Whispering Ashes

Name: Whispering Ashes
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

sofabarrios17

Young Adult | Ongoing

5.0

Comment(s)

View

Chapters

In an empire where fire is law and ashes hold forbidden secrets, Asha, a young woman who pretends to be mute, is offered as a tribute to serve in the sacred temple of the Ezen. Gifted with the strange ability to read the memories hidden in the ashes, she discovers that her power goes beyond what is permitted: she can revive forgotten fragments of the past, even those buried in unrecorded wars. Under the watchful eye of Kael, a warrior who hides his own demons, Asha begins to unravel the truth about her lineage and the dark destiny that awaits her. As tension and attraction grow between them, the empire is shaken by simmering conspiracies and rebellions. But the fire that burns within Asha may be both its salvation and its doom. A ritual trial, an unexpected alliance, and a desperate escape mark the beginning of an adventure that challenges the rules of power and reveals that, in the ashes, everything can be reborn... or die forever.

Fantasy Secret relationship Multiple identities Friends to love Witch/Wizard Hidden identities

Chapter 5 The ashes that remember

Yesterday 12:45

Chapter 1 The offering of ashes

The dawn in the Heights of Nareth brought no hope. It brought smoke.

The mountains burned silently in the distance, a perpetual blaze that no one tried to put out. It was the tribute to the Greater Fire, they said. No one knew when it had started. No one remembered a time without smoke.

Asha knelt beside her mother's bed, whose sighs were as fragile as the ashes the wind carried through the hut. The woman's face, withered by fever and age, was still beautiful to Asha, not for what it showed, but for what she remembered: a strong laugh, hands that knew how to heal, a voice that told stories by the fire.

"You don't have to," her mother whispered. Her lips barely moved.

"Yes, Mother. I must." Asha took her hand, shivering and clammy. She had applied compresses all night, but the heat would not subside. Not the herbs. Not the prayers. Nothing was enough. "It's the only way to save us. To save you."

Her mother wanted to cry, but she had no tears. Only ash in her throat, like everyone else in Nareth.

Outside, the ritual horns began to blow.

Asha shuddered.

"They're coming," her mother murmured. She closed her eyes. The sun was barely peeking over the peaks, but the smoke tinged it with blood red.

She stood with determined hands. She wasn't a child. But she hadn't had time to be a woman either. Poverty in the Heights devoured the years like embers devour old logs.

She took the brown robe of the offerers. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't meant to be. Robes were meant to cover the body, erase forms, annul identity. The Greater Fire didn't take individuals. It took human ash.

Her mother opened her eyes with an effort. She raised a bony hand, and in it she held a braid of hair. Old. Brown. Woven with copper wire.

"Your girl's ribbon," she said. Her voice was more smoke than sound.

Asha took it. She tied it around her neck. Feeling an invisible burn. A weight beyond measure.

"Don't forget who you are. Even if they take your name."

Asha didn't respond. She kissed the feverish forehead and left. There was no time for tears.

In the square, the villagers were already gathering. One hundred young people, all the exact right age, all silent. Children of hunger, of smoke, of fear.

Every year, the Empire sent one of its Custodians to choose a tribute. A young man. Or a young woman. No one knew why they were taken. Some said they were turned into servants of fire. Others, that they were burned alive as offerings to fuel the sacred flame that kept the world turning. Asha didn't believe any of those stories. She believed in only one truth: whoever left, never returned.

And if she offered, her family received bread. Herbs. Charcoal. Medicine. For a whole year.

It wasn't a sacrifice.

It was a bargain.

The trumpets ceased. A column of fire crossed the sky like a flaming wound. And from the sky descended the figure of the Keeper.

He was tall, imposing, dressed in black robes trimmed with copper. His face was covered by an obsidian mask. No mouth. No eyes. No soul.

He walked without speaking. The village elders bowed down until they touched the earth. The Keeper stopped before the young. The air grew thick. The temperature rose as if the sun had suddenly descended.

One by one, he looked at them. Or so it seemed. Though no one knew what lay behind that mask. Some said the Keepers were no longer human. That they had been consumed by the memory of fire.

When he reached the middle of the line, Asha stepped forward.

"I offer myself," he said. His voice cut through the air like a knife. It didn't tremble. She didn't hesitate.

The Keeper stopped. Slowly, he raised a hand and pointed at her.

The people exhaled as one. Murmurs. Silence. Sighs.

Asha was taken.

She didn't know if it was relief or sadness she felt. She just walked, following him. The stones were hot beneath her bare feet. She didn't turn to look back. If she did, it would shatter.

The Keeper held out a sphere of fire before her. It floated. It vibrated. And without a word, he pushed her inside.

Asha crossed the fiery threshold. There was no pain. Only a flash, a deep hum, and a hollowness in her stomach.

When she opened her eyes again, she was no longer in Nareth.

She was in the bowels of the Empire.

The air was heavy, filled with resin and sweet smoke. They were in an underground chamber, lit by veins of magma that ran down the walls like living rivers. Obsidian cells floated in the air, vibrating with a language she didn't understand.

The Keeper walked across a stone bridge, and she followed. Her body began to sweat, her heart pounded. But she couldn't speak. She shouldn't ask.

At the end of the bridge, three figures waited for her. Two women with faces covered by crimson veils, and an old man with burned skin, his eyes like extinguished coals.

"This is the offerer," one of the women said, as if reading an ancient verse.

The Keeper nodded and withdrew without a word.

Asha stood alone before them.

"Name," the old man ordered.

She opened her mouth, but remembered her mother's words. And she closed her lips.

"Silence, then," said the old man. "You will be classified as "F-921."

F. For fire. Or for offering. Or for oblivion.

Asha didn't protest. She didn't tremble. She was strong. She must have been.

The women stripped her of her tunic. They washed her body with fragrant ash and marked her back with a glowing symbol she couldn't see. It hurt. But she didn't cry out.

She received a new outfit: dark linen, and an iron collar. No adornments. No soul.

That night she slept in a stone cell. With three other young women. None spoke. All trembled.

Not Asha.

She thought of her mother. Of the bread that would arrive at the hut. Of the herbs that would ease her fever.

I thought that suffering had meaning.

Outside, the eternal flame burned high above the Temple of Remembrance.

And Asha, the daughter of smoke, was beginning to understand what it meant to be a living memory.