Chronicle Of Ash And Crowns
The house felt smaller without him.
18 year old Rico Sandiago stood just inside the doorway, one hand still resting on the frame as if stepping any further would make something final. The air carried that stale, un-moving quiet that only settled after someone was gone for good. It wasn’t just silence it was absence. His grandfather’s presence had always filled the place in subtle ways: the low hum of old radios, the scratch of pen on paper, the quiet movement between rooms at odd hours. Now there was nothing. Just a house full of objects that no longer had an owner.
He stepped inside anyway.
They had given him a simple task—go through what was left, decide what to keep, what to throw, what to sell. It sounded easy when it was said out loud. In reality, every item felt like it carried weight. His grandfather hadn’t been an ordinary collector. He didn’t gather things for display or value. He collected things that had stories, things that came from places Rico had never heard of, things that sometimes didn’t seem like they belonged anywhere at all.
The deeper Rico walked into the house, the more that feeling grew.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with objects that didn’t match—rusted blades beside delicate carvings, worn journals stacked next to sealed containers, trinkets made of materials he couldn’t identify. Some looked ancient. Others looked untouched by time. None of it felt random. It felt curated… deliberately.
And yet, none of it was labeled.
Rico let out a quiet breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Where do I even start…”
The answer came to him almost immediately.
The attic.
If there was anything worth hiding—anything his grandfather didn’t want just sitting out in the open—it would be there.
The attic stairs creaked under his weight as he climbed, each step echoing louder than it should have in the stillness of the house. The air grew thicker the higher he went, dust hanging faintly in the light that slipped through a narrow window at the far end. It smelled older up here, untouched for longer than the rest of the house.
When he pushed the door open, it resisted slightly—like it hadn’t been moved in years.
The space beyond was cluttered, but not chaotic. Boxes were stacked in uneven rows, old furniture pushed to the sides, more artifacts tucked into corners as if they had been placed there with purpose rather than abandoned. Rico stepped inside slowly, his eyes adjusting as he took it all in.
There were weapons here too.
Not decorative ones—real ones. A short blade rested across a wooden crate, its edge dulled but still intact. A heavier axe leaned against the wall nearby, its handle worn smooth from use. Rico frowned slightly at that. His grandfather had never talked about using weapons. Owning them was one thing. Using them was another.
He moved past them.
Something about this place made him feel like he shouldn’t linger too long in any one spot.
It took longer than he expected before he noticed it.
Tucked behind a stack of old trunks, partially hidden from view, was a chest that didn’t match anything else in the attic. It was darker, heavier in appearance, its surface marked with faint scars that looked almost like burns. Unlike everything else, it wasn’t covered in dust.
That alone made Rico pause.
“…That’s weird.”
He stepped closer, crouching slightly as he reached out to touch it. The surface was cold—colder than it should have been. Not just from the air, but something deeper. Like the material itself held no warmth at all.
For a moment, he hesitated.
Then he opened it.
Inside, there was only one thing.
A book.
It was wrapped in a dark cloth, the fabric worn but intact, as if it had been handled carefully over time. Rico pulled it free, the weight of it settling heavier in his hands than he expected. It didn’t feel like paper. It felt… denser. Solid in a way that didn’t make sense.
He unwrapped it slowly.
The cover beneath was aged, marked by faint cracks and edges that looked slightly burned. No title was printed across it. No author’s name. Nothing to explain what it was or where it came from.
But somehow, as his fingers brushed across the surface, a name formed in his mind.
The Chronicle of Ash and Crowns.
Rico froze.
“…Okay. That’s new.”
He hadn’t read that. It hadn’t been written anywhere for him to see. And yet, he knew it.
A quiet unease settled in his chest.
He should’ve put it back.
He knew that.
Every instinct he had told him the same thing—close the chest, walk away, pretend he never found it.
Instead, he opened the book.
The pages weren’t normal.
They looked worn, but not fragile. Old, but not decayed. The ink across them shifted faintly when the light hit just right, as if it hadn’t fully settled into place. Rico flipped through a few pages, his brow tightening as fragmented images and text passed beneath his eyes.
Battlefields.
Armies.
Names of places he had never heard before.
It didn’t read like a story. It read like a record.
A history.
His movements slowed as he turned another page.
Then stopped.
At the center of the page, written in dark, deliberate ink, were words that felt heavier than the rest.
Alaric Veyrn – King of Veyrath
Rico stared at it.
Something about the name pressed against his thoughts, like it was trying to settle into place.
“Veyrath…” he muttered quietly. “Hm, never heard of it.”
The air shifted.
Subtly at first.
The attic felt… quieter.
Too quiet.
Rico frowned, glancing up briefly before looking back down at the page.
The ink moved.
He didn’t breathe.
The letters twisted, distorting as if something unseen had dragged a hand through them. The name blurred, reforming slowly into something else—something that made his chest tighten instantly.
Rico Santiago
The book felt heavier.
The air dropped cold.
“What—”
The pages flipped.
Violently.
A sudden force tore through the attic, wind crashing against the walls despite there being no open windows. The book jerked in Rico’s hands, the pages turning faster than his eyes could follow. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the floor, bending toward him, toward the book.
He tried to let go.
His fingers didn’t move.
“Hey—no—”
The pull came next.
Not from outside.
From the book itself.
The world collapsed inward.
Sound vanished.
Light disappeared.
And for a single, endless moment—
There was nothing.
Then—
Pain.
Rico’s eyes snapped open as something slammed into his side, the force knocking the breath from his lungs. The ground beneath him was hard, uneven, soaked with something warm. The air was thick, suffocating, filled with a smell that hit him all at once.
Blood.
Not a trace.
Not a hint.
Blood.
Noise followed.
Metal clashing.
Men shouting.
Screams—loud, desperate, everywhere.
Rico pushed himself up instinctively, his vision blurring as he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. Figures moved around him—armored, armed, fighting. Bodies lay scattered across the ground, some still, others not.
A man rushed past him, nearly knocking him back down.
“Your Majesty!”
Rico froze.
The man didn’t stop.
“Your Majesty, we have to move—now!”
Rico turned, his heart slamming against his chest as the words struggled to register.
Your Majesty.
He looked down at his hands.
They weren’t shaking anymore.
They were steady.
Too steady.
And in the distance—
Through the chaos, through the smoke and steel—
A banner rose above the battlefield.
Unfamiliar.
Yet somehow…
It felt like it belonged to him.
WRITING IN BOLD =MC INNER MONOLOUGE
