Buried In The Wind Novels & Stories

It cradled them all in its grip, carrying them smoothly away from the chaos. Prince Kayziel and Hugh, however, struggled to stay grounded. They latched onto a large metal rod embedded deep into the earth, clinging for dear life as the furious windstorm threatened to tear them apart. Prince Kayziel cursed under his breath, wondering what the hell was going on. Why was something or someone always hindering his plans for revenge? Did the universe hate him so much?

Abandoning the signboard, I collapsed onto the scorching desert sand, my sobs mixing with the sand landing in the pit. "Ahhh!!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, my voice carrying my anguish as I attempted to dig with my bare hands. The sand burned my palms, and some grains found their way between my fingers, but I didn’t care. James clicked his tongue behind me. "It's pointless, muffin. He has been buried alive. He will be gone before nightfall," his voice irritated my nerves as I scooped a handful of sand and flung it in his direction, momentarily blinding them. I seized one of the shovels, attempting to dig the pit open, but the pain in my chest hindered me.

Present – Buried Alive A violent shock of adrenaline surged through me, snapping me back into the present. The weight of the dirt pressed against my chest, squeezing my ribs, making it impossible to take a full breath. My fingers twitched, barely able to move in the dense, suffocating soil. Every tiny shift felt like trying to push through concrete. My fingers twitch in the darkness, trying to claw upward. The soil shifts – just barely. Not enough. My lungs were burning. Each breath is shorter than the last. I tried to take in air, but the pressure was too much.

Tessa brought up the rear, her hand clutched tightly around the notebook, her eyes scanning the dark horizon. They passed through a series of abandoned warehouses, their skeletons of rusted steel looming over them like prehistoric ruins. The wind howled through the broken windows, a lonely, mournful sound that seemed to lament the state of their lives. They didn't stop for rest. They didn't stop for warmth. They kept moving, pushed forward by the singular, burning need to see the Ghost Unit exposed for the hollow, corrupt machinery it was.

Dad's fingers trembled as he tried to open it, but he kept missing the button. Finally, Uncle Arnold reached over with a shaky hand and tapped it for him. The image was taken under the harsh light of a flashlight. The background was a stark landscape of white snow and black rock. Curled up in the snowdrift was a livid, purple-blue figure. His thin windbreaker was torn to shreds, exposing a gaunt, bony back beneath. The person's face was buried in the snow, his expression impossible to make out. But his hand—raised high, frozen mid-air—was clenched around a half sheet of blood-stained paper in a death grip.

“I have no reason to lie to you. Feel free to check for yourself. But don’t be too surprised when you find out what a wonder woman you abandoned.” After he finished speaking, Milo called the maintenance guy to fix my grave. Lucian left in a hurry, Selene trailing behind him. Milo turned to my tomb with a quiet whisper before he left. “You won’t blame me for telling him the truth, will you?” I couldn’t bring myself to blame him. In fact, I owed him a thank you. "Mr. Carrington, the things you asked me to investigate... I found a lot of photos." As Milo stepped out of his car, his assistant approached and whispered in his ear.

New text bled into existence in the sky overhead, the letters not clean white this time but thick, dark, like someone had dipped a finger in blood and ink and drawn them by hand. CHOOSE: BURIAL OR BIRTH. ABANDON YOUR STORIES, OR CLAIM THEM. The words hung there, heavy as stone. My heart clenched. Burial. Birth. Abandon… Claim. The meanings slotted in with nasty ease. If I buried all this—if I closed the coffin, turned my back, accepted the stone’s half‑etched HERE LIES, and walked away—I’d be doing what I’d always done. Letting the game take the pieces of me I’d left on hard drives and in notebooks and used them how it wanted.

The winds that whispered through the Valley of Dusk carried more than just the scent of wild herbs and earth—they carried the weight of a thousand unspoken promises, fractured truths, and looming war. Aria stood at the edge of the precipice, her eyes locked on the distant ridges where the land bled into the horizon. Below, the valley dipped into shadow, its secrets buried deep within the soil, forgotten by time… and forsaken by choice.

I walk the narrow trail back toward the village, the elder’s words echoing in my mind like ripples over still water. Something in me has softened, though I can’t say exactly what. Maybe it’s the way she looked at me—not with judgment, not with pity, but with understanding. Like she saw me. Like she knew the parts of me I keep buried beneath callouses and sarcasm. The wind shifts, and I catch the faintest scent of rain on the horizon. For the first time in days, I don’t feel the need to fight everything.

Lira (POV) The storm has a voice—not a scream or a howl, but a low, steady gnashing that grinds against the cabin walls like teeth on bone. Wind worms through every crack in the timber, hissing secrets I’m too tired to translate. Inside, the air is thick and sharp, soaked with the scent of pine sap, old ash, and sweat—the kind that comes from restraint, not exhaustion.