Chapter 1 ASHTHORNE.

I hadn't seen the town sign in ten years, but I could still trace every rusted letter in my sleep.

Ashthorne.

A home of the Harvest Flame Festival and nothing else.

The air changed as soon as I crossed the county line. Thicker, smelled of moss and dry earth. The forest leaned in on both sides of the road, tall pines like crooked sentinels watching my car crawl along the winding path. The summer sun filtered through the branches in flickers, like someone was playing with a light switch just above the trees.

I didn't slow down.

The town had a way of making you feel like you'd been swallowed whole before you even set foot inside. When I left, I swore I'd never come back. But here I was older, sharper, and dragging a suitcase full of ghosts, the letter was still folded on the passenger seat beside me.

No signature. Just a date and a single sentence

"They burned for what they knew. You're next."

Whoever sent it knew me well enough to hit the nerve I'd spent a decade deadening. I should've thrown it away, i should've deleted the scan from my inbox and let the past rot in peace. But I didn't.

Because part of me, the broken part, the angry part, still needed an answer, still needed someone to pay.

The Vale house hadn't changed much. Weathered blue paint, white trim peeling from the porch railings. The windows still had the same lace curtains, drawn tightly shut like the house was ashamed of itself. Aunt Helena my mom's junior sister had lived here since the fire. Said she'd keep it safe if I ever came back.

I parked beside the mailbox, let the engine die, and stared at the front door like it might open on its own. My reflection in the windshield looked like a stranger. Pale skin, sharper jaw, dark eyes. I'd cut my hair short this year, easier to manage, less to burn.

The wind picked up. Somewhere in the trees, a crow cried.

Welcome home, Seraphine.

Inside, the house smelled like lemon polish and old smoke. I walked slowly, touching the doorframe where my height was still marked in faded pencil. Aunt Helena had cleaned up, but some stains don't go off.

The living room walls were filled with framed photos, mostly of people I barely remembered. Smiling cousins, graduation caps. But in the center was the one that never moved, my family, me at eight, squinting at the sun, my sister, Rowan, with her wild red curls and chipped hair, Dad with his arm around Mom, both of them laughing. Frozen, before the fire gutted the house across the street, before three bodies were zipped into bags and one girl was left behind.

Aunt Helena's voice came from the kitchen. "You're late."

I turned. "You're still nosy."

She smirked, wiped her hands on a dish towel. "You're taller." And you're greyer."

"Come here, brat."

I let her pull me into a brief, hard hug, her grip smelled like lavender and onions. The kind of scent you didn't appreciate until it was gone for years. When she pulled back, her face was more lined than I remembered, but her eyes were just as sharp.

"You got the letter," she said quietly.

I nodded. "You didn't send it?"

"No." Her voice dropped lower. "But I think I know who did."

I followed her to the table. She slid a folded piece of paper toward me, the same stationery as mine, same clean handwriting.

"This came last week," she said. "No return address. Just one word. Ashes".

I stared at the word. It felt like it stared back.

Aunt helena poured two mugs of tea. "I haven't told anyone you're here. People in town... they talk."

"They always did."

She hesitated. " Meanwhile there's something else, someone asked about you, a boy... well, a man now. Said he used to know Rowan. Didn't give a name."

My stomach turned. "Describe him."

"Tall, with dark hair, scar above his eyebrow, said he was just passing by"

I knew exactly who it was, Jerry Mandel. My sister's ex, the last person to see her alive before the fire. The boy who vanished after her funeral without saying a word.

I hadn't seen him in a decade.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I sat on the porch steps with a flask of whiskey and stared at the street lamp flickering across the road, the one outside the old Kincaid place. That house was where the fire started, everyone said it was faulty wiring, everyone accepted it.

Except me.

My sister didn't die in some electrical accident. She was burned alive. Along with Mom and Dad. And I'd spent ten years trying to forget the sound of her screaming from across the street.

Now someone wanted me to remember.

I pulled the letter from my coat pocket and lit it with a match. Watched the edges curl and blacken.

But I already knew the words by heart.

They burned for what they knew. You're next.

The next morning, I walked to the town library. Same cracked brick, same crooked bell tower. But the inside had changed. New carpet, new shelves. And behind the counter sat a woman with a tight bun and tighter expression.

She looked up. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for newspaper records. Archives."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're not from around here."

"I used to be."

"Name?"

"Vale."

The color drained from her face. "Seraphine?"

I nodded.

She stared. "We thought you were dead."

I gave her a small smile. "Not yet."

The archives were tucked in the basement, a dim room with metal shelves and rows of files boxes, I spent hours sifting through yellowed pages, grainy photographs, old fire department reports. Everything about the Kincaid fire was there or so it seemed.

But something was off.

The dates didn't match. One article claimed the fire started at 2:14 AM. Another said 3:03 AM. Some names were redacted. The police report was missing pages. Buried between two binders, I found a handwritten note, it wasn't part of any official file.

"It wasn't an accident. They made her watch."

My throat closed.

I shoved the note into my pocket and left the library without another word.

That night, I walked to the Kincaid property. It was fenced off now, overgrown with weeds. The burned foundation was still visible under years of ivy and decay.

I stepped over the fence.

The ash crunched beneath my boots. Somewhere deep in the earth, the fire still lived in memory, in fear, in me.

I stood at the center of the blackened foundation and whispered the one question I'd never dared ask out loud.

"Rowan... what happened to you?"

Behind me, a twig snapped.

I turned sharply and saw him.

Jerry.

He stood just beyond the fence, watching me through the shadows.

"Seraphine," he said, voice low. "You shouldn't have come back."

I didn't move.

"Then why did you?" I asked.

His expression hardened. "Because it's starting again."