A Realm of Fire and Ash

A REALM OF FIRE AND ASH AGGONID’S REALM KATHY HAAN Edited by JESSICA RYN This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 by Kathy Haan All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For more information, email [email protected]. ISBN 979-8-9855077-7-5 (eBook) ISBN 978-1-960256-01-0 (paperback) First edition March 2023 Book cover design by Asterielly Art Published by Thousand Lives Press, LLC To those who grew up despising love triangles and tossing books across the room, shouting, "Why can't she have them both?" This one's for you, because in this story, not only can she have both, but she can have ‘em all. Eventually. CONTENTS 1. Chapter One Morte 2. Chapter Two Morte 3. Chapter Three Morte 4. Chapter Four Morte 5. Chapter Five Morte 6. Chapter Six Aggonid 7. Chapter Seven Morte 8. Chapter Eight Morte 9. Chapter Nine Caius 10. Chapter Ten Caius 11. Chapter Eleven Morte 12. Chapter Twelve Azazel 13. Chapter Thirteen Morte 14. Chapter Fourteen Morte 15. Chapter Fifteen Morte 16. Chapter Sixteen Morte 17. Chapter Seventeen Morte 18. Chapter Eighteen Morte 19. Chapter Nineteen Morte 20. Chapter Twenty Morte 21. Chapter Twenty-One Morte 22. Chapter Twenty-Two Aggonid 23. Chapter Twenty-Three Morte 24. Chapter Twenty-Four Aggonid 25. Chapter Twenty-Five Aggonid 26. Chapter Twenty-Six Caius 27. Chapter Twenty-Seven Morte 28. Chapter Twenty-Eight Morte Acknowledgments About the Author 29. Chapter One Bedlam Moon (Book One, Bedlam Moon Trilogy) Also by Kathy Haan CHAPTER ONE MORTE Convectus A phoenix 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,