Burned Hopkins Novel Novels & Stories

It is like it has become a part of my soul. I can never forget that scene. That scene still torments me. My small beautiful “Nightwood Village” was burning. Everything was burning. There was smoke and fire of selfishness everywhere. The king’s soldiers have lit everything on fire. The farms, meadows, and homes, the king’s soldiers did not leave anything behind.

It happened before anyone could stop it, the fiery canaries that were flying over Levy’s head like a golden ring …paused before they all turned to face Elder Hopkins who stopped moving as soon as the fiery canaries did. Logan frowned as he stepped forward. “ Don’t you dare, Levy.” Too late. The canaries shot at Elder Hopkins like fiery cannon balls with shrieks that could have woken up the devil. Elder Hopkins screeched in terror as he turned around to run but the canaries were faster and wilder before he could even take a few steps away from them, they reached him. Making sure to peck at spots that would hurt the most. “ Get them off! Get them off me, I said!” Elder Hopkins flailed his hand

(Hannah’s POV) The smell of burnt wood and ash still lingered in the air as I stepped over the caution tape. The building had been nothing more than a quiet corner bookstore—one I’d passed dozens of times without much thought. Now, it was a skeleton of charred beams and shattered glass. I swallowed hard. Standing here, in the middle of what was once a thriving business, made everything feel more real. This wasn’t just a story; it was someone’s life in ruins.

“Burn the body. Now.” The warriors moved quickly, dragging the rogue’s corpse to a pit where flames were already being lit. Soon, black smoke curled into the sky, heavy and bitter. I hugged my arms around myself, trying to stop the shivers that racked my body. It wasn’t just the cold air—it was the message lingering in my mind, the certainty that Jacob was closer than we thought.

But even that reminder doesn’t stop my mind from flashing images of him behind my closed eyelids. The roots that are inked all over his groin, stems growing over his stomach, until they bloom into different colored flowers on his chest that I’ve felt his heart racing in. Black and white snakes, their bodies tangling down one thigh while a night sky, with a blood red moon and black birds in flight play out on the other. His neck, that ink that’s been bitten between my teeth, with feathers spread on both sides, a colorful dragon breathing bright orange-reddish fire on the front, coming up till just under his chin. And his back, that my nails have sunken into, scratched, grabbed for mercy, cove

The crowd erupted in quiet cheers, whistles, claps, and laughter—joy sweeping through the clearing like sunlight breaking through clouds. I found myself smiling so wide my cheeks ached. Tonight, we remembered. And tonight, we celebrated. We were more than survivors—we were something new. And we were just getting started. *Note from the author* Book two Starts in the next chapter. "What Rose From the Ashes" I hope everyone has enjoied reading "What Survived the Burn" as much as I have enjoied writing it. This is why I see no other way than to begin book two...

Donovan had not come begging for it. Perhaps he was too ashamed. Perhaps he did not even know about it, or perhaps my mother-in-law had finally understood something. Either way, my connection to her ended with that money and the prepaid fees. It would be the best ending if both of us could find peace. The evening glow filtered through the balcony glass door, painting the living room in warm golden orange. I stood up, slid open the glass door, and stepped onto the balcony. The evening breeze was gentle, carrying the fresh scent of early summer plants growing.

The flame caught immediately, bright and obedient. She fed the fire slowly. The first page curled and blackened. Ink blistered. Names dissolved. Isabella Whitmore vanished into smoke. Beatrice closed her eyes. “I am sorry,” she said aloud, though no one was there to receive it. The fire warmed the room, but it did not comfort her. Each document burned carried weight, not relief. These were not lies she was destroying. They were truths she had hidden, reshaped, rationed like medicine administered only when survival demanded it.

At the name, smoke poured from her mouth. Not a lot. Just enough to make me freeze. “Briar Glen burns,” she whispered. Then the road changed. The pillars vanished. We stood in a village street under a red sky. Houses burned on both sides. People screamed. A woman ran past me carrying a bundle that was not moving. A wolf leapt onto a man and tore his throat open. Smoke filled my lungs. Not illusion smoke. Real enough to choke on. Ben shouted something behind me, but the sound drowned in fire.

Chapter 57: Resilience and Confessions. The night air smelled of smoke and destruction. The fire raged, licking at the sky as the old warehouse collapsed in on itself. Evelyn Hawthorne stood a safe distance away, her face illuminated by the flickering flames, eyes cold and calculating.