows behind him recoiled, rippling like startled animals. Lyra didn’t wait. She turned and ran down the corridor, around the curve of the stone, boots slamming over ancient flagstones, the satchel bouncing against her side, the scroll inside burning like a brand.

She didn’t look back. She didn’t have to. She could feel it. The air had thickened, electric and sharp, humming with something vast and waking. The monastery was no longer still. Something deep beneath it had begun to stir.