The Ash War

"The Ash War"

Book IV in the Till Death and After series

I. The Blossoming Black

Lyra stood atop the ashes of Edevane, her hands stained with soil and blood. The villagers were gone—some fled, most taken. The ash tree had split open, revealing a hollow heart pulsing like a second sun. It throbbed with voices, with memory.

From its roots, new trees began to rise—crooked, tall, and breathing.

Each one whispered the same word:

“Bride.”

Lyra was no longer just Liora reborn. She was the First of the Hollow, a being of grief, vengeance, and memory stitched into flesh. The forest spread like a plague, consuming roads, swallowing villages in miles of red fog.

And through it all, Clara ran.

Her body aged and broken, she carried one weapon—Elias’s wedding ring. Forged in iron. Cursed in love. And the only thing Lyra feared.

II. The Cult of the Hollow Bride

Across the world, people began to dream the same dream:

A veiled woman offering them love, eternity, peace… for a price.

Some resisted.

Most accepted.

Within a year, thousands worshiped her. A new faith emerged—The Hollow Bride, whose love was endless, whose touch took your pain—and your soul.

Temples bloomed where the ash roots spread. People lined up for “weddings” under blood-red moons. Each wedding ended with a kiss.

Each kiss turned the groom into a tree.

They stood for eternity, whispering her lullaby.

III. The Resistance

Clara found others—survivors of cursed villages, broken priests, and scholars who had read the Red Tome, a forbidden grimoire that predated even Liora.

Together they uncovered the truth: Liora’s spirit was not born in the forest. It came from beneath. An ancient entity—Ny’Thara—who fed on love turned to obsession, and pain twisted by devotion.

Liora was merely its first host.

Lyra was the next.

Unless they stopped her, there would be more.

IV. The Last Wedding

The resistance stormed the heart of the Hollow: Edevane, now unrecognizable—transformed into a cathedral of rot, vines, and bone.

Clara confronted Lyra beneath the ash tree, holding Elias’s ring.

“You are not my daughter,” she said.

“I am everyone’s daughter,” Lyra replied. “And soon, the world will be my groom.”

As Lyra stepped forward, the roots reached for Clara’s throat.

Clara slipped the ring onto her own finger.

And screamed.

The iron seared her skin—sacrificing herself to bind Lyra in place, just long enough for the others to finish the ritual.