Clara Dorne wasn’t the type to scare easily. She had learned early in her career that fear was a luxury she couldn’t afford. At 32, she had built a reputation as a relentless journalist, the kind who asked the hard questions and never backed down from a story, no matter how dangerous or convoluted it became. But beneath her polished confidence and piercing green eyes lay a patchwork of scars—both literal and figurative—that hinted at a life spent chasing shadows.


    Born and raised in the heart of London, Clara had always been restless. Her childhood home, a cramped flat above a laundromat, had been filled with the sounds of her parents’ arguments and the ceaseless hum of city life. Her father, a history professor with a penchant for disappearing into his books, had instilled in her a love for unraveling mysteries. Her mother, on the other hand, had been the picture of pragmatism, constantly urging Clara to pursue stability over adventure. Clara had chosen neither. Instead, she charted her own path, one that straddled the line between chaos and clarity.


    Her career as a journalist began humbly, covering local council meetings and human-interest stories for a regional newspaper. But it wasn’t long before her knack for digging deeper set her apart. She had a way of reading between the lines, of finding the thread that others missed. This instinct had served her well—most of the time. There was one story, though, that she couldn’t forget.


    Five years ago, Clara had been investigating a political scandal involving embezzlement and cover-ups in the heart of Westminster. The exposé had earned her accolades, but it also left her reeling. A close source had been silenced—his death ruled a suicide, though Clara never believed it. The guilt of his loss still haunted her, a constant reminder of the stakes involved in pursuing the truth.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    That case had taught Clara two things: the truth was always buried deeper than it appeared, and exposing it came with a price.


    She had spent the years since chasing stories that others deemed unsolvable—missing persons, corporate corruption, and now the haunting whispers of Ashbourne’s Blackthorn fire. Her editor often joked that Clara had a "death wish," but she knew it was more complicated than that. She wasn’t chasing danger; she was chasing meaning.


    Clara’s appearance was as deliberate as her questions. She kept her auburn hair in a sleek bob, her wardrobe a mix of practicality and subtle sophistication. A tailored coat, leather boots sturdy enough for trudging through ruins, and a crossbody bag filled with notebooks, pens, and her trusty recorder. She had an eye for detail and a sharp tongue that could cut through deflections with surgical precision.


    But Clara wasn’t just defined by her work. She had a softer side, one she rarely let others see. She loved classic literature, quoting authors like Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath in moments of introspection. She had a weakness for jazz records and late-night whiskey, often indulging in both while piecing together the fragments of her investigations. And though she rarely admitted it, she carried a quiet fear of failure—a fear that the truth she sought might never be enough to fill the voids she carried.


    Now, standing in the graveyard behind the old church, Clara’s thoughts flickered to the letter that had brought her to Ashbourne. The truth lies beneath the ashes. It was cryptic, yes, but it resonated with her in a way she couldn’t explain. It was as though the sender had seen into her soul, knew the questions she couldn’t stop asking. What secrets did the Blackthorn Estate hold? And how far would she have to go to uncover them?


    As the fog curled around her like ghostly tendrils, Clara felt the familiar thrill of the chase. She didn’t know who to trust—Elias, the man in the forest, or even herself. But she knew one thing for certain: she wasn’t just here for a story. She was here to uncover the truth, no matter what it cost her. And in a town as silent and secretive as Ashbourne, the cost could be more than she ever anticipated.