In a land far, far away... not in distance, but in time, was the heart of Yellowstone. A lone wolf stood on a rocky outcrop, its silhouette against the moon's light. Its haunting cry cuts through the crisp night air, embodying the land's raw, untamed spirit.

Now, water swallows this world, washing away all that once dared to rise.

Scientists called it the "Seismic Convergence Phenomenon." At first, it was meant to be an eruption, not a cataclysm. An unusual alignment of tectonic plates beneath Yellowstone unleashed an unprecedented geothermal surge, triggering an explosion 1,000 times more powerful than expected. In the moments after, the convulsion shifted the planet, killing almost everything. Soon, fractures split the earth, sparking new eruptions. Chaos followed: fires raged, the sky darkened, earthquakes shattered continents, and oceans swallowed cities. Manhattan was among the first. In the aftermath, land vanished. Ash and gas circled the globe. Most died. For those who survived, time marked a new world: technology lost, infrastructure gone, life reverted to ancient ways. Markets replaced landmarks. Water purification became survival's centerpiece. Travel grew dangerous; roads broke or sank. Ashy air made respirators essential. Under an ever-darker night sky, society’s rhythm changed.

It was known as the 'Nightbringer.'

___ introduction to, THE BOOK OF ASH

​

Three hundred years ago, the world changed. But this was the only world he knew. He stared at the distant lake, ash swirling lightly. Bellmore City's spires rose beyond the water. In his solar-giggs, tiny glass patterns flickered, magical and mysterious. He lost focus, drawn into memories of the event that changed his life. The eddying ash returned him there.

The blast struck the building, bending stone like clay. Glass exploded inward. Shards flew. Chaos reigned. A child's crayon rolled across the floor, untouched. Uproar drowned screams. The world seemed to inhale, everything reversing. Glass sucked toward the blast, shards tearing skin. His hands, arms, and face stung. He choked back a scream and pulled away. Windows became gaping, jagged mouths. Above, black clouds rolled thick. In those seconds, the sudden reversal mirrored a looming pivotal choice—survival demanded change, just like that uncanny day.

He blinked. His solar-giggs hummed.

The echo faded as flowers swayed before him. A metallic taste flooded his tongue. The pungent smoke revived long-buried memories. Exhaling, he anchored himself. It baffled him that an event from fifteen years ago kept resurfacing. Yet, the taste lingered—a premonition hinting at decisions ahead he couldn't yet define. A choice forcing him to face the shadows of that lost world.

He took off his glove and grabbed his water-stein. Raising it, he caught the scar on his right hand—pale, from a shard. He flinched, shaking off the memory, swallowing the cool water. The metallic tang persisted. The dream clung to his muscles, as if his body would not let go.

He wondered why this memory returned today.

He slumped against the cooling shed, a stagnant life enveloping him, a thin coat of dust untouched. In this still haze, a withered seed pod lay at his feet, its casing crisp and faded. The world paused, mirroring him. He recalled the living room chaos—scattered art, shattered glass, twisted frames—signs of a recent clash. An argument erupted. He confronted Daggar on late nights and absences. Deep down, he understood Daggar's secrecy.

He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment the arguments turned violent, but an incident stood out in sharp relief in his mind. It started like any other argument, with old wounds pricked anew, each trading words that sliced through the veneer of civility. The tension was a taut wire ready to snap. In a moment of desperation, he reached out. "Why can't you just be here, Daggar? Every night it's the same excuse. Just talk to me," he pleaded, voice cracking under the strain.

Daggar's eyes darkened, his features sharpening as if sculpted from shadow. "Maybe if you weren't so needy, I'd have a reason to be around. For La-Vaa's sake, you suffocate me sometimes!" Daggar's words landed like blows. His pulse quickened. The fear of losing Daggar intertwined with yearning for connection. This relationship, despite its fractures, was his anchor in the ruins of his life.

As they spat words edged with hurt, emotions flared. He stood his ground. The rising emotions turned the living room into a battlefield, as Daggar, in a burst of anger, shoved him. The world tilted, reality shattered, strung together by adrenaline. He stumbled, colliding with the wall, the impact sudden and real. Eyes wide in shock, he absorbed the aftermath—a manifestation of the unresolved tug-of-war that defined them. He lay among the wreckage after Daggar threw him against the wall.

Perhaps it was the sound of the glass shattering on the floor that brought that memory racing back. He felt the ache in his body again. Fast, ragged breaths escaped him, matching his frantic heartbeat. He tried to ignore the pain. Daggar's image appeared again.

Daggar saw the devastation and hesitated. His eyes flickered with anger and regret; fists clenched, then released, he surrendered to his actions. His father's harsh words echoed. Daggar's jaw tightened, gaze dropping, resolve faltering. Something cracked—vulnerability and frustration surfaced. He twisted the blame.

“This is your fault. You pushed me to it,” he yelled, slamming the door.

The jarring sound rocked him back.

He inhaled again, holding it, adjusting his venti-tube as he returned to the seed pod at his boot, his hand tracing the scar on his right hand. He was broken. His heart was broken.

But it had been broken before.

At ten, he lost his parents, thrown into a life with an aunt and uncle he barely knew.

Smashed.

His heart was working. Valves opened and closed. But something didn't feel right. It felt too open. And now he felt everything much more. People called him too sensitive. His heart felt like a window without glass, every emotion and energy piercing straight through. Joy flashed like fireworks in a dim sky, brief gifts in an indifferent world. Pain lingered, casting long shadows that refused to fade.

Broken.

When his dog died, he cried for weeks. Loss overwhelmed him. When his aunt and uncle argued, his world felt unstable. He couldn't bear the noise or tension, hiding where no one could find him, seeking silence to rebuild. Disappearing for days wasn't just escape. It let him recalibrate, retreating to breathe without others' emotions crowding him.

Silent.

At twelve, his heart broke again. His grandfather died, and he lost the cherished watch—a constant presence during tales of adventure. The watch meant connection and warmth. The finality deepened the shadows around his heart. Later, losing a toy or a friend's betrayal echoed this. Each loss replayed the aching sense of impermanence.

A whisper.

He was thirteen when he first stole Uncle Piper's growler flask. It clinked like a stolen heart—his first taste of rebellion in a world ruled by scarcity and black markets. One sip gave him warmth, easing his edges, and, for a moment, calm. Each sip echoed inside, masking his inner chaos.

His rebellion brought guilt. The next day, his uncle noticed the missing ale and questioned him sharply. Piper's disappointment burned, forcing him to confront his actions and their consequences. This moment added bitter conflict to his momentary relief.

Broken.

​At fifteen, he swiped Aunt Jet's medicinal pipe. The promise of mending himself drew him in deeper. The flask's echo threaded through his choices. Emboldened by the stolen sips, he became enmeshed in moments of false clarity and temporary relief.

By nineteen, he got so high he thought he could fly. The ground, however, betrayed his illusion. He fell from the roof and broke his arm. Each mistake echoed the clink of the flask. The sound marked his downfalls, ever-present even in silence, a shadow following him.

Shattered.

His heart was in pieces.

Fractured.

He couldn't repair the cracks.

Fragmented.

It let everything in.

Ruined.

Time marched forward. He attended advanced studies like his father, hoping to make Piper and Jet proud. Instead of focusing on science and advancements for mankind, his ruined heart could only absorb the arts. Its beauty was soft, ethereal, kind, and healing. Beauty, not progress, was what he realized could save what was left of him. It gave him the strength to continue.

He tried charcoal. Too smudgy.

He tried ceramics. Dirty on his skin.

Three-D design. Couldn't see around it.

Jewelry making. Tedious.

Glass blowing. Breathless.

Watercolor. Backwards.

He traveled to the other Foundries, hoping a change would do him good. The Foundries, known as bustling hubs of innovation, technology, and industry, were scattered across the landscape. Each a community where creativity and craftsmanship flourished. These were places where people came together to share knowledge and skills. Perhaps something would spark, a new passion would kindle. At one Foundry, a mural of ash rising like a phoenix captured his attention, hinting at rebirth. Its depiction of beauty rising from destruction planted a seed of hope.

But the roots withered.

No job, no future.

He returned to his own Foundry and took a life painting class.

He met a man.

The first time he saw Daggar, he was on the dais. Raw energy in a robe. The kind of handsome that was chiseled from stone. His robe fell, causing a ripple of murmurs from the other students. His eyes lingered on Daggar. He noticed a wavering in his fingers. A moment of vulnerability. There were tired shadows under his eyes, hinting at something beyond the imagery before him.

Daggar stole his breath.

They met after the class.

He dropped his drawing pad as usual in front of Daggar as they were leaving the studio. It fell open to the sketches. As Daggar reached to retrieve it, he leaned down to adjust the pad, straightening a drawing that had shifted in his descent. His fingers brushed the paper, fixing a shadow line with practiced precision. An action so natural it briefly silenced the admiration he was feeling. He was able to breathe again.

Daggar, amazed at what he saw, marveled at the movement and shadow depicted with raw energy, capturing a hero, a warrior. He was a statue larger than life.

Daggar smiled at him.

In that moment, the flutters returned.

It left him speechless.

Intimidated, shy, insecure.

He followed Daggar to a club. They chatted. They drank. Amid the world's chaos, the two found unexpected comfort in each other. It was as if the night's energy wove their souls together, a connection so genuine it hummed in the air around them. They began to become one, intertwined like the pencil marks on the paper beside them. By the end of the night, he was falling in love, not with the idea of love, but with the man himself—Daggar.

The club's lights painted them in hues of dreams, and for the first time, he felt seen in a way he hadn't with Gunner or Ward. Those relationships had been messy, full of starts, stops, and dead ends. Fragments of attempts at love that never seemed to fit. But with Daggar, everything felt fluid. That night, the worship began to cost him, yet he was willing to pay. Daggar brought a vibrancy to his life. A flame amidst the ash of their world, a color that was missing from his palette.

Three years.

Three years of late nights, vid-casts on the preceiver-squid, and laughter. Three years of giving more than he had. Sacrifices cut deeper over time, each one erasing a part of himself. He even sold one of his treasured sketches, a piece he had vowed never to part with, to buy Daggar a new pair of solar-giggs. It reminded him of a time he turned down a commission that could have brought both recognition and financial relief, just to be available for Daggar. Each act diminished who he was.

Three years.

With every pedestal erected, he marked through more inside. Giving up a part of himself. Daggar, though appreciative, seemed distant. His acknowledgment was often shallow—a quick smile or a brief thank-you, a nod that hinted at affection without truly voicing it.

Three years of Daggar lying to him.

Finding out that he 'wasn't enough.’

That Daggar saw other men.

Three years.

Graffiti on the wall, where they strolled several nights ago, screamed those words back at him. "You're not enough." As he stared at those harsh words, a spark of defiance ignited within him. He imagined himself picking up a heavy brush, scribbling over the letters with his own truth. "I am more than enough."

The imagined act was cathartic. A silent rebellion against the echo of doubt. In that moment, he knew a decision had to be made. He could feel the weight of his years with Daggar pressing down on him. The need to reclaim his narrative, burning brighter than before. He decided to confront Daggar, to speak his truth and redefine their relationship, or walk away and focus on his own path.

The wall's message need not be his own. He could redefine it. As if the streets heard his plea, the wind carried a whisper.

"You're not enough."

“I thought you loved me?”

“I did--- for awhile--- but you're --"

“Not enough.”

He watched him walk out.

Broken.

An implanting-bat nudged him, rocking him back to the field. It was trying to pass him in the row of flowers. He watched it trundle by, a soft hum calming his agitation, its softness not only heard, but felt. His eyes scanned the dancing flowers as he looked into the setting sun. Rows stretched towards the horizon. They swayed in the breeze as the sun bounced off their beautiful petals. It was a magical dance of color, light, and shadow, one that should bring him much joy; instead, it added to his pain.

The sweet scent of the blossoms mingled with the acrid smell of ash. A reminder of the destruction that still haunted his world. It underlined the emptiness within. Amplifying the ache of his lost joy. He looked at his hands. Strong and long fingered. Hands that worked the soil and tried to heal his spirit. These creative hands always searched for purpose, much like his soul.

He took a deep breath, blinked away tears, and withdrew a writing stick and pad from his pocket. Memories of childhood returned—days spent drawing beside his grandfather, whose stories breathed life into their joint creations. Art, once a bridge to his past, became his guide, urging him to find meaning beyond his pain.

He walked behind the cooling shed and sat at the small table where he spent his breaks. It was time to return to the art he had left behind. To find comfort and strength in drawing. As his hand moved gracefully across the small page, he envisioned each stroke of the pencil sketching a vessel. A vessel that was cracked, pitted, and damaged. He realized his hands knew how to shape not just images, but his destiny. By doing this, he could begin to heal and move beyond it. That Daggar wasn’t necessary anymore. He could create something new.

He started repairing the cracks.

He erased the damage.

The graphite whispered of new beginnings.

The sunlight warmed his scar as it streamed across the page, casting gentle patterns of his hand on his work, reminiscent of shadows from trees he had drawn as a child. He touched the warm, damaged skin. For the first time, he felt something shift—an ember of hope sparking into a flicker that hinted at something.

He wanted to rise like ash reformed by a master's hand. To be reshaped as art from shattered glass. Creating beauty from fragments and finding strength in the cracks. In reflecting on his own work, he sought a connection to the world that both withered and enlivened him.

Billy Sabre wanted to be…

Unbroken.