Ashborn Chapter 7
Some truths are buried for a reason. The Ashborn were never gone, only hidden.
Morning came way too soon. And yet not soon enough.
I was already up and dressed before the sun had even brushed the towers. My feet knew where to go before my brain did, carrying me through hushed corridors to the Archives. I hadn’t even bothered with breakfast. I just needed answers.
Of course, the heavy door was locked.
I stood in the low glow of the wall sconces, arms crossed, pacing the cold, stone floor like a caged animal. I checked my watch. Five-thirty.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Thirty.
I tapped my fingers against my thigh. Checked again.
Only five minutes.
I could burn this door down, I thought. Veyrakh would approve.
Just as my patience was about to snap, I heard slow, uneven footsteps, like someone deliberately dragging one foot to annoy me. The archivist, an elderly man with glasses and a suspiciously spry step, rounded the corner.
Trailing him was a younger woman struggling under an armful of scrolls threatening to rebel.
“Ah!” the archivist said brightly. “You’re here to study?”
“There are some things I want to learn,” I replied. I paused, then decided to rip the bandage off. “I overheard some people mentioning the term Ashborn, and I was curious.”
His assistant stopped so suddenly a scroll slipped free and thunked to the floor. Her eyes widened. “Ashborn?” she echoed. “I’ve heard of them. No one believes they’re real.”
The archivist’s expression didn’t change—at first. But there was a flicker, subtle and brief. Something behind his eyes shifted: recognition. Maybe alarm.
“I see,” he said slowly. “I’ve not heard that term in a very long time.”
“I just want to know what it means. If it’s real. If it ever was.”
He nodded once. “Follow me. Sanya, please lock the doors. And see that we are not disturbed.”
Without waiting, he turned and walked briskly toward the back of the room.
We passed rows of neatly cataloged scrolls, tomes, and relics. The air smelled like aged parchment and dusted stone, layered with something floral. Maybe Sanya’s perfume. Somewhere overhead, gears ticked behind a wall panel, regulating moisture. I hadn’t been down this far before. Few were allowed.
“We’ll have to go deeper into the secure archives,” he said. “This subject is not meant to be studied by the wrong people. Some may think it is romantic. Others believe it to be dangerous.”
“Which do you believe?” I asked.
He smiled faintly. “That depends on what you plan to do with what you learn.”
The room we reached was narrow and quiet. No windows. Thick walls and low ceilings. He handed me a pair of gloves. “To protect the materials.”
Then he showed me the microfilm reader and left without another word.
I spent most of the day buried in ancient scrolls and cracked, faded transcripts. Myth layered on myth, all circling the same impossible truth:
The Ashborn.
Women bonded to dragons. Not through the Crucible. Not with the approval of the Order or the Empire. Intimately. Not metaphor, not symbolism. The scrolls were explicit: some fought the connection, others surrendered willingly. Some... fell in love.
Most of their stories ended the same way: in flame.
The children born of such unions were powerful. Too powerful. The kind of strength that bent natural law. The records didn’t use the word "magic," but it was close. Kingdoms rose around them—then crumbled beneath the weight of their legacy. Laws were etched into stone to forbid the practice, to sever the possibility.
But the scrolls whispered what the laws denied: the Ashborn were never gone. Just hidden. Waiting.
No single trait marked the women. No bloodline, no birthplace. Some were noble. Some were farmers’ daughters. Some were already Riders.
Back before the Crucible became a spectacle—before it was a proving ground for highborn girls and their carefully bred dragons—the bonds were wild. Uncontrolled. The empire feared them, so it contained them.
There was power here. And someone wanted it erased.
More laws were passed around the same time the Ashborn bond was made illegal to forbid dragons from transforming into humanoid forms. Shifting into human form was considered to be subversive and treasonous. The penalty was death. It went on to say that any human who knowingly consorted with a dragon in human form would be subject to treason charges and execution.
I read until my eyes ached, and my stomach growled. The archivist and Sanya had brought food throughout the day. I’d picked at it absently, nibbling bites with one hand while turning scrolls with the other. I couldn’t remember what I’d eaten. Bread? Cheese? Something warm at one point. It hadn’t mattered.
When I finally resurfaced, the light outside the tiny basement window had shifted into gold. I searched for a first-person account. Perhaps a journal, a letter, a record of memory. Anything. I wanted a name. A voice.
There was nothing.
Either the Ashborn never wrote anything about their experiences, or their words had been scrubbed.
At one point, I leaned back, rubbed my eyes, and muttered, “Maybe I just bonded with a juvenile with too much attitude.”
Veyrakh didn’t reply. He was quiet all day, but not absent. I could feel him, like a heartbeat at the base of my skull.
Still there. Still watching.
What had I gotten into?
When I finally left, I thanked the archivist and Sanya for their help. He gave me a quiet smile.
“Be careful what doors you open,” he said. “Some don’t like to be closed again.”
I left the Archives deep in thought, the words still spinning in my head as I moved through the corridors. I barely noticed the turns. My mind was ten steps behind my feet.
So, I didn’t see the man until I physically walked into him.
The man in the black robes.
Only now, he wasn’t wearing them. Just a pair of perfectly tailored slacks and a button-down shirt. Less threatening. More deliberate.
“Ah,” he said, grabbing my wrist before I could dodge. “I’ve been hoping to see you today.”
“I’m sure you have,” I muttered.
“Didn’t see you at meals.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I added, jerking at my hand. “You seemed pretty cozy with Lady Ageli.”
“We are to be wed.” His voice was flat. Final.
“Congratulations.”
He smiled thinly. “But this isn’t about that.” He leaned in slightly. “I’ll cut to the chase. I’m interested in your dragon.”
My spine straightened. “What about him?”
He cocked his head. “He’s... different. Unusual.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s a twelve-year-old boy,” I said flatly.
His brows rose. “Really.”
“I have four younger brothers. The twins just turned twelve before the Crucible began. I know the way they talk.” I flashed what I hoped was a charming, disarming smile.
He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Charming. And dangerous.”
“Am I free to go?” I asked.
His grip loosened. “For now.”
I stepped back fast and walked away faster, refusing to let him see the shake in my hands until I’d turned the corner.
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