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The Rose Window: The Ashen Flame
Thornecrest Castle, Autumn of 1571
The banners fluttered like fire across the outer walls of Thornecrest, dyed in the house colors of ash-grey and wine-red. The air was alive with the scent of woodsmoke, honeyed pears, and heather, carried on the restless wind that stirred the moorlands around the castle like a dark sea.
It was the night of the Harvest Masque.
A celebration meant to pull warmth from the coming chill, to breathe life into a house still cloaked in quiet mourning. Only a year had passed since the loss of Lady Rosamund Ashenleigh, and though her name was not spoken aloud, it weighed upon the halls like the perfume that lingered in a locked chamber. Lord Darian Ashenleigh, her only son, now presided over Thornecrest—barely twenty, freshly shouldered with title and estate, and already marked by solitude.
He stood at the edge of the upper ballroom, black-gloved hands clasped behind his back, his mask fashioned from dark velvet with gilded feathers curling like flames over the temples. His raven-dark hair curled over his collar, and in his eyes glinted the same cool, unsettling grey that had once belonged to his mother.
Below him, the guests danced.
Candlelight shimmered off mirrors and polished floors, scattering fire across a hundred masks. There were lords and ladies from distant houses, draped in opulence, and country daughters blooming in seasonal silks. Drink flowed freely; laughter filled the air—but Darian’s gaze was drawn elsewhere.
Across the ballroom, a girl in a gown of deep midnight blue moved like water through the crowd. Her mask, delicate silver and shaped like wings, concealed all but her mouth, which was soft and still. She wore no jewels save for a thin, dark ribbon at her throat and a single white rose pinned just above her heart.
She was unfamiliar, and that intrigued him.
As if sensing his gaze, she turned. Their eyes met. In that instant—though masked, unnamed, and distant—Darian felt a slow recognition coil through him like smoke finding its way home.
He descended the stairs...
A stand-alone story that interconnects with the continuing saga of the Thornecrest Series.
----
The banners fluttered like fire across the outer walls of Thornecrest, dyed in the house colors of ash-grey and wine-red. The air was alive with the scent of woodsmoke, honeyed pears, and heather, carried on the restless wind that stirred the moorlands around the castle like a dark sea.
It was the night of the Harvest Masque.
A celebration meant to pull warmth from the coming chill, to breathe life into a house still cloaked in quiet mourning. Only a year had passed since the loss of Lady Rosamund Ashenleigh, and though her name was not spoken aloud, it weighed upon the halls like the perfume that lingered in a locked chamber. Lord Darian Ashenleigh, her only son, now presided over Thornecrest—barely twenty, freshly shouldered with title and estate, and already marked by solitude.
He stood at the edge of the upper ballroom, black-gloved hands clasped behind his back, his mask fashioned from dark velvet with gilded feathers curling like flames over the temples. His raven-dark hair curled over his collar, and in his eyes glinted the same cool, unsettling grey that had once belonged to his mother.
Below him, the guests danced.
Candlelight shimmered off mirrors and polished floors, scattering fire across a hundred masks. There were lords and ladies from distant houses, draped in opulence, and country daughters blooming in seasonal silks. Drink flowed freely; laughter filled the air—but Darian’s gaze was drawn elsewhere.
Across the ballroom, a girl in a gown of deep midnight blue moved like water through the crowd. Her mask, delicate silver and shaped like wings, concealed all but her mouth, which was soft and still. She wore no jewels save for a thin, dark ribbon at her throat and a single white rose pinned just above her heart.
She was unfamiliar, and that intrigued him.
As if sensing his gaze, she turned. Their eyes met. In that instant—though masked, unnamed, and distant—Darian felt a slow recognition coil through him like smoke finding its way home.
He descended the stairs...
A stand-alone story that interconnects with the continuing saga of the Thornecrest Series.
----
42 pages, Kindle Edition
Published June 15, 2025
1 person is currently reading
2 people want to read
About the author
Alsen Barrett
9 books2 followersAlsen Barrett is a writer of fiction, non-fiction and poetry who enjoys reading, history, travel and of course dogs, which feature prominently in many of the stories.
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