CHAPTER 31: ASHES & MORE

Before Anneliese could ask another question, a hand wrapped around her wrist—firm, yet gentle.

His eyes met hers. "Hold on," he whispered.

Then the world blinked.

It was not wind, or light, or even movement. The moment blurred. It was as though the entire castle, the corridor, the sky itself—had folded inward and vanished.

She felt a lurch in her chest—teleportation was disorienting.

The ground reformed beneath her, but her mind lagged a heartbeat behind.

Ash.

Not just dust—ash.

Bridgehallow—what little remained of it—stood beneath a grey, haunted sky. The wind carried the dry scent of burnt wood and something older—something that had no scent but still stung the back of her throat. Bridgehallow was not just ruined—it was dead.

The remains of once-proud homes lay buried in soot, warped doors hanging off broken hinges. The earth was black in places—scarred and cracked, as if it still remembered fire. Ash-grey stones lay scattered across a wide clearing, overgrown with vines and deadened shrubs. Trees had begun to reclaim the land, curling their roots through the crumbled walls of what once were homes. No birds. No voices. Just the eerie hush of a village that had not healed.

Anneliese took a slow step forward. Then another. Her boots stirred fine ash that clung to the air and drifted like snow. The deeper she walked into the wreckage, the tighter her chest became.

Vincenzo walked a few steps behind. Watching her. He did not rush her. Did not speak. Let her wander off instinctively.

They passed what was once a market square. All too quiet. All too familiar.

"This was once a healer’s village. Quiet. Isolated. Not many knew it existed," Vincenzo said, his voice low, almost reverent. He spoke like someone recalling something long buried, something sacred. "It has been said that the healers of Bridgehallow were directly bestowed by Eirlys, the Goddess of Healing."

He stepped closer, his eyes sweeping the ruined path ahead, as if trying to see it the way it once was. "Over time, humans and vampires also settled here."

He added, softer now—"But the heart of it always belonged to the healers."

Healers were believed to be the most sacred living beings. Her breath caught in her throat. It did not make sense. None of it did.

"Why would I have done it?" Anneliese murmured, her voice brittle with guilt. "Burned it alive? Why?" Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, knuckles white.

The silence pressed in, as though even the ruins were listening.

"It was not just fire that destroyed this place," he said at last, voice heavy. "It was something ancient. Something buried. Magic that had not been touched in centuries." He turned to her then. "And it did not come from rage. It came from fear."

Anneliese’s eyes flicked toward him. "Fear?"

He nodded. "Raw, instinctive. Uncontrolled. This is why it consumed everything. Magic like that does not obey logic. It does not think. It survives. It saves and it destroys."

She shook her head slowly, trying to push back the rising panic. "But I was a child. I do not remember any of this. I do not remember them. The people. Their faces. Their voices. Not a single one." She turned away, blinking hard at the sight of what she might have destroyed.

Drawn to where the path curved left like a forgotten memory, she took another step forward. Her eyes were fixed ahead—on the curve of a path, the broken shell of a house just beyond it. The wind stirred a layer of ash near the doorway. Something about it stopped her in her tracks.

She did not know why.

She moved toward it. No plan. No thought. Just a pull.

She crossed the threshold of the broken house, boots crunching over splintered wood and stone. The air was colder here. Still. As though time itself had recoiled and refused to move forward.

The walls, though half-collapsed, still stood just enough to suggest rooms. A hearth blackened by old fire. Shattered glass glinting faintly under layers of soot.

Her hand reached out, brushing the scorched frame of what might have once been a door. Suddenly, the world blurred and then she was somewhere else.

The same house—but whole.

She knew this place.

A fire in the hearth. A man carving something. Her father.

A little girl racing across the room barefoot, a wide grin on her face.

Her heart thudded.

The girl was her. Younger, smaller. But her.

Not Haselburg. Not the orphanage. Not that cold, silent castle.

Here.

She belonged here.

Then the vision broke.

Ash. Silence. The smell of smoke that had never really left.

Her knees nearly buckled.

"I was here," she whispered, the words slipping from her lips before she could stop them. "I lived here."

Behind her, Vincenzo did not move. He watched—eyes unreadable, expression grave. As if he already knew.

"I saw my father," she said, still in a daze.

Vincenzo took a breath. "What else did you see?"

"Nothing clear," she murmured. "Just... a flash."

Vincenzo said nothing at first. He looked at her—really looked—and then turned his gaze, to a different part of the ruins. His jaw tensed, "There’s... somewhere," he said finally. "I need to take you."

She glanced at him, wary. But there was no fear in his eyes—only resolve.

Without waiting, he turned and walked. Anneliese followed.

The path he took was narrower now, flanked by crumbling stones and dead trees that leaned toward each other like skeletons whispering secrets. The wind had quieted. Even the ash seemed still.

They stopped at a clearing—just past a shattered well and what remained of a twisted iron gate.

"This is where I saw you," Vincenzo said. His voice was low, almost hoarse.

"Even back then I didn’t know who you were," he continued. "Just a child standing in the center of it all. Alone. Eyes blank. Magic bleeding from you like a second skin."

He looked away, jaw clenched.

"You weren’t crying," he said. "You weren’t even moving. Everything burned around you, and you stood there."

Anneliese stepped back, unsteady. Her legs felt hollow.

"I don’t remember any of this," she whispered.

"I know."

Then—without warning—the air shifted again.

Another vision swept over—this time, they both saw it.

It did not rush like the first. This one crawled—slow and thick and dreadful, like fog pulling itself through bone.

They weren’t in the ruins anymore.

The clearing was whole. Trees tall and green. The village untouched. Alive.

And the girl—Anneliese, barely ten—stood at the center of the path.

Only this time, her hands were slightly raised.

Her face was frozen in terror.

The ground beneath her cracked.

Flames erupted outward in a ring—like a scream made of fire. It didn’t come from her voice—it came from the very space around her. Magic, ancient and wild, poured from her without restraint. Not directed. Not aimed. Just unleashed.

The sky pulsed red.

Villagers ran.

One by one, houses caught.

Screams filled the air—but the girl did not move.

The earth buckled.

And then—

Silence.

The vision shattered.

Ash again. The ruined village returned.

Anneliese fell to her knees, shaking. "No—no. That wasn’t— I didn’t mean—"

Vincenzo knelt beside her, a careful distance away. "You were terrified," he said firmly. "I told you. It came from fear."

Tears lined her lashes, but none fell. She stared at the blackened ground beneath her like it might speak.

"I didn’t want to hurt anyone." her voice low.

"I know," he said.

He gently held her hand, "You need rest. Let’s leave"

She took one last look at Bridgehallow—its bones, its sorrow, its silence. Then, the ruins of Bridgehallow watched them go.