Daughters of Ash (Bound by Order #1)

Chapter One

CASSIA

Itell myself this is enough. That safety is worth the silence.

It’s a lie I almost believe.

A lie I convince myself to play along with, if only for the people who have sacrificed much to keep me hidden all these years. If not for them, my life would look very, very different.

The knight on the board taunts me as I weigh my options. Each move unfolds in my mind like pages in a well-worn book—familiar paths with predictable endings. The dark and light squares have been my battlefield for as long as I can remember; it’s one of the few places I’m allowed to wage war.

“Your move, Cassia,” my father mutters, his voice patient but tight with the knowledge of what’s coming.

Three potential paths sit before me, but only one leads to victory in five moves. I chew on the worn flesh of my cheek as I consider each option once more, prolonging his misery. Perhaps my methods are unkind, but these small rebellions are all I have to live for.

I slide my bishop diagonally, capturing his rook.

A breath leaves father as his shoulders slump, finally grasping the direction of the game—the inevitable checkmate I set in motion. His king is already dead; the execution just hasn’t happened yet.

“I concede,” he says, tipping his king with a resigned flick. “That’s three in a row, dove.”

I smile, not humble in the slightest, warmth radiating through my chest. “I could have won two plays sooner, but I wanted to see if you’d notice a trap.”

That’s the thing about chess…I do not play to win. I play to witness the moment my opponent realizes their collapse is inescapable, because I’ve been several steps ahead the entire time. It would be easy to defeat them quickly. To save them the effort of trying.

But I do not wish to conquer just this one battle. I crave to win every one after that, as well. I want my enemy to know who I am before we even step into the ring—already anticipating how fucked they are.

And that sort of reputation is not cultivated by taking the easy way out.

“Of course you did.” His head shakes, exasperation softening into pride. “Your memory gives you an unfair advantage. You’ve memorized every possible scenario by now.”

“Not every scenario,” I counter, resetting the pieces with practiced grace. The smooth ivory figures—yellowed with age—click against the wooden board. Satisfying. “Just the ones you favor.”

What I don’t say: I have memorized twenty-three opening strategies he cycles through, documented the exact pressure of his fingers when he’s about to sacrifice a piece, tracked the subtle shift in his breathing when he thinks he’s discovered a weakness in my defense.

Chess isn’t about the game; it’s about the player.

And I’ve studied my father for twenty-six years, so it should not still come as a surprise to him that I win every time.

Well, nearly every time.

The man wouldn’t continue playing with me if I didn’t relinquish the game here and there.

A thud from the outer walls snaps the thought in half—dull scraping accompanying it.

Every nerve in my body awakens as I stiffen.

The map of our house flares in my mind on instinct: three steps to the hallway, seven to my parents’ room, three more to the hatch and then down a set of stairs.

Father and I listen, breaths held as we determine the rhythm of footsteps.

Too slow for a patrol and too uneven for armored Enforcers.

A cart rattles past, close to the front window, and a man laughs, the ice in my chest easing a fraction.

Not tonight. They won’t find me tonight.

It takes monumental effort to force my fingers to unclench from the table and refocus on the board as I pretend my heart isn’t still climbing through my throat.

Father says nothing.

In his defense, what is there to say?

The floorboards creak outside the sitting room, followed by the distinctive rhythm of my mother’s steps.

She appears in the doorway with a wooden tray balanced between steady, lithe hands, steam rising from three bowls.

A clip holds back her strawberry hair, allowing her flushed cheeks proper space to breathe.

“Dinner,” she announces, voice as warm as the stew she’s carrying.

My father rises to assist her, adjusting the tuck of his button down before grabbing the tray and setting it on the small table in the corner.

The scent reaches me—root vegetables and herbs from our modest garden, and the protein of some preserved meat.

My stomach tightens, angry with the lack of sustenance I’ve granted it today, demanding I dive into my bowl with the grace of a wild animal.

“Perfect timing,” I say, abandoning the chess pieces. “Father just conceded.” My tone adds the again I choose not to voice.

Mother’s eyes crinkle before she utters my insinuation. “Again?” She knows we can never play just one round. “Pierce, at some point you need to accept that she’s better than you.”

“Never.” His reply is blunt and monotone, but the smile pulling at his lips betrays him.

We settle around the table, our routine as fixed as the walls imprisoning me.

My father takes the first bite, humming as he nods his approval—the signal we can begin.

These small ceremonies maintain our semblance of normalcy, as if we’re just a typical family instead of conspirators in a lifelong crime.

A crime in which the only payment is death.

“How was the library today?” mother asks as she passes a piece of bread.

Father swallows, the worn skin of his throat bobbing before he replies.

“Busy. The Syndicate’s latest decree about approved reading materials has everyone scrambling to ensure compliance.

” A flicker of something—anger perhaps—crosses his face before disappearing beneath a veil of calm.

“Three more books were added to the restricted list. Something about content potentially encouraging female independence.”

The words hang suspended in the air. My fingers tighten around their spoon, but my mouth remains closed.

“Anything else?” mother prompts, her tone forced with a lightness I’m certain she doesn’t feel.

It’s difficult to feel light at all in the world we’re forced to live in.

Father reclines in his chair, grazing a hand over his chin. “Actually, yes. Word is the Syndicate is organizing some new Enforcer group. They’re recruiting men from across every province.” His brows crease as his dark eyes go distant. “It’s not clear why. Enforcer numbers are already at capacity.”

The front door swings open before he elaborates, a current of cool air swimming through the house. Heavy footsteps approach—my brother’s distinctive gait, slightly favoring his right leg from an old injury.

A smile claims my lips as Lachlan appears in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space. Despite the exhaustion evident in the shadows beneath his eyes, his familiar face brightens when he spots us.

“Perfect timing,” he says in a voice a bit deeper than mine, echoing my earlier words. “I’m starving.”

Mother pushes from the table, rising to fetch another bowl of stew. “How was your trip?”

Lachlan drops his pack by the door and slumps into the empty seat across from me. “Long. I really hate how cold it gets in the mountains. Ailridge might look pretty from a distance, but the wind cuts right through you up there.”

“The delivery went well?” father inquires. He is very good at showing interest in Lachlan’s job as a messenger, even when it’s anything but.

“As well as can be expected. The Syndicate officials inspected everything twice, but the paperwork was in order.” He accepts the bowl my mother offers with a smile, nodding his thanks. “The manufacturing hub in Pyrem is ramping up production for something. No one would say what.”

I sit quiet, content to absorb their words while savoring the warmth of the stew.

This is my window to the outside world—snippets of information gathered by my father and brother, carefully pieced together in my mind like a mosaic of places I’ve never seen.

Flat images and maps can only offer so much.

What’s it like out there? I ask my inner self, repeating the same inquiry I have for thousands of days in a row.

I’ve constructed elaborate mental images from books and stories, but imagination can only take you so far.

I’ve never felt rain on my face or wind through my hair outside these aging walls.

Never walked on streets, entered shops, or stood beneath an open sky without the frame of a window blocking small pieces of it.

I steal glances through the windows sometimes, when no one is looking.

Quick peeks at the world—the tall, neighboring buildings Enforcers patrol, scuff marks along the stone ground that change day after day.

But these glimpses are like trying to understand an ocean by looking at a single drop of its water. Impossible.

The stack of books my father brought home catches my attention where they rest on a side table.

A surge of excitement rushes through me as I spot a worn leather binding with faded gold lettering; a history book, by the look of it.

Those are my favorites. My fragments of a past when our world operated by different rules.

They may as well be fantasy books for how unthinkable some of the entries are.

I reach for the stack, wheeling the table closer and yanking hard when it catches on an annoying dent in the floor.

“Found some interesting things in the archives today,” father muses, following my movements. “That history volume was in the restricted section, so handle it carefully. I’ll need to return it without any evidence that it left the library.”

I nod, understanding the risk he’s taken and beyond thankful for it. “I’ll be gentle.” And I will. These books will be handled with the care of a newborn baby.

My fingers trace the embossed cover.

A Comprehensive History of the Northern Territories: Pre-Unification Era