The corridor outside the Crimson Scale guest wing smelled faintly of incense and polished stone, the air heavy with the kind of ceremonial stillness Kaelric preferred when the Courts gathered, the tall windows letting in bands of afternoon light and the banners of the Crimson Scale Court hanging in perfect, oppressive symmetry. The polished marble floors made the sound of his own boots striking the floor seem sharper than usual, an irritation he did not bother hiding.

Kaelric stood rigid in the center of the hall, every line of his posture sharp with restrained fury. The formal deep red and black dress uniform of the Crimson Scale Court suited him too well, the high-collared coat trimmed in gold thread, the silver scale-work at the shoulders marking his rank as High Warden. His hands were clasped behind his back, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

Tharion stood opposite him, also in uniform, though his coat hung open as though the only reason he had donned the uniform was because he had been ordered to. His stance lacked the rigid perfection his father demanded.

“You defied a direct order,” Kaelric said quietly. The quiet was worse than shouting. “You will explain to me,” Kaelric continued, voice low but edged like drawn steel, “what possessed you to disgrace yourself in front of the Order.”

Tharion did not answer immediately. His jaw was tight, eyes forward, posture rigid in the way that meant he was holding his temper by force.

“You participated in a human Ceremony. You bound yourself to a Rider candidate like a common hatchling desperate for approval.”

Tharion’s expression stayed neutral, but his shoulders tightened.

“It was not like that.”

“It was exactly like that.”

Kaelric stepped closer.

“You are Crimson Scale. You are heir to this Court. You do not kneel to human rituals, and you do not—”

“I bonded,” he said at last.

“You disobeyed.”

“I chose.”

“You chose beneath your station.”

Tharion’s hand curled slightly at his side, but he did not turn his head.

Kaelric continued, each word measured. “The Ceremony exists for lesser lines. For provincial Courts. For dragons who need human alliances to maintain relevance. Not for the Crimson Scale. Not for my son.”

His words cut off.

Tharion’s gaze had shifted past him, flicked down the corridor, then stopped.

Kaelric turned, irritated, ready to snap and saw a young woman walking down the corridor toward them, completely out of place.

A young woman in jeans.

She did not belong there.

Not in the Crimson Scale palace, not in the Council wing, and definitely not during the month of the Council of the Thirteen Courts.

She wore jeans. Actual jeans. Slightly faded, slightly torn at one knee. A hooded knit fleece jacket hung open over a T-shirt with a bright, loud logo of some human music group Kaelric vaguely recognized from the younger servants’ chatter. Her trainers were scuffed, the soles dusty as if she had been walking outside.

She looked completely at ease, looking around as she walked, not with the nervousness of someone lost, but with the casual curiosity of someone who assumed she belonged wherever she happened to be.

Kaelric frowned.

Tharion had gone very still.

The girl stopped halfway down the hall, her face lighting in relief.

She strode past Kaelric and Tharion as if they were furniture.

Two boys came barreling out of a side passage at the same moment, both laughing, both trying to wipe something off their faces with their sleeves. School aged, not yet adolescents, both dressed in cargo pants and bright graphic T-shirts with characters Kaelric vaguely recognized from human children’s shows printed across the front. One had chocolate frosting smeared across his cheek. The other had blue icing on his nose and fingers.

The younger boy tried to wipe the frosting off his face with his sleeve, only making it worse.

“You two raided the Kitchens again, didn’t you? You said you weren’t going to take them,” the girl said in Sylphic, grabbing the younger one by the shoulder and turning his face toward the light.

They said nothing.

“That’s what I thought. Go inside before someone important sees you.”

Both boys froze.

“…too late,” one muttered.

The girl glanced down the hall and finally noticed Kaelric and Tharion standing there.

She blinked once, then gave them a quick, polite, completely unbothered nod.

“Evening.”

Kaelric stared.

Silence hung in the corridor for a long moment.

Kaelric slowly turned his head toward his son. “Do you recognize that girl.”

Tharion did not look at him right away, hesitating only a fraction too long.

“…yes.”

Kaelric’s eyes narrowed. “Who.”

Tharion exhaled once. “My Rider.”

Kaelric’s expression hardened.

“…Velara.”

The name sat in the air for a moment like a thrown blade.

Kaelric’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze snapping to the young woman and two boys walking away from them, already halfway down the long corridor.

“If I recall correctly,” he said, “the Flight Lord has a daughter named Velara.”

Tharion finally turned his head, his face completely neutral. Then shook his head.

“Her name is Brenwick.”

Kaelric watched him, saying nothing.

“There are thousands of girls named Velara,” Tharion added. “Born around the time the treaty was signed twenty-five years ago.”

A long pause.

Kaelric looked back down the corridor, where the girl and the two boys had just disappeared around the corner. His jaw tightened.

“There is a formal dinner tonight,” he said. “The Council opens tonight. Every Court will be present. Every Flight. Every delegation.”

“I know.”

“And I will not have the Crimson Scale Court embarrassed because my son chose to bring… that… into this palace.”

Tharion said nothing.

“She will not be wandering the halls of Crimson Scale palace in human street clothes while the Thirteen Courts gather under my roof.”

Tharion said nothing.

Kaelric’s eyes flicked toward the suite again and his voice went colder.

“I want them gone before the formal dinner.”

Silence.

“That is not a suggestion.”

Kaelric watched him go for two seconds… then followed.

***

Velara and the boys had turned not into the guest wing the High Wardens and their families or even the guest wing of the delegation staffs of the High Wardens, but into the guest wing reserved for either very high ranking personnel or very large families. But large families only if there were no high ranking personnel present.

Tharion stopped in front of a wide double door that stood slightly open.

He did not knock.

He pushed it the rest of the way and stepped inside.

The noise hit him first.

Kaelric came in behind him. And stopped dead.

Gunfire and explosions came from a massive wall-mounted screen where three teenage boys were sprawled across a couch and the floor, controllers in hand, locked in a first-person shooter game. The volume was turned up to what sounded like actual battlefield level, high enough the walls seemed to vibrate.

Shouting.

“Left! LEFT!”

“I AM LEFT!”

“You just shot me!”

“That was your fault! You ran in front of me!”

A preteen girl lay sideways across an armchair nearby, one leg hanging over the side, completely ignoring the chaos. She had a book propped open in one hand. She absently reached into a bowl of dried fruit and nuts balanced on her stomach, eyes never leaving the page, completely unconcerned with the chaos.

Open backpacks, unmatched shoes, jackets, and what looked like half a dozen snack wrappers were scattered across every surface. Clothes were draped over chairs. A half-empty plate of something sticky sat on top of a stack of travel cases.

Kaelric heard the sound of running water and the protests of a pair of young boys getting their faces scrubbed.

No one noticed the two uniformed men standing in the doorway.

Kaelric stopped beside his son, standing in the doorway for several long seconds, taking in the noise, the mess, the complete lack of order. Slowly, very slowly, his gaze moved across the room from the boys on the floor, to the girl in the chair, to the discarded bags, to the television still screaming gunfire into the room.

His expression hardened with every second.

Tharion, beside him, did not move.

There was no sign of any adult.

No one in charge.

Kaelric stared in silence, his expression somewhere between disbelief and rising fury.

His voice, when it came, was dangerously quiet.

“…what,” he said, “is this.”

Velara blinked as she walked back into the room. “…a suite?”

Kaelric’s jaw tightened. “This is the guest wing of the Crimson Scale palace. It is not a playground. It is not a barracks. And it is certainly not a place for—” he gestured sharply at the room, “—whatever this is.”

One of the boys on the floor leaned sideways, squinting at the screen as he mashed buttons on the controller.

“Malther, you’re blocking the—”

“I am not—Rhaelor, you ran straight into—”

“That was the enemy—”

“That was me!”

“You look like the enemy!”

“You always look like the enemy—”

Kaelric stepped fully into the room.

“That will be enough.”

No one reacted.

A grenade exploded on the screen.

The sound rattled the glass in the cabinet. The screen flashed red.

The preteen girl in the chair turned a page, popped a dried apricot into her mouth, and kept reading.

Kaelric’s voice sharpened.

“I said that will be enough.”

Still nothing.

One of the boys on the floor glanced over his shoulder without pausing the game.

“Velara,” he said. “Did you invite people?”

Velara, who had just come in behind Tharion, stopped near the table and folded her arms.

“No.”

Another explosion.

The older of the two boys who had nicked the pastries leaned over the back of the couch staring openly at Kaelric.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Kaelric went very still.

Tharion closed his eyes briefly.

Velara pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile that she knew she should not have.

“Draemir.” Velara’s voice held a warning.

Thalvor climbed onto the arm of the couch beside his brother.

“He looks like a parade.”

Velara pressed her lips together again.

“Guys,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to sound serious. “Behave.”

Rhaelor finally glanced back toward the door, controller still in his hands.

“Is he staff?”

Kaelric’s eyes flashed.

“I am not staff.”

Joren snorted without looking away from the screen.

“Then why is he yelling like staff.”

Malther nodded.

“Yeah, the staff yelled like that when we tried to bring the hoverboard inside.”

“That was because you hit the wall.”

“That wall moved.”

“It did not move.”

“It moved a little.”

Kaelric drew himself up to his full height, the air in the room seeming to tighten with the force of his presence.

“You will all be silent.”

No one was silent.

Cyrelei turned another page.

Draemir picked at the frosting still stuck to his sleeve.

Thalvor slid off the couch and wandered toward the snack bowl.

On the screen, someone got shot again.

“Volume.” Velara stated.

Malther groaned but reached for the remote and hit a button a few times. The explosions dropped from battlefield to merely obnoxious.

Rhaelor kept playing anyway.

“Don’t pause it, don’t pause it, don’t—”

“You already died.”

“I didn’t die, I was respawning—”

“You ran into the wall for ten seconds.”

“That was tactical.”

Velara looked at her brothers, then at the girl in the chair.

“Cyrelei.”

Cyrelei lowered the book just enough to look over the top of it.

“Yes.”

“Company.”

Cyrelei looked at Kaelric for a long moment, expression completely neutral.

“…huh,” she said, and went back to reading.

Velara rubbed her forehead, then turned back to Kaelric, folding her arms again.

“Sorry,” she said, completely casual. “We just got here. Nobody’s unpacked yet.”

Kaelric stared at her as if she had just spoken in a foreign language, his eyes sweeping the suite, taking in the chaos with a precision that made the boys freeze for a fraction of a second before shrugging it off. He squared his shoulders, letting every ounce of his authority radiate through his posture.

“I am—” he started, his voice deep and controlled, every word deliberate. “I am Kaelric. High Warden of Crimson Scale Court. You will cease this—”

“Who’s the clown?” Joren interrupted without missing a beat, gesturing at Kaelric with the controller still in his hand.

Malther laughed, picking up the sentiment instantly. “Yeah, what’s your deal, sir?”

Kaelric’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t used to being talked over, especially not by children half the size of him. He straightened further, a vein in his neck beginning to pulse.

“This is my palace. You are making a mockery of it.”

Joren and Malther exchanged a look, muttered something under their breaths about “annoying giant lizard guy.”

Rhaelor glanced up from where he was crouched on the floor, holding a half-eaten pastry, and shrugged.

Kaelric’s expression remained thunderous, though. “You will address me with respect. Every single one of you. Now. Immediately. What are your names?”

The three boys, undeterred, responded in quick succession.

“Joren,” the oldest said, still half-focused on the console.
“Malther,” the middle one added, nudging a stray controller with his foot.
“Rhaelor,” the youngest muttered, chewing on another pastry.

Cyrelei, perched neatly on the edge of the sofa with a book balanced in her lap, looked up and offered, “Cyrelei,” her tone polite but entirely uninterested. She returned to her page as soon as she had spoken.

Draemir and Thalvor, the pastry culprits, exchanged guilty glances. Draemir said simply, “Draemir.” Thalvor, who was still hanging upside down off the couch, added, “Thalvor.”

Kaelric’s shoulders stiffened further. He opened his mouth, exhaled slowly, and tried again. “Enough of this chaos. You will organize yourselves and—”

“Or what?” Joren asked, leaning back with a grin. “You going to make us?”

Velara, sensing the situation teetering on absurdity, put a hand on her hip and gave Kaelric a pointed look. “

Kaelric’s eyes narrowed, and Tharion’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of amusement.

Kaelric folded his hands behind his back and looked at the disaster occupying the guest suite.

“You will have this under control before dinner,” he said, his eyes finding his son.

Velara raised an eyebrow.

One of the boys shouted that someone had blown up the objective again.

Cyrelei turned another page.

Tharion did not move.

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Ashborn - Lucy Greydell

This is a story about selection.

About what happens when institutions claim the power to decide who is worthy—and refuse to explain their criteria.

Ashborn is a work of speculative fiction focused on ritualized evaluation, public judgment, and the psychological consequences of surviving systems designed to appear impartial. Advancement is scarce. Failure is quiet. Success carries its own cost.

Ashborn – Definitive Edition Now Available

Ashborn, the opening novel of The Shadow Lineage, is now available in its complete, definitive edition.

This version consolidates and finalizes the story’s canon, establishing the political and psychological foundations of the series.

Read the full novel here: Ashborn

What Happens Here Next

This space will continue to host:

• Original short stories set within the world

• Developing arcs and exploratory installments

• Future serialized material as it enters active progression

The novel now stands in its finalized form. Ongoing work will expand the lineage forward.

Thank you for reading and for following the evolution of this world.

Buy Ashborn $2.99

Excerpt of the first chapter:

The author, writing under the pen name Lucy Greydell, holds graduate degrees in theology and business, and is currently pursuing a master’s degree in entertainment business.

This background informs the story’s focus on ritual, authority, and institutional legitimacy—but the work stands on its own.

“Well, if it isn’t Witchwake herself.” Jessa Varnell’s voice cut like a knife.

I kept my eyes on the Soldiers surrounding the arena as we marched into the ceremony. Their ceremonial armor, replicas of uniforms worn centuries ago, gleamed dully in the waning light of the evening. The weapons they wielded, with the embedded relics and runes: the swords, lances, maces, and projectile-launching contraptions, resembled the ancient weapons rumored to be capable of killing dragons, should that prove necessary.

We all knew the real weapons were out of sight of the ceremony, which had been performed every decade, unchanged for thousands of years, down to what everyone wore.

I shuddered at the thought of what might happen if the real weapons were deployed.

Twelve runes were deeply etched into the worn, blackened stone floor of the arena. Precisely cut gems were embedded in each rune, surrounding the center of the arena. A sphere made of a dull, dark metal levitated in the center of that circle of runes, rotating over a polished marble column which served as the base. Rows of stones encircled the sides of the column under the sphere.

In turn, each Aspira would touch the sphere. If the sphere finds that she is worthy, it will light up and release a stone. We have been told that it is not uncommon for a good number of Aspiras to make it through the Crucible and still not receive a stone.

Please let me be found worthy. I thought. The embarrassment of failing this last test and being ushered from the arena before the dragons arrive for the bonding ceremony would forever brand me as unworthy in Varnell’s eyes.

Tremors under my boots from what must have been the movement of the dragons being released from containment nearly knocked me off balance.

This is it. I kept my eyes forward, steadying my breath as I felt the tremors pulsing through the stone. Varnell’s voice lingered in my ears.

Focus, I told myself. You can’t afford to lose now.

The Wardens came forward to stand in front of us Aspiras. Their worn leather armor, heavy with relics and sigils, belied thousands of battles stretching back millennia. Their sharp, unreadable eyes sized us up like prey. One Warden, an elder with silver hair, stepped to a round, flat stone just by the sphere. A second Warden, younger, took her place beside the first, carrying a crystal bowl filled with twenty small stones, each emblazoned with the name of an Aspira.

“You will be called one by one.” The younger of the Wardens stirred the stones in the bowl. “You will either touch the sphere and accept the fate, whether it accepts you or declares you unworthy, or you may decline to touch the sphere. If you are found not worthy or decide to decline this final test, you will be immediately removed from the arena.”

“Aspira Miraen Walzt,” The elder Warden read the name from the first stone pulled.

Walzt stepped out of the formation and to the stone. She rendered a smart salute to the Warden before hesitantly reaching her fingers to the sphere. After an interminable time, her fingertip made contact with the sphere. The sphere remained dark for a long moment. Just as she had given up, a stone began to glow. She ran her fingers over the stone, and it fell out of the column, into her hand.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding as she stepped behind the formation, smiling, as she shifted from attention to parade rest.

“Aspira Claudet Felint,” The voice rang out over the arena.

Felint confidently broke ranks and marched to the Warden, saluting her. She had been near the top of the rankings for all the training sessions of the Crucible over the last two months. Felint didn’t hesitate, placing her hand fully on the orb.

Nothing.

The sphere didn’t flicker. Didn’t glow.

“Come on.” A gritted whisper.

In the formation, fingers crossed and echoes of Felint’s “Come on” pulsed through the nineteen women.

Still nothing.

A Warden stepped forward and pulled Felint from the orb. Two Soldiers flanked her and swiftly escorted her from the arena.

The Warden’s face held a flicker of shock as she pulled the next stone, handing it to the elder. “Aspira Talen Malak”

Malak’s face blanched. Felint had been one of the best, with some of the highest scores. Well, Felint and Varnell had been neck and neck.

Malak ranked near the bottom of the group. If Felint had been rejected, Malak knew she had no hope.

Dragging her boots on the stone, she moved as someone going to her execution. Trembling, she saluted the elder Warden and reached her hand to the sphere.

“Go on, touch the Sphere.”

“I…I can’t” Tears welled up in Malak’s eyes as her voice trembled, barely above a whisper.

“You refuse?” The statement from the Warden was gentle, softly encouraging.

“I…I just can’t” She dropped her hand, stepping back. “I don’t...don’t feel like I’d be worthy.” Her voice cracked.

“Understood.” The Wardens’ faces were soft.

Two Soldiers flanked her protectively as they escorted her through the gates leading out of the arena.

One by one, each Aspira stepped to the Sphere as the Warden called her name. Some stepped forward with trembling hands and were granted a stone. Most Aspiras hesitated, slowly reaching to the Sphere, though a few showed no such doubt. Several had touched the stone only to be met with silence, escorted away between silent Soldiers. A handful never touched it at all, their fear outweighing their hope. For those who never touched it, their burden would linger, always wondering if they would have been found worthy had their fear and doubts at that moment not stayed their hand.

Two name stones remained in the bowl. The five Aspiras who had claimed their stones from the Sphere stood behind the last two candidates: Jessa Varnell and Dareya Calderin.

“Give up, already, Calderin.” Varnell’s voice beside me was soft, barely above a whisper, but it dripped with poison. “You don’t belong. Your presence is embarrassing both to yourself and to the Order.”

“When a dragon chooses, it won’t care your pedigree.” My voice was low, but steady.

Varnell laughed, cold and sharp. “Oh, but dragons do sense weakness. And desperation.” She raised her voice slightly, pitching it to the highborn audience behind them. “Watch closely. Our little frontier girl is about to learn the hard way.”

Titters rippled through the five women holding stones.

“Jessa Varnell.” The Warden glared in Varnell’s direction. Varnell looked to the Warden, her eyes flaring with false innocence, her smirk never faltering.

“Aspira Jessa Varnell.” The Warden’s voice rang out again, sharp and clear across the arena, her eyes locking on Varnell, her stare daring her to try something clever.

Varnell stepped forward, all grace and arrogance. Her movements were those of a woman certain of her fate. She gave the Warden a clipped salute and, without hesitation, placed her hand on the Sphere, practically slapping it down.

Nothing.

Seconds passed.

Then a hesitant flicker from below a finger as an amber glow spidered across the Sphere.

A stone glowed a brilliant blue as it dropped into Varnell’s waiting hand. She triumphantly held up her stone, basking in the approval of the waiting crowd.

“Try not to cry when it stays dark.” She murmured, shoulder checking me, her smile a knife.

But heat coiled behind my ribs. I didn’t dare flinch, although each breath felt shallow, unsatisfying.

Now only one name stone remained.

The tremor beneath my boots grew stronger. The dragons were fast approaching the arena.

And the Wardens had not yet called my name.

Read Ashborn, the foundational volume of The Shadow Lineage:

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