Page 1 of A Realm of Fire and Ash

CHAPTER ONE

MORTE

Convectus

Aphoenix rises from the ashes of her remains. A symbol of rebirth, and a promise of the return of the gods. I remember the myths, but I don't believe. Not anymore.

The first time I died, I was a toddler. Trapped underground in Castanea—our world below the realm of Bedlam—my mother didn't have access to the life-saving medicines of the surface, and I'd been struck with the same fae fever that had swept through our colony via the trees.

My mother had wept as she watched me writhe in sweat-drenched sheets in our one-room treehouse high atop a canopy. The sickness came on fast and strong, devouring my body until it withered to nothing. Two months later, long after they'd buried me beneath a willow, my name carved into its trunk, I'd crawled into her bed, asking for a cup of water.

It takes minutes to resurrect now.

The Tolden—the name of my people in Castanea—thought I was a child of the gods. A gift. The sickness could've kept me, but it didn't. Instead, it left a mark on my soul, a sign that I was theirs. For hundreds of years, I lived in fear they would come for me as they did every other child. I'd embraced the nights and hated the days. In the shadows, I discovered a different kind of beauty, while the brightness of the sun revealed its own terrors. The sickly yellow light of day was the burning of my flesh. The cold, dark night offered me safety.

That'd been millennia ago. I no longer live in fear, having spent thousands of years rising from the ashes. And I no longer believe I belong to the gods. I am my own person, writing my own destiny.

As there was, and always should be, a new beginning. That's my battle cry. A promise I made to myself, to my friends, and to the realm. It was the reason I lived: to rise again, to protect the innocent, and to bring justice to the wicked.

As a fresh gust of wind blows against the windows of my treehouse, I slide my bed a little to the left and feel along the floorboards until I find one with raised corners. After unscrewing the flooring, I pull out a wrapped bundle of well-worn letters. I bring the stack to my face, inhaling its musty scent of ink and parchment that stirs the memory of a distant ocean. The smell overwhelms me, crashing against my senses like a raging tide, bringing with it the roar of waves, the salty tang of the foam and the far-off horizon of an endless sea.

But even beyond all of that, all these years later, I can still breathe in the scent of Wilder and all those days we spent together before he left. Our best days were spent far beneath the surface, exploring the depths of the ocean where the light never reaches. Days when we'd forget about the war that waged above us and just revel in each other's company. But those days were long gone.

And now, there are no more letters. No more visits. No more combing beaches for shells, making out under the stars, or sneaking in and out of Castanea.

I've only got a graveyard of memories and these scraps of dead trees tattooed with his sweet words to keep me company now. This morning, I’d needed a glimpse of them more than ever. No part of today is going to be easy, as it’s an anniversary of sorts. Almost two hundred years since I’ve seen his face. Two thousand since the day he told me he loved me.

I take one last deep breath of the bundle's scent before tucking it away and standing up from the floorboards, just as my house begins to shudder.

I hurry to the doorway, peering out at my second-in-command. For a phoenix fae, Noct sure doesn't have a quiet tread. She rushes down the footbridge to my treehouse, shaking the entire structure with her bounding steps. Despite my annoyance at her quaking the whole place, I can't help but admire her beauty.

When she shifts, she becomes a two-headed phoenix. However, in her fae shape, Noct appears as a striking figure with one head—like the rest of us—and her maroon hair falls in gentle waves down her back. Despite her unnatural beauty, her strength and power are evident, emanating from her very being. Her silver eyes are bright and piercing, with a keen intelligence that marks her as a warrior, ready to defend her people at a moment's notice.

It's rare she and I have the same two days off in a row, and we plan on practicing shifting from our fae forms to our phoenix forms while in-flight. We're going to do it just below the cave walls to give us an even bigger challenge.

As I open the door, Noct greets me with an excited grin so wide it nearly touches her pointed ears. She’s dangling a flask between two fingers. "Look what I brought!" She pushes her way inside. But as she turns around to get a better look at me, her smile fades, replaced by a look of concern etched deeply into her features. "You okay, Morte?" she asks, her voice laced with worry.

I can see the concern in her eyes; feel the warmth of her hand on my arm. But I can't find it in me to smile.

Not today.

"Yeah." I grab my bag by the door and sling it over my shoulder. "Just thinking about him."

No one knows the details. Just that the man I love is someone I can never be with.

I can still remember the first letter Wilder gave me. He'd been nervous all day, fidgeting and avoiding eye contact. But finally, as the sun was setting, he stopped me before I could fly away and handed me a small envelope with my name written in scrolling ink. I’d flown to the top of a nearby oak tree and read the letter, tears streaming down my face as he confessed the depth of his love for me, but how his kind can only be with theiranchor.

It's their version of a soul-bonded mate, and I wasn't his.

It'd wrecked me, knowing we could never be lovers or anything more than best friends. Still does. Especially after what he did for me.

For us.

But the letters he sent me every week were something to look forward to, something to tide us over until we saw each other again on the weekends. I cherished each and every one, reading them over and over until the paper was worn thin. And even though we were only apart for a few days at a time, it was hard. It was always hard. But we made it work because that's what best friends do.

Even if I was his anchor, I made a huge mistake. One I've spent my life trying to correct.

I step out of my treehouse, the cool air ruffling through my hair, carrying with it the scent of ash and smoke from last night's bonfire we'd had by the river as a squadron.

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