Ashes of Edevane

"Ashes of Edevane"

Sequel to "Till Death and After"

I. The Gravekeeper's Daughter

Twenty-seven years had passed since the fire that consumed the woods of Edevane. Time buried memory, as it often does—but some stories refuse to rot.

Clara Whitlock had never believed in ghosts, though she grew up in the shadow of the ruins. Her father, the village gravekeeper, warned her often:

"Stay away from the ash tree. It doesn't sleep."

But Clara was curious. Her dreams were plagued by a woman in black, her veil soaked with tears. Always dancing. Always whispering:

“He’s still here. He won’t wake.”

One dusk, drawn by something she couldn’t explain, Clara crossed the tree line, boots crunching on brittle leaves. Fog spilled through the forest like breath. And there, in the clearing, she saw the ruins—half-buried stone, a skeletal staircase, and at its heart, the ash tree, blackened but alive.

She touched the bark.

The earth trembled.

II. The Awakening

In that moment, beneath the roots, Elias stirred.

His eyes opened for the first time in decades, and he screamed—but no one heard. Buried in the soil, his soul tethered to a loop of agony, bound by Liora’s love.

But something was changing. Liora hadn’t danced in days. She stood motionless, watching the ash tree, her expression unreadable. Her power, once sealed by ritual, was unraveling—because someone new had touched the tree. Someone who resembled her.

Clara.

Not just a stranger.

Her descendant.

III. Bloodline and Bone

Clara’s mother had died young. Her father never spoke of her. But the deeper Clara wandered into the ruins, the more she began to remember things that weren’t hers—dreams of dancing, of betrayal, of waking beneath the dirt.

She found an old book buried in the roots—a journal, bound in cracked leather. It bore Liora’s name.

“He loved me. He tried to leave. So I kept him.”

Each page told a piece of the story. But one entry stood out:

“If a child of my blood touches the tree… the bond will break. And so shall I.”

Clara's veins chilled. She wasn’t just a visitor. She was the key.

IV. The Shattering

That night, the village shook. Screams echoed through the hills as mist rolled into homes and mirrors cracked without warning. The veil between the living and the dead had thinned.

Liora appeared in Clara’s room.

“You wear her face,” Liora whispered. “But you are not me.”

“I’m not here to save you,” Clara said. “I’m here to free him.”

The specter hissed, her face twisting into something monstrous. But Elias—pale, hollow-eyed—emerged behind her, whispering Clara’s name like a prayer.

“I don’t want to love her anymore,” he said. “Let me go.”

With the journal in hand, Clara performed the ritual by the ash tree under the blood moon. The ground split. Shadows screamed. And then—

Silence.

V. Afterlight

Elias was gone.

Liora, too.

The tree remained—but now it bore white blossoms. The forest no longer whispered.

Clara returned to the village, carrying the journal. Her dreams were her own now. But sometimes, when the wind shifts, she still hears music in the trees—a waltz played just once, for the dead to say goodbye.

And in the spring, the ash tree blooms again—its petals pale as mourning veils.

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