Burned Hopkins Novel Novels & Stories

Prologue II: Pyre, 3113 Pyre Av 5, 3113 Stephan Caliphus, King Everything was on fire the night he finished the book in the back room of a borrowed house. He laid his glasses down on the desk in front of him and rubbed his tired eyes. The crackling of flames could be heard as the city burned all around them. The blood curdling screams of the men in the streets where they died was enough to make the blood of the fiercest warrior run cold, but he was a man of empathy and it hurt him more than it did the others.

A transfer agreement, a so-called wedding gift, trading my freedom for a decade of peace between the Marshalls and the Harlows. My fingers went white-knuckled as I read. John was not just after my future; he was auctioning me off like a peace treaty bonus prize. Those docks were more than just a thank-you for eighteen years of upbringing; they were a fifty-year sentence to a life I did not choose. I shot back a reply, short and not-so-sweet: [Just wait.] Sophomore year rolled around, and Mom's shaky voice came through the line: "Harriet, your father, he's been hit in a dockside ambush, he's half-paralyzed."

During that walk back home, the hand-written manuscript of my first completed story (going by the length, it would have been a novella), the yearning for The Booker, the aspiration of batting like Sachin, the fantasy of writing a story for my best friend’s film, the vision of the hilltop cottage, bringing Deuta’s murderers to justice – everything that made up my existence – felt like a heavy burden. I stayed up the night feigning studies and waiting for Nisim to start snoring. Around midnight, when almost everyone was asleep in our building, I quietly sneaked out of the bed, grabbed the manuscript of my novella and my cricket kit, went out in the lawn and set them on fire. The flames rose up

Her legs trembled, her lungs burned, and the sound of the fire crackling drowned out the noise of her own sobs. Through the blaze, she caught a glimpse of the twisted metal frame—blackened, unrecognizable. Her knees gave out. She sank to the ground, numb and shaking, as the world blurred around her. In the roar of fire and chaos, only one thought consumed her: If Serena was really gone, then Alexander Vanderbilt had just killed the only person who ever truly loved him. And he would never even realize it until it was too late. ---

Tears filled her eyes as she whispered against his chest, “Then burn it down. Burn the book. Please.” But when he reached for the pages, the blood hissed back like flames resisting him. The book laughed—a sharp, broken sound akin to paper tearing apart: “You can’t burn her story, fox; you can only read it…and reading means obeying.” Camela’s scream caught in her throat as she muttered, “It spoke…” Vincent bared his teeth in defiance as his fire flared even higher. “Then I’ll silence it,” he said fiercely. He slammed his hand down, his fire blazing but the pages didn’t burn. Instead, they bled harder and thicker, flooding the floor until it reached their ankles.

"I don't believe in miracles anymore, Ben. I believe in stubbornly refusing to die. There's a difference." "Is there?" he asked, his voice softer now. "Sometimes I think your stubborn refusal to give up is the closest thing to a miracle I've seen since The Burning." The mention of The Burning made my chest tighten, as it always did. The memories were still too fresh, too raw. I could still smell the smoke, hear the screms, see the sky turning that terrible shade of orange as the world caught fire. I pushed the thoughts away, focusing instead on putting one foot in front of the other.

The fortress was chaos. Wolves rushed with buckets and soaked hides, trying to smother the flames that devoured the eastern corridor. Children cried as mothers herded them into the cold night. Sparks rained from the rafters, catching in fur and hair, forcing frantic hands to beat them out. The air was thick with smoke, bitter and choking. And everywhere, eyes cut toward me. The whispers rose even through the roar of fire. “It started when she woke “Look at her hand “The Harbinger fire she’s losing control

Chapter Three,The Book That Burns. She whispered, “No…” The final line appeared, slow and deliberate. Chapter Four, Olivia Dies or did she…?

all natural" thing is a turn off." He snapped his fingers and Helena closed her eyes, momentarily blinded by a bonfire of flames erupting from Sophie's bed. She could hear her blood-curdling screams and well imagine the pain she was going through, having gone through it herself. The flames vanished, revealing the bed and Sophie completely unharmed. Her clothes and every hair from the neck down had been burned away. While her skin was undamaged, she cried and moaned in pain, feeling like she had suffered third-degree burns. "Why are you doing this?" she whimpered.

CHAPTER 62 — The Hunters Arrive The gunshot cracked through the dawn like thunder. Not close. But not far enough. Sipho’s eyes opened slowly. Every breath felt dragged through broken glass. His side burned where the shadow blade had pierced him. Thick black blood had dried across his ribs, sticky and cold. For a moment he didn’t remember where he was. Then the smell hit him. Ash. Burned wood. Burned flesh. Smoke hanging low over the village like a curse that refused to lift.