Ash-Born
Seventy-five years after the war burned the sky, the world still remembered how to scream.
The surface was forbidden—not because anyone guarded it, but because nothing lived there long enough to matter. The land above was cracked and blackened, poisoned by firestorms that had melted cities into bone-white skeletons and turned rivers into dust. The elders said the air still tasted of death. Jayla had never tested the truth of that herself. None of them had.
They lived beneath the scars of the world now, in a vast underground colony carved deep into stone. The ceilings were low in some tunnels and cathedral-high in others, supported by scavenged steel and reinforced concrete pulled from the ruins above decades earlier. Light came from humming panels embedded into the walls, glowing a permanent amber that mimicked a sunset no one remembered seeing.
The surface was a story, a warning, a myth shaped like a grave.
She moved through Corridor Seven with long, confident strides, boots echoing softly against the stone floor. At seventeen, she was already taller than most women in the colony, her presence impossible to ignore even when she wished it weren’t so. Her dark hair was pulled back into a practical braid, but loose strands escaped to frame a face that made people look twice—and then look away, unsettled without knowing why.
People said she carried a strange aura.
They never said it to her face.
The lights flickered as she passed, a subtle dim-and-brighten that followed her like a pulse. Jayla didn’t notice. She never did.
Behind her, her younger brother Kellan struggled to keep up, his tool bag banging against his hip. At fourteen, he was all elbows and impatience, already dreaming of earning a placement in the engineering ranks.
“Slow down,” he complained. “You walk like you’re late for something important.”
“I am,” Jayla said without turning. “Dinner.”
“That’s not important.”
She smirked. “Tell that to Ayara.”
Their twelve-year-old sister was waiting near the water dispensers, legs swinging as she sat on a crate too big for her. Ayara looked up the moment she spotted Jayla, her face breaking into a grin.
“There you are!” she said. “Dad said if you didn’t hurry, he’d make me stir the ration stew.”
Jayla groaned. “Cruel man.”
Their father was already home when they arrived—a narrow room carved into the rock, warmed by recycled heat vents and softened by worn blankets. He stood over the cook surface, shoulders hunched, dark hair streaked with silver far too early.
For a moment, Jayla watched him without speaking.
Her mother should have been there too.
The memory came uninvited, as it often did.
She had been eight when the sickness swept through the colony—a silent thing at first. Coughs. Fevers. Then blood. Whole families vanished within weeks. A third of the population gone, just like that. No medicine strong enough. No place to run.
Her mother had tried to stay standing until the end.
Jayla remembered the way the lights had dimmed in the infirmary that night, the way the air had felt thick and electric, pressing against her skin. She remembered screaming—not just with her voice, but with something deeper, something she didn’t have words for.
After that, people started watching her differently.
“She’s growing into herself,” some whispered now. Others were less kind.
Men noticed her. Boys too. Their eyes lingered too long, their smiles sharp with hunger or curiosity or something worse. Jayla met their looks head-on, daring them to try anything. Most looked away. A few didn’t.
Her father worried. She could feel it in the way his gaze followed her, protective and tired.
Jayla set the table without being asked.
She didn’t know yet that the world above was beginning to stir.
She didn’t know that her strange aura was more than rumor, or that the fire that had destroyed the surface had left something behind in her blood.
But deep in the stone around them, unseen and unheard, something ancient shifted.
And for the first time in seventy-five years, the underground world was no longer as safe as it believed.
