Ashes of the Rift (The Riftreach #1)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Evandra

In my dream, I was always a child again, cradled in my Papa’s arms as we fled from the roar of wild flames.

Over the years, I’d come to believe it wasn’t just a dream but a memory—a fragment of the night my mother died.

Though I could have sworn something felt different last night.

Somewhere in the flame, there was a presence…

ancient, aching, like it knew me. And stranger still—it felt like it was waiting.

Like a thread pulled tight across time, humming in the dark, not yet tied… but tethered.

I glanced out my sole bedroom window at the town below. On mornings like this, when the dew clung thick to the rooftops, and the sunlight made the leaves sparkle, Winshire almost looked magical. Almost. But magic was long dead—or so we were told. This whole place was dying. It had been for years.

The tiny, ever-quiet town of Winshire lay tucked in the heart of the Aberdeen Kingdom, forgotten amid the vast, rolling grasslands.

A handful of crooked dwellings and a sagging inn stood precariously as though centuries of wind and time might topple them at any moment.

Half the town clung to a creeping pine forest, the other faced the endless grasslands.

A narrow road snaked its way toward the distant Castle City, but few ever ventured through Winshire.

After all, there was nothing worth stopping for.

Somewhere out there, beyond the grasslands and thick woods on the edge of town, the world was alive. And I was stuck here, serving ale and making beds for men who barely remembered my name.

The Nestlers Inn existed in the heart of town.

It was the business Papa had taken on after my mother had died, hoping it would provide us both a future.

By the time I turned thirteen, I was already helping out wherever I could.

In those early years, Papa—Philip to everyone else—was still active, managing the inn as best he could.

Though, now, as time wore on and his health began to fade, he retreated more often to the attic with his books or to wander the garden.

I didn’t mind one bit. At nearly seventy, he had earned these years for himself.

Besides, I had always been someone who valued solitude.

I worked tirelessly to keep the inn standing. Tending the bar, turning the beds, and cooking meals day after day. Despite the fact it was essentially rotting from old age, it smelled of home. The scent of my cooking paired with the rich, earthy aroma of Papa’s signature ale.

Shaking myself free from my thoughts, I wandered down the dim, empty corridors, floorboards creaking beneath my feet as I made my way to the tavern to begin another day.

Nameday or not, business didn’t wait, and I doubted anyone else in town would have much to say about the occasion. Papa, however, never forgot. Even with money tight since mother died, he always found a way to mark the day, no matter how small.

The tavern was the beating heart of the inn, its two-story timber frame giving it a sturdy charm despite the wear.

Toward the back, the bar and kitchen stood ready for the day’s work.

Eight well-worn tables filled the room, each scarred with years of use, while a large stone hearth dominated the space, its chimney stretching high into the ceiling.

I found Papa seated in one of the two tired chairs by the hearth that morning, holding a small package in his lap.

“Good morning, papa!” I smiled as I pranced over to him, giving him a small peck on the cheek. He chuckled and swept me up into a gentle hug.

“Happy Nameday, my girl.” He smiled up at me through his thick round glasses, passing the crudely wrapped gift into my hands. I could tell his arthritic knuckles bothered him as he pressed down the messy folds. My heart warmed at his apparent effort. “Well, go ahead then!” He urged me on.

As I tore the paper away, my breath caught.

The book beneath was like nothing I’d ever seen.

Its green leather binding gleamed, textured with soft, overlapping scales.

Gold-edged pages glimmered in the firelight and the cover was embossed with images of dragons mid-flight and beasts locked in battle.

The title read: Magic of Edralis—An Introduction to Magical Creatures and Riftborn.

Edralis… Edralis… Where have I heard that name before? I glanced up at my father and noticed his knowing smile.

“Is this…” My voice faltered as I ran my fingers over the scaled spine. “Is this contraband ?” I whispered the last word.

Papa chuckled softly, but his eyes were serious. “It’s knowledge. And knowledge should never be forbidden. But technically… yes.”

My heart raced as I hugged the book to my chest. “Thank you, Papa,” I whispered, throwing my arms around his neck. He patted my back, his hands trembling slightly.

“It was your mother’s,” he said quietly. The words hit me like a gust of wind. I knew he rarely parted with anything of hers. I looked at the book again, my throat tight.

“What is Edralis?” I asked as I stroked the gold-lined pages of the book.

“It was the kingdom’s name before Aberdeen’s reign,” he explained, watching me closely.

Of course. Edralis—the name whispered in half-forgotten stories, buried in the songs no one dared to sing anymore. The weight of the book suddenly felt heavier.

“I…” My voice dropped to a whisper. “I shouldn’t have this.”

“You’ll keep it hidden,” he said firmly. “Just as your mother did.”

I nodded urgently, tucking the book under my arm.

My father understood my fascination with magic, no matter how forbidden it was.

The urge to devour the contents of the banned book was overwhelming, but there was work to be done.

The inn wouldn’t run itself, and despite my name day, the regulars would expect their lunch and ale on time.

I hurried and slid the book into my nightstand before returning to my daily duties.

The day dragged.

I served the usual faces: the old farmers, slowly nursing papas ale from a worn tankard, the blacksmith muttering about who knows what, and the lone wanderer who barely spoke a word. My mind, however, was miles away—upstairs, tucked into the pages of my new book.

When the last customer finally left, I kissed Papa on the cheek and slipped upstairs, my heart pounding with anticipation.

In the safety of my attic room, I curled up by the window, the scaly tome cradled in my hands. The golden title glinted in the fading light as I opened the cover. A faint scent of dust and aged parchment wafted up, filling the air around me.

There, in the upper corner of the first page, was a name written in delicate script:

Morwenna Dawnshade.

My mother’s name. Her handwriting.

I ran my fingers over the letters, hoping to feel some trace of her in the ink. But all I felt was the cool, smooth surface of the page.

I turned to the first chapter.

An Introduction to Creatures and Magic Wielders, Known as Riftborn

By: Edwaurd Thistlebellow

Magic was foretold to have begun at a time when Gods walked the earth among men.

They shared their lives and shaped the world with their divine power.

During this time, known as the Ages of Divinity, the Gods sought to leave a lasting mark upon the earth.

To do so, they bestowed upon certain humans the gift of magic, transforming them into the First Magi, individuals capable of wielding powers that defied the natural order.

Beyond gifting magic to mortals, the Gods also created creatures imbued with extraordinary powers—beasts that embodied their divine aspects and served as guardians of the world’s hidden mysteries.

As the Gods withdrew from the physical realm during the period known as the Rift, magic remained, shaping the foundations of civilization.

The First Magi and these magical beasts became the inheritors of a world where divine power lingered, but its originators had faded into myth.

Thus, the study of Thaumatology began, tracing the threads of divine power back to those ancient days, seeking to understand the gifts left behind by the Gods.

Hours slipped by as I read. Each page pulled me deeper into a world I had only dreamed of—a world of beasts that defied nature and humans who wielded impossible power.

I read of Blade Dancers, healers and Hellwrought.

Of dragons and magical people called Riftborn, of civilizations shaped by forces I could hardly imagine.

I was utterly consumed, lost in reading as the moon slowly crossed the sky. When the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the evergreens outside my window, I realized I hadn’t slept. My body was heavy with exhaustion, but my mind was alight with sorrow and awe.

How could the king outlaw something so beautiful? How many lives —how many mothers —had been erased for this silence? To hide this knowledge?

I slipped under my comforter, my thoughts churning with rage. The last image I saw before sleep claimed me was of a crimson dragon soaring through a golden sky, free and untamed.

Sleep brought my usual dream, but this time, something was off. I was slung over Papa’s familiar shoulder, jostled by each hurried step as the air was thick with heat. The fire roared around us, but something new caught my attention.

When peering into that too-familiar flame, a dark, cloaked figure looked back.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, his presence radiating power, urgency, strength.

His face was obscured, his features swallowed by the oppressive shadows, I could see his lips moving—frantic, desperate— but no sound reached me.

I knew he was trying to tell me something.

Something I already felt, even if I didn’t understand it.

A strange sensation filled me, some sort of pull as if my bones were iron and he was a magnet drawing me in.

My confusion quickly turned to dread as I realized I was being whisked away from him.

I strained against the arms caging me, desperate to get closer to the man in the flames. But the arms held me firm, unyielding.

The dream blurred, and I woke with a start as the morning light crept further across my walls. My heart was pounding, the magnetic pull of the figure lingering in my chest like an echo.