Longing Rusted Furnace Daybreak Novels & Stories

73 BA The Rebel Prince of The Vampire The floor is arctic against their butt; cockroaches and rats skitter on top of their shoes. A scant amount of light rays get through the crevices of the small window made out of rusty thick iron bars. None of them spoke within the cold hours of leaning their backs on the ice-cold walls. Few hours had passed, still the news of Maridelle taking risk doesn't sink well on Alpha Lachlan's mind; neither Sebastian could say good things to aside from commenting it is a stupid idea. But their intermittent sighs had said it all.

Demitri glared at her. "If you're not stressing, then you can easily take a break and read a book." Becca said with a huge smirk. Demitri's eyes narrowed, then he got up and walked to the non-fiction part of the library. He picked up a history book about the cold war and sat back down. He opened the book and stuck his tongue out at Becca.

It was another two uneventful days after the bonfire that I finally registered in the community high school, East WhiSare. The snow storm had swept in unannounced yesterday morning, making school or any other outdoor activity nearly impossible. After a breakfast of piping hot chocolate and mom's deliciously buttered toast, I laced my boots and put on another sweater ready for school. The doorbell rang downstairs and moments later I heard voices. Mom's and Cara Evan's.

He faded from the city, a pathetic figure no one remembered. When the dust settled, Fabio took me to his family's old estate. We walked down a stone path, his hand warm in mine. "My mother loved crabapple blossoms," he said. "She said they stand for love that endures pain." I paused, caught off guard. He stopped, turning to me seriously. "You can tear up that agreement anytime. My promise to you wasn't just for then. It's forever." I blinked in confusion. Then he led me to the rooftop, where a telescope stood. "Remember this?"

The docks didn’t sleep after the fire. It wasn’t just the scent of smoke still clinging to the wood, or the black streaks staining the water. It was the way the night itself seemed to stay awake, whispering in the corners, replaying the sound of the flames. Elara returned to the balcony at dawn, her hair still smelling faintly of ash. Garden Metro lay under a pale sky, damp and restless. A gull cried somewhere near the water. She could see the faint silhouette of the burned warehouse from here—a black ribcage against the river.

The early morning fog blanketed Ember Hollow like a veil of mourning. Ash clung to every leaf, and the ruins of the chapel smoldered still, a scar on the village's sanctity. The fire that had ravaged it hadn’t merely burned timber and stone—it had scorched truths, hidden old sins, and unsealed whispers buried for generations. As dawn broke with a bleeding sky, Isabella stood at the edge of the rubble, her eyes rimmed red, her heart thundering.

Everything about Van still made her feel deliciously nervous in the best way. At that moment, she was in the library on the third floor of their house. She sat on a couch positioned directly across the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, which overlooked the Zen garden in front of their home and offered a view of the distant city skyline. It had become a daily routine for her to wait there every afternoon, watching the horizon while anticipating her husband’s return.

The wind on the salt flats grew teeth, biting through the coarse fabric of my grease-stained coat. The live video feed on the manual device's screen remained frozen in a terrifying, high-fidelity loop: the Burnt Ethan, a ghost of ash and exposed circuitry, methodically carving a violent groove into his own knee on the porch of our ruined mill. The fourth weaver is already inside the house.

It was cold, sharp, and smelled like the city—smoke, rubber, and the coming morning. ​We reached the heavy iron grate at the top. This was the same place where the old woman had first led me into the dark. Alaric reached out. He didn't use a key. He just touched the rusted metal. With his new power, the iron didn't just break; it seemed to melt away, making a path for us. ​We stepped out onto the cracked concrete of the old warehouse district. ​The sun was just beginning to peek over the edge of the Thorne Tower in the distance. The sky was a bruised purple and orange. But the beauty of the sunrise was ruined by the sight in front of us.

I look toward the skyline. To the east, a plume of black smoke rises into the night sky. It’s thick, oily, blotting out the stars. It’s not the slaughterhouse. It’s further downtown. I know that neighborhood. I know those streets. The Rusty Nail. My stomach drops. Sal’s bar. The place where I scrubbed floors and dodged hands for six months. The place where Drakon watched me from the shadows. It’s burning. I can see the orange glow reflecting off the clouds.