Cress Novels & Stories

"This is—wow." Zac chuckled softly. "My grandfather was a big reader. He quoted literature as if he were a human book himself." I turned to look at Zac, my eyes lit up. "Zac, this is amazing." Zac shrugged nonchalantly, smiling. "I thought you'd like it." He walked over to one wall, skimming the shelves until he pulled out a book. "I wanted you to have this." I looked at the book he held out for me to take. It was called "Bloom" by Kelle Hampton. I smiled at the title, meeting his eyes. "Wha—but why?"

“They’re gaining. I can hear them calling my name.” “Stay low,” Ezra urged. “We’ll lose them in the underbrush.” They spotted a small, shadowed depression behind a dense wall of thick bushes and ferns. Squeezing in together, the space proved even tighter than expected. Their bodies pressed close—chests heaving, shoulders brushing, faces mere inches apart in the near-total darkness. The moonlight barely filtered through the leaves above, casting faint patterns across their skin. The air between them felt electric, charged with adrenaline, fear, and something deeper neither had fully named.

Crete — Just Before Dawn The climb was brutal. The rocks were jagged and loose, shifting under Ellie’s boots as she scrambled higher. Her lungs burned, but she kept going, one hand on the weathered limestone, the other steadying the scroll case slung at her hip. Cerebus padded behind her, silent as shadow despite his size, while Dr. Voss struggled with her satchel of artifacts. When they crested the ridge, the horizon opened wide before them.

Cress coordinating eight territories simultaneously with the focused precision of someone doing the exact work they were built for. All of it moving. All of it real. All of it being carried forward by people who had been given the conditions to grow and had done what living things did. Grown. She thought about the wooden box. The chalk mark. The rosemary sprig. The pencil stub. The artifacts of the before. She thought about what the after looked like. Not triumphant. Not finished. Just full. A life full of the specific density of real things. Real work and real people and real ground and real growing.

Later in the evening~ Cressida entered the room, cradling a plate of food in her hands like a delicate treasure. She approached the couch with measured steps, setting the plate down on the table with precision. Alaric’s eyes lifted from his phone, his gaze drifting to her. “What’s that?” He asked, his voice laced with curiosity. “Your food,” Cressida replied, beaming. “I figured you might be starving since morning, so I whipped up some instant noodles. Wish I knew your favorite meal without having to ask—I’d have surprised you with that.”

"She's not wrong to be scared. Those three have been hunting new students for years. They're not going to stop until they expose you." "Then I'll give them something to see." Raven grabbed my wrist. "Cressida. What are you going to do?" "Win," I said. After lunch, Raven dragged me to the greenhouse. The glass dome was warm and humid, a sharp contrast to the frozen world outside. Morwenna's plants thrived here; ferns, orchids, a tree I didn't recognize growing from the center of the floor. The air smelled of soil and green things. Raven sat on a stone bench and pulled me down beside her.

Cressida blamed Zoe and Ryder for everything bad that had happened to her recently. She stopped suddenly on a spell that she had forgotten about. As she read over it, Cressida began getting excited. It was perfect. Now she just had to get her hands on the couple. Once she had them, she'd use magic to make them do what she wanted. The name of the spell she chose was called Fine Evocation of Good and Terror. With this spell, the more pure and good the victims were, the more terror they would experience.

The walls were lined with shelves—hundreds of them—filled with cassettes. Some labeled. Some not. J-2. J-3. J-4. All the way up to J-32. I stopped breathing. “They’re all yours,” Beverly said, stunned. “No,” I whispered. “They’re not.” She turned to me. “They’re me,” I clarified. “But they’re not mine. They’re… versions.” The air shimmered faintly as I stepped closer to the shelf. The cassettes seemed to hum. On the floor in the center of the room was a chair. Simple. Wooden. But strapped to it were thick leather restraints—arms, ankles, chest.

she murmured, just barely loud enough for me to hear even with my sharp senses. “What?” I frowned. “White Cress,” she repeated. “It only grows on House Crawford’s marshlands. It’s rare. The poison it makes is called Bhodin.” I raised an eyebrow.“How do you know this?” “I read about it from a book on Father’s bookshelf,” Leila replied, raising her hand as if to preempt my usual lecture. “Don’t start lecturing me, brother. I know I’m not supposed to sneak into Father’s study, but I’m helping you now.”