Original Burn Book Cover Novels & Stories

She was looking for a specific section: The History of the Northern Coast. She found it near the back of the room, tucked away in a corner where the shadows were deepest. She ran her fingers over the books until she found a thick volume with a dark blue cover. It was labeled with the Blackwood family crest—a silver tree with deep roots. When she pulled the book from the shelf, it felt lighter than the others. She laid it on a reading table and opened the cover.

In her hands was the red book cover, torn in two, and the original book cover was finally able to breathe after years of being hidden; in the middle of the original black book cover was a gold symbol. “Bingo.” * “Okay,” Arrow sighed, hovering over the book. “What the Hell is that?” “This,” Chelsa said, her smile never leaving her face. All of us still in that abandoned and underground room, hovering over this book; I held my flashlight up and over the top, letting the gold symbol glint and gleam. “Is a symbol-” “Duh, Chelsa,” Arrow rolled his eyes and I smacked in the arm. “Continue,” I smiled and nodded to Chelsa, she smiled back and continued.

Rudolf picked up a large gray folder and sat across from me with a confident smile. “Ready?” he asked. “Ready,” I replied, even though my voice trembled slightly. He opened the folder and pulled out a thick sheet of paper with the final cover design. The moment my eyes landed on it I went silent. The cover showed the silhouette of a woman standing between two worlds, one side dark and fractured, the other softly glowing with gentle light. The colors weren’t excessive; the gradients were smooth, elegant, and emotional. The title font was modern yet warm. Everything blended together perfectly, as if it was created to reflect my story of someone who fell again and again, but still rose every ti

I got up from the bed and walked around the room, still no pain, how weird. I noticed the bookshelf and decided to take a look. There were so many books, some with older worn covers and others a bit more newer looking. I picked up a small red book and read the cover ‘A Lycanthropy Reader; WEREWOLVES IN WESTERN CULTURE’. I flicked through the pages and put it back on the shelf, a little too intense for some early morning reading. I picked up another one and read the cover, ‘The Garden of Eden’ by Ernest Hemingway. Not what I expected from a teenage werewolf soon-to-be-Alpha. I put it back and my eyes fell on a really older looking book. I pulled it out and it was big and very heavy. It looked

The moment I pulled it free, I sucked in a breath. His whole back was red—some spots darker, some lighter. It looked like it hurt. Badly. “You… you shouldn’t leave it like that,” I whispered. He didn’t respond. He just stood there, breathing quietly, his shoulders tense. I hurried out of the office, my heels clicking too fast on the floor. My chest felt tight with worry—real worry. I grabbed the burn ointment Jamie had given me days ago when I burned my hand. I rushed back to Orion’s office.

Its cover bore a sigil she recognized from his ring a crescent moon entwined with a wolf’s head. She nodded obediently, but curiosity clawed at her like an itch under the skin. When he left the room, she stared at the red book until the shadows grew long. Then, unable to resist, she touched the cover. The leather pulsed beneath her fingers alive. The latch came undone with a soft click. Inside, the pages were filled with hand-drawn diagrams of moons, human anatomy, and wolves mid-shift bones cracking, bodies half-transformed. Beneath one sketch was a name scrawled in ink:

I stretch up on my toes and pull it out, and seconds later I succeeded like I always do when I put my mind on things. Sending a cloud of dust motes swirling into the air while allowing it for a moment to escape from the shelf, I blew the dust from the cover. There were no words printed on the front or spine, just a simple black leather binding cracking with age, and strange symbol I do not recognize.

Worried that I might end up hiring someone who failed to do a good job, I even spent two weeks carefully putting the wallpaper up myself. But now, it was full of stains. Meanwhile, I'd stayed up several nights and created hundreds of drafts before coming up with the design for my most beloved carved wooden dining table. I cherished it so much that I always made sure to cover it with a tablecloth before using it. But these people had stripped off the tablecloth I'd carefully chosen and dumped their greasy food right on top of the wooden table. It was now covered in grease and water stains. With just a single look, it was obvious that no one had ever bothered wiping it down.

The air was rich with the scent of aged paper and leather, a comforting contrast to the acrid smoke that haunted the streets outside. I moved slowly through towering shelves, fingertips skimming the spines of long-forgotten volumes. Titles embossed in faded gold hinted at lost wisdom: Histories of the Old World, Chronicles of Unity, Legends of the Phoenix. The last caught my attention—a striking cover depicting a phoenix rising from a blaze, wings spread wide.

But hope, like magic, has a price, and I am increasingly aware of that price. The book itself is a work of macabre art. The cover, made of dark leather that almost appears black, pulses with a life of its own, as if it were breathing. The leather is stained with deep shades of red, almost as though it has been soaked in blood over the centuries, giving it a sinister and throbbing appearance. Along the edges of the cover, aged silver chains are interwoven in complex patterns, depicting ancient runes and seals of protection, symbols only an enchantress could decipher. The title of the book is carved into the leather in rustic letters, subtly glinting with ruby, as though the words had been wri