Ashveil (eBook)
260 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
9780001047150 (ISBN)
Ashveil by Ela Nor is not just a story-it is an experience that seizes you from the first word, drags you through fire and shadow, and refuses to let go. From the opening heartbeat of Chapter One, you are thrust into a world where power, betrayal, and love collide with explosive intensity. Every secret comes at a price, every choice carries consequence, and every shadow could conceal a threat-or a revelation that changes everything.
Told across twelve cinematic chapters, Ashveil is a story of ambition, danger, and heart-stopping tension. Each scene is meticulously crafted like a blockbuster sequence: immersive, visually vivid, and charged with emotion. You will encounter heroes and anti-heroes whose lives are entwined, whose hearts are tested, and whose actions will leave you questioning morality, loyalty, and the cost of survival.
At the center of this storm are Fex, Mika, and Rowan.
Fex is no ordinary demon-he is a storm contained in human form. Ruthless, brilliant, and terrifyingly unpredictable, Fex brings chaos wherever he treads-but he also has a sharp, sarcastic humor that slices tension like a blade. He cracks awkward, biting jokes in moments of peril, often making you laugh even as your heart races. He is a force of nature, impossible to ignore, and endlessly fascinating.
Mika, the beating heart of the story, is young, gifted, and unprepared for the cataclysmic events she faces. Her courage is tested, her morality challenged, and her growth is breathtaking. She is the reader's anchor-a fiercely human presence amid magic, war, and betrayal.
Rowan, the Anti-Hero, is cunning, unpredictable, and morally complex. Walking the line between darkness and redemption, he struggles with feelings he never anticipated for Mika, creating a tension-filled, forbidden spark that electrifies every encounter. Rowan's choices are as dangerous as they are compelling, keeping readers on edge while exploring the depths of love, ambition, and survival.
The stakes are monumental. Empires teeter on the brink of collapse, ancient magic threatens to consume reality, and betrayal is a weapon wielded as easily as any sword. Every decision matters. Every revelation shakes the foundations of loyalty and morality.
The twelve chapters of Ashveil are designed as a crescendo of suspense, emotion, and revelation.
Ela Nor's world-building is extraordinary. Towering cities shimmer with ancient magic, forests hide peril around every corner, and skies are painted with storms that feel alive. Magic is tangible and dangerous, political intrigue is intricate, and betrayal carries weight. The universe feels fully realized, immersive, and dangerously alluring.
Ela Nor's prose is cinematic, visceral, and addictive. Battles leap off the page, magical duels dazzle, and quiet moments resonate long after you finish reading. Every twist lands with precision; every scene propels the story forward; every chapter is an unforgettable adventure.
Beyond spectacle, Ashveil is a story of the human heart. Love, loyalty, courage, and betrayal are tested, reshaped, and revealed in unexpected ways. You will laugh, tremble, cry, and cheer-sometimes all in the same chapter.
This is a story to experience, not just read. It will consume your imagination, dominate your thoughts, and linger in your dreams. Every plot twist, every heartbeat of danger, every revelation is crafted to maximize suspense and emotional engagement.
This is not just a book-it is a defining epic, a journey that will captivate your imagination and ignite your soul. Twelve chapters. Three unforgettable protagonists. A world on fire. Magic that bends reality. Love that defies logic. Betrayal that could destroy everything.
Chapter 1
Fex, at your Service.
Ashmoor wasn’t a city.
It was a wound that never healed.
The sky hung low—ash—grey, vein—lit with lightning that never struck. Clouds pulsed like bruises, heavy with rain that always threatened but never arrived. Gothic steeples clawed upward while glass towers loomed like silent gods, watching the rot below.
The air tasted of rust and something faintly metallic—iron on the tongue. People moved fast. Heads down. Eyes colder than the wind needling every alley. No greetings. No contact. Survival here meant learning not to feel.
No one felt it. Except Rowan Raithe.
He moved through Ashmoor like both king and curse. In a city of masks, he wore his skin like a blade: trench coat, collar high, face unreadable. Thirty—two. Already a legend.
In real estate circles he was the whisper behind every multi—million Dollar deal—penthouses in the clouds, mansions carved into cliffs, estates that weren’t on any map because they weren’t meant to be. But Rowan didn’t just broker property. He brokered power. Secrets. Bloodlines. Beneath it all something darker ruled—diamonds. Deals. Disappearances.
To outsiders, he was charm sharpened into a weapon. To insiders, a calculated bastard with a grin and a gun in his glovebox. Women wanted him. Men feared him. Everyone else kept their distance.
His past was inkless contracts and boardroom executions that never made the news. The roots of his legend ran deeper—into a childhood no one asked about and he never discussed. He had no parents. No family. Only stories. Ugly ones. His uncle, Raithe—a bitter, loveless man—raised him not out of duty but by default. He said Rowan’s parents hadn’t wanted him; they’d abandoned him.
Soon after, they died—mugged in an alley, bodies never recovered. Another line in Ashmoor’s obituary of forgotten souls. Raithe wasn’t his father’s surname; it was the uncle’s surname forced on him. The truth stayed buried. Silence—or a fist slamming a drawer—was all he ever got.
Raised by a man who never wanted him. Shaped by a city that ate orphans whole.
His apartment—his fortress—sat high on East Ashmoor’s cliffs. Glass walls. Voice controls. An espresso machine Rowan treated like a sacrament. Two cars: a matte—black predator for when he wanted to be seen, a discreet hybrid for when humility had to be faked.
The only thing he treated gently was Sookie—his white Persian cat with ice—blue eyes—queen of his mornings, his bed, and, if he was honest, his soul.
But this story didn’t start in his cliffside sanctuary.
***
It started under neon. The Gilded Halo—Ashmoor’s most elite den of hedonism. Red lights. Slow music. Money moving like worship – With a smell of Sins.
Sasha danced as if the world owed her diamonds. When she stepped onstage, her eyes found Rowan’s—slow, deliberate, dangerous. They’d had history. A weekend once: heated, feral, forgotten. Or so he told himself.
Later, in a booth steeped in bourbon and perfume, she curled against him like a sin he hadn’t confessed. Her lips brushed his ear. “You still taste like power, Rowan.”
He smirked. “You still know how to earn a ride home.”
Chase handled the numbers with the international developer—rich, rude, too obsessed with silicone and neon to be trusted in daylight. When the deal was done and the client was half—seduced, half—drunk, Rowan took Sasha’s hand and led her into the night.
His black car waited beneath the streetlamps, sleek and purring. Sasha clung to him, laughing, whispering promises half—true. He didn’t hear the engine. Didn’t see the lights. He didn’t register the world tilting.
The pickup came out of nowhere—black, fast, no plates. The grille hit him dead center; it crushed him, lifted him, flung him across the street like a ragdoll of bone and breath. Sasha screamed. He didn’t hear it.
The last thing Rowan saw before the world went black was blood tangled in her golden hair as she collapsed beside him. Not Sasha. Not her. A thought sharp enough to sting burned in his skull as darkness swallowed him.
***
The Virell Bridge.
The dream came again—or maybe it was memory. Reality and unreality smeared like blood across a cracked mirror.
He stood alone at the heart of the span—its bones groaning in midnight’s silence. Wind worried the twisted steel. Rain hissed like static, soaking him though he felt no cold. Below, the river churned—a black, restless maw, rocks glinting like submerged teeth.
His footsteps echoed hollow as he neared the edge. No traffic. No voices. Only the rasp of breath. He looked down. His reflection stared back—wrong. Twisted. Pale.
Blood trailed from the nose of the figure in the water. And behind it—eyes. Watching.
“Jump,” said a voice.
Slick. Deep. Sliding through bone. Male? Or something wearing a voice. It came from inside his bones.
“You have nothing left, Rowan. You know it. Jump. Let the river cleanse you.”
His hands closed on the railing, knuckles white. “You don’t get to win,” he muttered.
The voice chuckled—ancient, inhuman. “We already have.”
The bridge tilted. The world dimmed.
***
FLASH.
White light detonated. Shadows surged, vast and hungry. Gold, winged light slammed into something dark and they detonated in a soundless bloom.
Pain dragged him back.
A scream—muffled by machines. Hospital lights burned overhead—hard, merciless. Nurses shouted. Orders snapped. Iron hammered behind his eyes.
He wasn’t alone.
Across the room, a man sat with ankles crossed, dressed in a suit stitched from shadows and skin. Wrongness pulsed from him.
Skin too smooth, too pale. Eyes like polished obsidian. Teeth jagged and too many. Lips carved into a grin that knew everything and said nothing.
Rowan blinked hard. The nurse leaned over him, adjusting tubes, checking vitals. She didn’t notice. Didn’t hear. Didn’t care. Behind her, the thing tilted its head and whispered—only Rowan heard.
“What the…” Rowan rasped.
The creature grinned wider.
From the other side of the bed a figure stepped forward—not from a curtain, not from a door, but from the air itself, as if the shadows made room. Almost human: short dark hair, thick eyebrows, parchment skin threaded with wrongness, like stormclouds and regret.
He grinned, wide and knowing. “Should’ve jumped, buddy,” he said.
The heart monitor spiked. The nurse jolted and called his name. “Mr. Raithe? Can you hear me? You’ve been in a coma for three days. There was an accident.”
Above her, another shape dangled from the ceiling—ink—dark, teeth too many, swinging lazily.
“Wakey—wakey,” it said.
Rowan stared, unable to speak.
“Aw, come on. No dramatic reunion?” the air—borne thing teased.
The nurse scribbled on her clipboard, oblivious. Rowan whispered, “You don’t see them.”
She blinked. “See who, Mr. Raithe?”
Rowan shut his eyes, opened them. Still hanging. Still grinning.
“Fex,” the creature announced, bowing with mockery. “At your service.” He flipped midair and landed silently on the foot of the bed. “We met on the bridge, remember? You looked like you could use a friend.”
Rowan recoiled. “Get away from me.”
The nurse’s tone was gentle but firm. “You’re still recovering. Don’t push it.”
Fex stretched like a cat, wandered closer. “I missed you. No one else hears me. Just you. We’re going to get so close.”
Rowan’s throat caught.
Fex leaned so close his breath was a cold piano key. “We’re going to have so much fun.” Then he vanished.
Elara’s voice, real and shocked, filled the room. “Rowan? It’s me. You’re okay.”
But he wasn’t. From the corner of his vision, Fex was already dangling again—legs folded, head twisted, grin wide. Teeth like shattered glass. Eyes gleamed with satisfaction that felt like accusation.
“Did anyone visit me while I was out?” Rowan croaked.
“Elara. Chase. Ben once,” she said. “Why?”
“No reason,” he lied, though the pull in his gut told him otherwise. Two figures. The bridge. A voice.
***
The Virell memory pressed in sharper: wind like knives, rain that cut the skin, the delay in his reflection—another presence in that pause. “Jump,” the voice had sibilated. Ancient. Dry. Buried in bone.
“You have nothing left.”
“You don’t belong here anymore.”
“You’re a shell. An echo. Let go.”
“No!” he had screamed. “I don’t die like this!”
The bridge shuddered—not from wind but from something beneath the world. Then a flash of golden light exploded behind his eyes. Blinding. Final.
***
He woke with a gasp. Cold sweat. Elara’s fingers on his shoulder. “Rowan?”
He forced a trembling smile. “I’m okay.”
His thoughts kept colliding, refusing to settle. “Can you get me water?” he asked.
She went. Rowan’s eyes found the ceiling. Fex dangled, grinning ear to ear.
“You’ve torn the Veil,” Fex said softly—silk and steel. A compliment or a curse.
“Why me?” Rowan whispered. To Fex, to himself.
Fex yawned. “Because, my sunbeam, you didn’t die like you were supposed to. You left a door open, and something tried to crawl through.” He leaned closer. “You should’ve jumped. But you didn’t. Now...
| Erscheint lt. Verlag | 31.8.2025 |
|---|---|
| Sprache | englisch |
| Themenwelt | Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Fantasy |
| Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror | |
| ISBN-13 | 9780001047150 / 9780001047150 |
| Informationen gemäß Produktsicherheitsverordnung (GPSR) | |
| Haben Sie eine Frage zum Produkt? |
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