Crown of Ash and Light, page 1
CROWN OF ASH AND LIGHT
Table of Contents
Title Page
Crown of Ash and Light
PROLOGUE
NYXARIA
NYXARIA
DRAVON
AZURA
AZURA
DRAVON
DRAVON
NYXARIA
AZURA
NYXARIA
DRAVON
STRAVOS
THERYNNA
THERYNNA
THERYNNA
STRAVOS
THERYNNA
DRAVON
DRAVON
DRAVON
AZURA
AZURA
DRAVON
AZURA
THERYNNA
THERYNNA
STRAVOS
THERYNNA
AZURA
STRAVOS
AZURA
THERYNNA
AZURA
NYXARIA
AZURA
STRAVOS
AZURA
THERYNNA
DRAVON
AZURA
DRAVON
NYXARIA
DRAVON
THERYNNA
AZURA
ELIAS
AZURA
DRAVON
STRAVOS
DRAVON
DRAVON
AZURA
FINAL ENTRY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
By
T. N. Thomas
PROLOGUE
Elyrith had known peace once. Long before the empire’s shadow spread across the land, before the fires of tyranny scorched the earth, magic thrived—not as a weapon, but as the essence of life itself. It coursed through rivers, whispered in the wind, and pulsed beneath the earth.
The Veylans, a people deeply attuned to magic, bore its mark upon their skin—glowing runes that pulsed with life, shifting with the rhythm of their power. Each rune was unique, an extension of the magic they wielded, proof of the elemental forces intertwined with their souls.
Among them, six rose above all others—the Ascendants, chosen by the elements through an ancient ritual. Once bonded to their element, their hair turned white, marking them as the faithful stewards of nature’s power: fire, water, air, earth, light, and darkness. These six were more than guardians; they were living conduits of magic itself, ensuring harmony between the elements and the world.
But balance never lasts.
The empire rose, swallowing kingdom after kingdom beneath the rule of a tyrant king and queen. Unlike the Veylans, the royal family was born without magic, and what they could not possess, they sought to destroy. To them, magic was not a sacred force—it was an uncontrollable threat.
And so, the purge began.
The Veylans were hunted like prey. Their temples were reduced to ash, their sacred texts cast into fire, and their history was rewritten as myth. The Ascendants, once revered, became the empire’s greatest targets. Betrayed and outnumbered, they fell, one by one, their sacred lineage wiped from existence.
With their deaths, magic began to fade. The empire believed they had won.
But magic does not die so easily.
Before the last Ascendant fell, she cast one final spell—a desperate act of defiance.
She split the last remnants of magic in two.
One half, she poured into the land itself, binding it deep within the Dark Forest, the last untouched corner of the world. The trees became ancient sentinels, their roots entwined with raw, untamed power. The rivers turned black and restless, swallowing those who dared cross. The creatures of the wild—wolves with amber eyes, kelpies lurking beneath the water, sirens weaving songs of doom—rose as its guardians. The forest became alive, a force of its own will, twisting and shifting, repelling all who approached with malicious intent.
The empire tried to conquer it. Their soldiers marched into its depths, only to vanish, their screams lost in the wind. No path stayed the same for long, no fire burned unless the forest allowed it. The deeper one ventured, the more the trees closed in, and the whispering voices of the past warned intruders to turn back.
It was a sanctuary. A curse. A graveyard of those who had forgotten the old ways.
The other half of her power, she entrusted to a child.
A girl, barely twelve, chosen as magic’s final vessel. The power of all six elements—fire, water, air, earth, light, and darkness—was sealed within her. But such a spell demanded a cost.
She would age... but only until she reached adulthood.
Once she grew into full strength, time would cease to hold on to her. She would never weaken or wither, but she was not immortal. She could be harmed or killed. The empire would never stop hunting her if they knew she existed.
She was the last spark in the ashes. A whisper of the past waiting to rise again.
The years passed. Then decades.
The empire thrived, unchallenged. The Veylans became nothing more than a fable, a warning told to children who dreamed of rebellion. Magic was dead. Order reigned.
And the Dark Forest became legend.
It was a place spoken of in hushed tones, a land cursed and forsaken. It was said no empire scout returned from its depths, that the trees carried voices of the lost, that the rivers ran black with the blood of fools who dared to cross.
The empire forbade its people from entering, branding it a land of death and ruin. Yet whispers persisted. Tales of shadowed figures moving between the trees, of glowing eyes watching from the darkness, of a presence deep within the forest that had never faded.
The empire believed its conquest was absolute.
But deep beneath the forest’s unyielding canopy, one remained.
The last Veylan.
The final descendant of the Ascendants.
She bore within her the power of all six elements—the last thread of a legacy nearly lost to time. Her white hair marked her as an anomaly, a ghost of the past that refused to fade.
She had watched the world change. Cities rise and fall. Generations come and go.
But she had not aged beyond her prime.
Yet she endured, hidden by the forest’s watchful eye. Sheltered by its shadows, she had survived the purge.
And she was waiting.
The empire believed magic was dead, that they had shaped the world to their will. But the winds were shifting. The balance had been broken, and the world would not remain silent. The last guardian had not forgotten the past.
And soon, neither would the empire.
Magic was never dead. It was only waiting.
NYXARIA
8 YEARS AGO
In these lands, magic had once flowed unchecked, but was now nothing but a whisper—tucked between cobblestones and buried below an empire’s fear. This morning's fog twisted around me as I walked through the town, trying to wrap me tighter in its embrace. My hood was low, my steps quiet, my presence unnoticed. I was a remnant of something the world had tried to forget, and if anyone saw what lay beneath this cloak, they would ensure I was forgotten too. This place was far from the gleaming marble towers of the capital, a quiet village nestled in the hills, where the land still whispered of magic despite the empire’s attempts to suppress it. The villagers were basic people, such as farmers, traders, and artisans. Subconsciously, even within the empire's reach, magic was a secret that no one dared to keep. My face was notably concealed by a hood pulled low, covering my white hair, which denoted me as the last individual able to wield ancient powers. The silver embroidery along the hem of my cloak glimmered faintly, almost imperceptibly, in the weak sunlight that fought through the fog. It was delicate, an intricate web of symbols woven into the fabric—symbols of the old magic of earth, fire, water, air, light, and darkness. A mark of balance. A sign that I was one of the last stewards of the world and the last person anyone would suspect to be hiding in this backwater town.
The streets were busy with traders setting up their stalls, the sharp scents of fresh bread, pickled vegetables, and cured meats hanging in the damp air. The distant clang of a hammer on an anvil echoed from a nearby forge, and a couple of children ran past me, laughing as they kicked a ball between them. It was a peaceful town, the kind of place I used to feel safe in. But now, I was a shadow, moving unnoticed among the villagers. I made my way toward the market, my steps silent on the cobblestones as I passed familiar faces. Here, no one stared at me. People didn’t question my presence in their town. They had long forgotten what I represented—what we had once been.
The market square was full of life, though quieter than those closer to the capital. A few farmers exchanged goods with traders from neighboring villages, their voices carrying through the mist. I approached a small stall tucked in the corner, run by an elderly woman with wrinkled hands and a weathered face. She was stirring a pot of something that smelled like herbs, a mixture of thyme and rosemary, and the faint scent of dried mushrooms.
“Good morning,” I said softly, my voice barely a whisper under the steady hum of the market.
She didn’t look up immediately, but sensed my presence. Slowly, her eyes flicked to my cloak, to the silver embroidery. There was recognition there, a moment of silent understanding. The empire had wiped away most memories of the past, but not all of
“How much for your rosemary?” I asked, my tone casual.
The old woman hesitated for a heartbeat, then set down the spoon she’d been using and picked up a bundle of dried rosemary from her basket. Her fingers trembled, and her gaze darted to the edge of the square. Imperial soldiers were watching over the market from their post. There was a brief moment of fear in her eyes, quickly masked.
“Two copper,” she murmured.
I didn’t hesitate. I slid the coins from my pouch, their weight grounding me as they exchanged hands. She glanced at me again, then quickly lowered her gaze to the ground as if to avoid seeing what lay beneath my hood.
"Thank you," I said, offering a faint, unspoken promise. No words were needed here.
I didn’t linger. There was no time to risk being seen, especially not in a town like this, where the eyes of the empire might be sharper than they seemed. I moved through the market, picking up the last of the supplies I needed—simple things, enough to last me for the month before I returned to the forest. Dried meats, some spare cloth, and a few small tools. No one looked twice at me. They were used to travelers like me—strangers passing through on their way to somewhere else.
I passed the last row of stalls, and I reached the dirt road leading out of the town. It would be a long walk to the edge of the forest, and my supplies were heavy in my bag, but there was no turning back now. I had lingered long enough. The wolves, the sentinels of the forest, would be waiting.
The sky overhead was gray, thick with the promise of rain, and the trees of the Dark Forest loomed on the horizon, their dark silhouettes stark against the dimming light. My cloak, its silver embroidery a silent flash of magic in the growing dusk, billowed slightly in the wind. The last reminder of a world that the empire had tried to erase.
I felt the wolves’ eyes on me, watching from the shadows. A weight I didn’t know I bore started to lighten when I saw the forest, even at a distance. Their glowing eyes flickered in the depths of the trees. The forest would protect me, as it always did. I pulled my hood tighter, the cloak flowing around me like a second skin.
I was nearly out of town, the last of my supplies clinking softly in my satchel, when I heard a faint sound—a soft whimper barely audible over the wind. It was the kind of noise that made your skin crawl, a cry of desperation that tugged at something deep within me.
I froze, listening. My heart tightened, and my breath stilled. I knew that sound. A memory from the darkest corners of my mind began to resurface, a memory I had repressed for years. Every fiber of my being was telling me to run for my life, but I followed the noise into the narrow alley between the weathered cottages. The air was thick with fog, a ghostly shroud that seemed to swallow the light, and there, hunched down in the shadows, I saw them.
A small boy, no older than seven, crouched beside a sickly girl, her face pale and drawn with fever. She lay on the cold ground in the shadows, her body trembling, too weak to even sit up. The boy was frantic, his tiny hands shaking as he held a stale loaf of bread to her lips, begging her to eat. But she didn’t move.
“Please, just take a bite,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, thick with panic. “You need to eat. Please.”
The boy was trying to be strong, but it was clear that he had no idea what to do. His sister was slipping away, and he was powerless to stop it.
I took a step forward, making my presence known. The boy looked up, his eyes wide and full of fear, his fingers tightening around the bread.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice hoarse, defensive, as if he were trying to protect his sister from the world. His eyes flicked from me to his sister, a flicker of distrust flashing through his gaze.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” I said softly, crouching in front of them. I didn’t want to scare him further. “I can help her, but I need you to trust me.”
The boy didn’t answer immediately. His small face was a mask of worry, his eyes darting back and forth, sizing me up. I wasn’t sure what he saw, but the weight of his sister’s life seemed to hang heavy in the air between us.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he nodded, though reluctantly. “Please,” he whispered. “She’s so cold. She... she won’t wake up.”
I didn’t waste any time. Gently, I lifted the girl into my arms, cradling her close to my chest. She was light—too light—for a girl that looked to be six years old, and I could feel the fever burning beneath her skin. Her breathing was shallow and ragged, but she was still clinging to life.
“Come on,” I said softly to the boy. “We need to get her somewhere safe.”
The boy nodded and scrambled to his feet, following me as I moved toward the edge of town. We didn’t speak much as we walked, but I could feel his gaze on me like he was trying to figure me out. I didn’t mind. I was used to being looked at like that, with suspicion, with caution. After all, in a world where magic was forbidden and hunted, anyone who carried it was treated with fear.
The path leading into the forest was narrow and winding. The trees loomed overhead, their shadows stretching long across the ground. As we ventured deeper into the forest, the air grew more astonishing, the scent of pine and damp earth replacing the stale smells of the village. It was as if we had crossed some invisible boundary, stepping into a realm where the rules were different—where the magic in the earth and the air pulsed with an ancient rhythm.
I could feel the pulse of the forest around me, its deep, comforting presence. It welcomed me like an old friend, and though the boy’s footsteps were tentative, he followed without protest, clutching his sister’s tiny hand tightly.
Soon, the forest cleared, and we emerged into an open field. The fog had lifted slightly, revealing the bright green grass beneath us, sparkling with morning dew. A slow-moving river meandered through the meadow, its waters clear and steady. Beyond the river, nestled in a slight dip in the land, is my cottage— my sanctuary where the forest’s magic could protect me from prying eyes.
The cottage, though humble in structure, exuded a warmth that could not be found in any of the stone halls or bustling taverns of the empire. It was the kind of place that felt timeless, as if it had grown organically from the land itself. The walls were made of smooth, pale stone that seemed to blend with the surrounding earth, while the roof, thick and thatched, stood firm against the elements. The chimney, rising from one corner of the roof, sent a steady plume of smoke swirling into the cool air, a sign of life within.
Entering the cottage felt like stepping into a different world. The large wooden door creaked open to reveal a grand entryway, with a high ceiling that gave a sense of space and freedom despite the solitude of the surrounding woods. A fire burned in a hearth on the far wall, casting a warm, flickering light across the polished stone floors. The air inside was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, herbs, and something older—something magical—that seemed to hum in the corners of the rooms.
The living area was expansive, with an assortment of furniture, most of it simple but elegant—wooden chairs with thick cushions, heavy tables adorned with vases of dried flowers and intricate carvings, and shelves lined with a vast collection of old books and scrolls. The walls, lined with shelves reaching from floor to ceiling, were filled with leather-bound volumes, some cracked and yellowed with age, others pristine and untouched. The books covered a wide range of subjects—ancient texts on magic, philosophy, natural history, medicinal remedies, and more obscure, forgotten lore. In the center of the room stood a large wooden table, cluttered with various tools, jars of dried herbs, and implements for brewing potions or crafting spells. Due to the extensive scarring on every surface of the table, it is apparent that this was the centerpiece of the cottage while studying, healing and reflection throughout the generations.
To the side of the room was a spiral staircase leading up to a loft where an even grander collection of books and artifacts was stored. Along with a series of workbenches and a large window that looked out over the vast, sprawling forest, the ceiling above was high, with exposed beams and lanterns that swayed gently with the movement of the air, casting soft, golden light on everything below.
The bedroom where I laid the girl was tucked away in a far corner of the house, behind a wooden door carved with intricate designs of animals and plants. The bed itself was large, with a frame of dark wood and thick, soft linens that looked as though they could easily accommodate two or more people. A large window sat above the bed, offering a view of the darkening sky and the treetops swaying in the wind. The room was far from sparse—rich tapestries hung on the walls, depicting scenes of nature and magic, and a large rug lay across the stone floor, soft underfoot.
