Dune Novel Novels & Stories

Thank you so much for reading 'Death Among The Dandelions!' This is my first ever original novel that I've written. I've really enjoyed writing this, hopefully, you enjoyed reading this! This is also my first ever book on Goodnovel. Thank you for reading to the end. Credits go to my best friend Lily for creating the amazing front cover! She's an amazing writer too, go support her on Wattpad! Her account is @lilypadsxfrogs.

The pungent stench of rot hit Dannie as the dust-filled breeze ripped around her. She held up a hand to defend herself not only of the smell but the dust. It stung her eyes, making them water, and filled her nose and mouth with grit. When the breeze died Dannie lowered her hand and looked around. She wasn’t in her bedroom anymore but in a dull, red-hued landscape. If Dannie had to guess what Mars would look like this would be it.

And now I'm ready for whatever comes next. I turn toward the tunnel exit. Toward the surface. Toward the people waiting. Toward my future. But as I take the first step, something shifts. Deep in the earth. Beneath the vault. Something ancient responding to the bonding. A presence. Massive. Old. Waking. Not the stone. Something else. Something that's been sleeping under Iron Valley for centuries. And my bonding just woke it up. --- **[End of Chapter 146]**

Byron I strode through the dark corridors of the dungeons, passing by several cells, most of which held Hollowborns we captured. Hollowborns were the second plague of our time. Capturing supernaturals and stealing their magic. I always enjoy torturing them. But today, I'd come for a different reason. I stopped before the cell that held the werewolf. The gates had been laced with wolfsbane, making it impossible for her to try to escape. It didn't seem like she was planning on it, judging by how she curled against the wall, hugging her knees tightly. She didn't seem to notice my presence, or maybe she just didn't care enough.

Christmas was the reading of the book. This Christmas, Don's book was a novel—Norwegian, which was not a coincidence, a novel by the same writer whose essays were in the Norway reading programme. The novel was called The Dark Year, and it was about a man who spent a winter alone in a cabin in the far north of Norway, experiencing the full darkness for the first time. Don had been saving it since September, when he had finished the essays. He had placed it on the shelf above his desk, the designated holding place for the Christmas book, and had not opened it once.

The mare had no training for what he was about to ask of her and he prayed for help from above while he fought back panic and he buried his face in her strong neck. The mare impatiently worked the ground and tossed her head, as if to say, ‘get on with it’. Dennis took a deep breath and slowly felt his way down into the depths of the well. The jagged edges made an easy grip for him as he inched his way deeper into the bowels of black. It was dark, foul smelling, and full of decay. A soft warm breeze floated past him, carrying with it the sweet scent of honeysuckle. The refreshing difference provided a boost of energy and optimism as he preceded downward, calling for Tara as he did.

Instead, I would be grounded for a month rather than get nightmares for a year. There was dust on it. The particles made me cough as I blew to brush it off, only to inhale. I read the title as if it was in an ancient language. "Amihan," I whisper in the ancient tongue, pronouncing the word. It wasn't hard. Nay taught me a few letters of the ancient language, so reading the title of this book came in handy. Now here comes the fun part. I open the book to the first page and read the passage.

The Red Dunes bled. Beneath the rust-colored sky, the great sandstone gates of Iskhar yawned open. Heat shimmered off the ground like ghosts, and bone towers twisted toward the clouds, each one carved from the remains of wars long buried. Spears lined the paths. Skulls crowned the watchtowers. And in the air, thick and hot, hung the scent of flame-tempered oil and old prayers. This was the Dustborn Court. And it did not kneel.

Sera listened without interrupting. "The novel," Kael continued, "described this world's major events across seven volumes. I know what happens in the next decade because I read it as a completed story. I know about your Oath Contract because it was part of that story, mentioned but never explained. I know about the Pale Arbiter because the author used that name once and never returned to it." He stopped. "I am not," he said, "the person Varen Dreadmourne wrote that letter to. I am someone else, using his son's body, trying to survive in a world I read about but do not fully understand."

CHAPTER 51 The best thing about nights is that I can finally read a book without any interruption. When it comes to daytime, I feel like everything is going to ruin my reading experience. The first time I tried to read a book on school was when I was in high school. At first it was great to read inside the library, but when people started to treat library as a cafeteria, that’s when I lost my focus and passion for staying and reading inside. I closed the book after I reached half of it. The story was about war and orphans. In short, it’s a whole lot of mess. I remembered what Mom said earlier. Danger is everywhere. Danger is inevitable.