Custom Wood Burning Novels & Stories

THE COST OF POWER The fire in Silas’s chamber hissed and the burning cedarwood snapped, sending orange sparks against the weathered wooden floors, along with bursts of aroma and heat from the fireplace into the air. The room wasn’t grand—more practical than opulent, with aging tapestries and brown brick walls dulled by years of smoke. A narrow window rattled under the weight of the night wind, its shutters creaking with each gust. Silas stood by the hearth, hands braced on the mantel, though the fire offered little warmth.

"That sounds like too much work." "It is. But the wood needs to be free from outside elements, or else, it will burn uncontrollably. We haven't even filled up the kiln yet. See that?" the man pointed towards a pigeonhole at the top of the kiln, "we'll drop the smaller pieces of wood from there. That should fill this entirely. Then we light it up from here." he then pointed to the fist-sized holes at the foot of the structure. Minos studied the kiln with awe and failed to come up with a response.

What she brought me is enough to get the pot to boil, but if there's no more firewood it can be a serious issue. Nevertheless, now we have the posibility to cut down larger trees and, technically, we could make enough firewood to get us through the winter in a few days. Truth is that it wouldn't be possible, fresh wood doesn't burn properly and produces way too much smoke. It should normally be allowed to dry for a period of time before it can be used.

Far from Rockshore Bay, in the shadows of a crumbling estate deep within the woods, a figure watched a burning fire. The flames crackled and hissed, casting eerie, flickering light across the stone walls, which were streaked with the grime of neglect. The air inside was thick with the acrid scent of burning wood and the faint metallic tang of blood, remnants of Malrik's latest hunt. Shadows danced wildly, giving the illusion of movement where none existed.

"I don't think I've ever seen a bonfire this big." ‎"It's a Pine Valley tradition," Thomas said softly, his eyes reflecting the golden light of the fire. "We burn the summer timber every autumn to mark the end of the harvest and welcome the winter freeze. Your grandfather never missed one. He used to stand right over there by the big oak, telling stories about the old logging days until the fire burned down to ash." ‎ ‎Kat looked toward the ancient oak tree near the water's edge, a gentle, bittersweet pang settling in her chest. She could almost picture him—Arthur Rosewood, with his booming laugh and weathered hands, holding court among his neighbors.

JULIA I kept looking back and forth at Zeke who was busy breaking down firewood with his own bare hands. He would get a log, place his fingers in the middle and pull it apart as if it was nothing. A few days ago, I asked him how he could do that but he just said that the wood was already brittle.

Something that didn’t come with spotlights or expectations. He hesitated for a second, then moved toward the hearth. His movements were slow and careful, like he was still learning how to trust his own body again. He knelt on the faded rug, his long fingers picking up pieces of kindling from the stack beside the fireplace. I watched him work without saying anything. It was such a simple thing—stacking the smaller sticks first, arranging the larger logs on top, striking a match and shielding the tiny flame with his good hand while he blew gently until it caught. The cedar caught quickly, crackling and popping as the fire grew.

Everything smelled clean, safe, warm. Still wrapped in the throw blanket, she wandered barefoot through the house, marveling at its craftsmanship. The wooden walls were hand-carved with fine detail, and large windows bathed every room in natural light. There were paintings of forests, wolves, and abstract shapes in earthy tones. The fireplace in the living area still held glowing embers, casting a warm orange glow over the stone hearth.

A fire is blazing inside of it. The plaster walls have a linen texture and are painted in a smokey gray color. Beautiful, polished stacked walnut wood crown molding decorates the high, ten or more-foot-tall ceiling. The matching wide plank wood floors, tall baseboards, and ornamental wainscoting are stunning showcases of talent and craftsmanship.

Anything touched by divine power was out of her reach unless she devoted herself to a god, and that wasn’t a choice she was willing to make. In the end, I pushed that thought aside. Sacred or not, it didn’t matter. As long as the flames were strong enough to burn, that would have to do. At a glance, the massive hemlock looked like nothing more than a mountain of dry fuel, but experience told me otherwise. The older and larger the tree, the more stubborn it became. Flames would eat part of it, only for chunks to split off and fall away, sacrificing themselves to keep the heart intact. Just lighting it wasn’t enough. The real challenge was forcing the wood to keep burning, not just letting the