An Ember in the Ashes (An Ember in the Ashes, #1)

by Sabaa Tahir

Life is made of so many moments that mean nothing. Then one day, a single moment comes along to define every second that comes after.

The field of battle is my temple. The swordpoint is my priest. The dance of death is my prayer. The killing blow is my release.

“You are an ember in the ashes, Elias Veturius. You will spark and burn, ravage and destroy. You cannot

change it. You cannot stop it.”

My parents were the greatest leaders in the Resistance’s five-hundred-year history.

know they want me to be brave and charming, like Mother. They want me to listen, really listen, like Father.

All the beauty of the stars means nothing when life here on earth is so ugly.

There’s something of our mother in this man’s ferocity, something of our father in the way he carries himself. His passion is true and contagious. When he speaks, I want to believe.

“Look at us,” he says. “Scholar slave and Mask, each trying to persuade the other that they’re not evil. The Augurs do have a sense of humor, don’t they?”

“The kind that’s a burden and the kind that gives you purpose. Let your guilt be your fuel. Let it remind you of who you want to be. Draw a line in your mind. Never cross it again. You have a soul. It’s damaged, but it’s there. Don’t let them take it from you, Elias.”

You fear your cowardice will spell the doom of your brother. You yearn to understand why your parents chose the Resistance over their children. Your heart wants Keenan, and yet your body is alight when Elias Veturius is near. You—”

“You are full, Laia. Full of life and dark and strength and spirit. You are in our dreams. You will burn, for you are an ember in the ashes. That is your destiny. Being a Resistance spy—that is the smallest part of you. That is nothing.”

And suddenly, I don’t feel bewildered or defeated. This—this—was what Cain spoke of: the freedom to go to my death knowing it’s for the right reason. The freedom to call my soul my own. The freedom to salvage some small goodness by refusing to become like my mother, by dying for something that is worth dying for. “I don’t know what happened to you,” I say. “I don’t know who my father was or why you hate him so much. But I know my death won’t free you. It won’t give you peace. You’re not the one killing me. I chose to die. Because I’d rather die than become like you. I’d rather die than live with no mercy, no honor, no soul.”