A SONG FOR THE ASHES

Before the events of A SONG FOR THE ASHES, a single, devastating memory defined Luka’s entire existence. Discover that moment in this exclusive excerpt from the prequel short story, "The Last Lesson."

A tiny box caught his father’s attention: metallic, shiny, and with an intricate pattern etched into its surface. The smooth metal, odd in a world of toxic rust and grey, was half covered in grime. His father’s hand, thin and trembling, pulled it from a cocoon of frozen mud at the bottom of a collapsed structure. He came to where his dad stood to examine the find.

That's strange. It still remained unowned after all this time. For thirteen-year-old Luka, it appeared to be the cleanest thing he ever touched.

His father, his breath a wet, rattling sound in the frigid air, turned it over, assessing its worth in components. “Pre-Catastrophe alloy. No corrosion. The hinges are worthless, but the casing… good haul.”

He pried open the lid. Inside, nestled in faded velvet, a small, delicate clockwork mechanism existed: a rotating brass cylinder covered in tiny pins and a steel comb with teeth of varying lengths. His father prodded it with a grimy finger. “Junk. Too delicate to scrap.” He tossed it aside. Luka, mesmerized by the strange machine, picked it up.

“Wait.”

His finger found a small, winding key. He turned it. A soft clicking sound echoed in the cold air, and a miracle occurred.

A clean, sad geometry of notes began to chime from the box, a structured tonal sequence which carved something orderly out of the world’s oppressive chaos. Luka froze. It wasn't the howl of the wind or the groan of stressed metal he was used to hearing. A caged song... music. Something he’d never heard before, like a shape, an impression, a place he had never known existed.

His father grunted, his eyes narrowing, not with wonder, but with a flicker of old, bitter anger. “Don’t get attached to the noise, Luka. It’s a trick.”

I love this sound. In Luka's eyes, its value surpassed anything he’d ever encountered, and it had nothing to do with scrapcoins and survival.

They were halfway back to their shelter when a figure detached itself from the ruins. The man, gaunt, his eyes burning with a focused, intelligent fire, strolled toward them. His eyes fixated on the box in Luka’s hands.

“The song,” the man rasped, holding up a hand. “I heard it.”

“None of your concern,” Luka’s father coughed, his hand tightening on his pipe spear.

“It is.” The man stepped closer. “I’m Kael. I collect things which remember.” He pulled a cloth from his pack, revealing a fist-sized trinket: a functioning, Old World water purifier component. “I’ll trade you. The tool for the song.”

Luka’s breath caught. The purifier meant guaranteed survival. Yet the thought of parting with the melodic sound gave him anxiety.

“Do it, Dad.”