Novels by Brainwaves

The throne room hadn’t changed...not in stone or glass or the high, arched ceilings that still groaned with memory...but something in the air had.It wasn’t incense or blood this time.It was Jasmine.She stood before them barefoot, a sheer mantle of silver smoke draped over her shoulders and nothing beneath it but skin and intention. The floor had been swept clean after the war, but the scent of what had happened still lingered in the cracks… just like her.The Court waited.Old Alphas. New soldiers. Rogues made tame. Women who had once been chained.Roger stood at her side—not in front, not behind. His bruises were still fresh, his lip still split from the night she reminded him how submission could be beautiful if it was chosen.She didn’t sit on the throne. She stood beside it.Let them wonder if she would ever need to sit.Let them burn.A low murmur rippled through the gathered wolves, thick with expectation and unease. Jasmine raised one hand. Silence rolled in like smoke.She

They tried to put her in white.Jasmine stood before the grand mirror... shattered now, cracked like an omen... and stared at the dress someone had dared lay across the bed. Pure silk. Pale. Virginal. As if the past two hundred days of war, of heat, of teeth in her throat and power in her hips, hadn’t happened.She ran her fingers along the fabric.Then let it fall to the ground like a dead thing.She didn’t need silk to be sacred.She didn’t need white to be worthy.When she stepped out into the hall, barefoot, blood still dried beneath her nails, a gown of deep crimson wrapped around her body like hunger made flesh, no one dared stop her.The pack was waiting.And they were starving.The throne room smelled of wolves and ash, the air still thick with the scent of the bodies they’d burned. Soot coated the marble columns. The old banners had been torn down, replaced with rough fabric dyed in shades of wine and rust. Her color. Her claim.Eyes turned as she entered. Dozens of them. Alp

They said the coronation would happen at dusk.But dusk came and went... and Jasmine did not arrive.The court waited—tight-lipped, coiled, dressed in mourning-black and expectation. Candles burned down to stubs. Goblets remained untouched. The throne at the center of the long obsidian hall sat draped in velvet, vacant. Too many eyes flicked to it and then away.A queen who kept them waiting was a queen they feared.Outside, the winds howled through the stone bones of Blackfang’s keep. Smoke coiled up from torches, refusing to rise clean. The air was wrong. Wild. As if something in it remembered teeth.Roger stood at the far end of the chamber, his arms crossed over his chest, blood still crusted beneath his fingernails from the night before. His jaw was locked. His body, bruised and burning from Jasmine’s touch, carried itself like it had been marked from the inside out.And maybe it had.Because he felt it too.The change.The shift.A hum beneath his skin that didn’t come from his

The fire had long since burned out. All that remained were the embers—simmering, stubborn, hot in a way that stayed in the bones long after the flames had stopped trying to devour the sky.Jasmine stood at the edge of it all. The courtyard, the blood, the silence that came after a pack had screamed themselves hoarse. Smoke clung to her hair. Her robe was open, her skin streaked in ash and sweat and grief. There was no one left to seduce. No one left to fight.Only him.Roger sat on the steps like a war beast too tired to bare his teeth. His shirt was ripped open, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, wounds healing beneath blood that refused to dry. The silver in his hair caught the moonlight. His mouth—usually curled in something cruel or cocky—was soft now. Slack. Human.Jasmine walked to him without sound.Not like prey.Not like a queen.Just a woman who had finally stopped running.He didn’t look up when she sank to her knees in front of him, didn’t move when her fingers b

The fire was still burning.Not in the halls. Not in the trees. But inside Jasmine. In the cracks of her ribs. In the soft space behind her eyes where memories were supposed to sleep. It roared quiet and cruel. And she carried it like perfume.The floor of the throne room was soaked. Not with blood. But with breath—held, broken, spent. The council had scattered after the claiming, their arousal and fear still clinging to the walls like sweat. Jasmine hadn’t spoken to any of them.She hadn't needed to.They already knelt.But now, the moon was low... and something wasn’t right.Not with the air. Not with the silence. Not with the hollow chill that slid down her spine like a ghost dragging fingers made of ice.She didn’t wait for warning.She ran.Barefoot. Through the stone halls of Blackfang’s court, through the heat and echo of its sleeping bones. Her robe fluttered behind her like a wound still bleeding silk. No one stopped her.Not when they saw her face.It was Roger who met her at

The battlefield was already cooling when she saw him fall.Not in surrender.Not in death.But in the kind of collapse that breaks something permanent.Roger didn’t cry out. He didn’t scream. He hit the earth the way mountains do when they finally remember gravity. Hard. Slow. Final.The wolves were still howling, still huddled and licking wounds or limping toward each other like survivors of some forgotten god’s wrath. Jasmine had been walking back to the shattered stone ring, barefoot and blood-drunk, her pulse still singing in her wrists. And then—She turned.And the world went silent.There he was. Bent in the waist. Blood leaking from beneath his ribs like something sacred. One knee in the dirt. One hand pressed into the ground like it might keep him tethered to the living.He looked up at her, and there was nothing regal in his face. Nothing cruel. Just a man who had given everything and hadn’t noticed it until now.Jasmine didn’t run.She walked.Slow.Like every step was a de

The night didn’t begin like any other.It began with silence.A cruel, bone-deep silence.Not the kind that settled over peace…The kind that came before a storm. The kind that waited for blood to touch ash before it screamed.Julian stood on the ridge, above the last Hollowborn trench, his breath misting in the cold. Wolves weredying in the field below...ripped apart by the Bone Army. Creatures made from twisted history, from rottedsinew and the memories of dead things that should have stayed buried.They came in rows. Hollow eyes. Fangs made of carved teeth from others. Wolves that didn’t bleed when cut. Wolves that didn’t stop moving when torn in half.And still, the Hollowborn fought.Flesh tore. Claws broke. Screams echoed, not just from throats but from the very earth.Julian bled from a cut above his eye. One arm hung limp. His shoulder had been bitten to the bone, but he still stood.He looked down at the battlefield.At Emilia.At the woman they’d called girl, witch, alpha,

The moon was an open wound in the sky.It bled across the clouds, staining them red as it rose slow and heavy over the treeline. Below it, the earth rumbled—not with earthquakes, not with thunder, but with feet. Dozens. Hundreds. Wolves, half-turned and starving, howled through the night like the bones of the world had cracked.War had come.And it came wearing fur and rage.The first outpost burned before midnight.Emilia stood at the edge of the blaze, her hair snapping wild in the wind, her boots sinking into the ash-softened soil. Her hands were streaked with blood that wasn’t hers. Her throat tasted of iron. Wolves lay in heaps behind her—some Hollowborn, some rogue, some beyond even naming. But none of them Victor’s.Not yet.She raised her head as another howl cracked the air—close now. Her eyes glowed, gold and haunted.“Asher,” she growled.He was already beside her, shirtless, blood-slicked, teeth bared.“They’re coming from the east. Six scouts. Maybe more behind,” he said,

He came like a storm walking on two legs.Not for love.Not for power.But for vengeance.Not the seething, silent kind that waits in the shadows. No—this was fire vengeance. Screaming vengeance. The kind of wrath that could birth legends or burn worlds to ash, and didn’t care which came first.Victor crossed the Hollowborn border with no crown and no sigil.Only bone.Bone armor lashed to his chest with the tendons of traitors. Bone claws that scraped against stone when he walked. Bone wolves at his heels—half-spirit, half-skin, stitched together from nightmares and the dead.And worst of all?His eyes.Gone was the smolder. The seduction. What remained was hollow gold, burning not with lust or hunger anymore—but with judgment. A god scorned. A creature made only to unmake.They say the forest warned them before they saw him.The trees bent the wrong way.The birds choked mid-flight.The rivers curved backward, like they, too, were fleeing.At the edge of the Hollowborn territory, Em

The sound echoed through every den. Every ruin. Every trembling root of the Hollowborn forest.A howl.Not the kind that summoned. Not the kind that mourned. Not even the kind that warned.This one was a detonation.Victor Marshall fell to his knees beneath a canopy of rotted branches, the sigils on his skin peeling like dead bark. He clawed at his chest—at the place where her scent used to live, where her presence pulsed like a second heart. Gone now. Gone like air in drowning lungs.He screamed.The cry rippled out in concentric circles across the realm—up through trees, down through grave soil, through the lungs of wolves who dropped to all fours in terror.Julian heard it from a ridge overlooking the ruins of a rebel camp. Asher felt it where he sat beside a cooling fire, sharpening Emilia’s old blade. And Emilia… Emilia stood barefoot in the glade of the Hollowborn altar, wind teasing her hair, gold glowing beneath her skin. Her pulse stilled as the sound reached her bones.T

The forest had grown too quiet.Not the silence of peace. Not even the kind bred by death.This was the hush before something broke.Emilia knelt beside the charred circle where the bone wolves had bowed. In her hands, she held a box made of bone and blackened iron. It was cold even in the rising heat of the Blood Moon. Her fingers trembled around the edges of the clasp—not from fear, but something harder to name. Something closer to recognition.The artifact had been buried beneath the Hollowborn altar, hidden in a compartment marked only by a ring of dried blood that never faded. Julian had found it when the dust settled, his voice flat when he handed it over.“You’ll know what to do,” he said.But she didn’t. Not yet.Asher stepped into the clearing behind her. He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe too loudly. Just stood there like he knew this was not a moment to interrupt.Emilia opened the box.Inside, nestled in ash and silver thread, was a ring—no jewel, no elegance. Just a plain ba

The first howl came from beneath the earth.Not from throat nor flesh. But from marrow.Julian heard it before he saw them... felt it like a cold hand closing around the base of his spine, gripping tight. The wind held no scent. The trees stood too still. The night had a pulse, but it didn’t beat. It thrummed, like something remembering blood.And then the wolves came.From the clefts in the ravine. From the graves behind abandoned farmhouses. From the hollows of trees older than the war itself. Bones, knitted together with dark sinew and strips of burned wolfhide. Some had skulls cracked down the center like they'd been reborn from death. Others still bore the sigils of the fallen—torn banners from Victor's past kills. This wasn't just an army. It was a funeral that kept walking.Julian gritted his teeth, standing atop the stone ridge overlooking the field that once cradled Hollowborn meetings. The moon was high, bloated, sick with omen. His palms itched for the blade at his back.