Ruined Book Novels & Stories

If I didn’t know Eryndor, I would’ve assumed I was chasing the wrong person. I stood near one of the towering shelves, flipping through another stolen book from the royal library. And just like the other books on the floor, it had so many torn chapters. I slammed the book shut irritably, my expression darkening. Every single fucking book had missing pages, and it was really infuriating and frustrating because now, my curiosity was tearing through me. What the hell had he been hiding? What exactly was written inside these books that made Eryndor desperate enough to rip entire sections out? He could’ve simply hidden them.

She peered at me through her round glasses for a moment, then smiled again. “Enjoy.” I was then left alone. I simply shook my head. I dug into the contents of the box. It held a number of books, newspapers and photographs. My eyes caught a small leather bound booklet, with the outline of a curved cat pressed onto it’s cover. I pulled it out– ‘A Feline’s Capabilities…The Cat as The Obsidian Circle’s Symbol” it read.

Ancient books lined the shelves, their pages filled with forgotten knowledge, while relics of a bygone era adorned every surface. Curiosity led us deeper into the chamber, until we discovered an old journal, its leather cover aged and weathered. Lya carefully opened it, her eyes scanning the faded ink that adorned its pages. The words within were fragments of a lost history, a testament to the struggles and triumphs of those who had come before us.

Author’s note: Ruined(Eternal Monarch) contains details of the following subjects: Abuse, loss, trauma, suicide. Recovery from trauma and emotional relapse. If you are easily triggered by any of the following mentioned subjects. Do not read ahead for your mental health. Throughout the novel, there are a lot of strong languages. If you are not comfortable with all the foregoing, please do not enter. This is not a novel for the faint of heart. There are numerous triggers in the book.

My mind darted to the expensive home I’d visited only last weekend as I trudged back to the house Belinda had left to me and her children when she’d passed, and I knew I never would have received this treatment if that had been my starting location. It was a dilapidated two-story, Victorian style house that had once been beautiful, but years of neglect had left it barely habitable, the area surrounding it facing similar years of disrepair, so a rough crowd had begun encroaching as of late. Belinda had drained her bank account in the hopes of sticking around for Roman, Isla, and me a little longer, the abundant repairs she’d needed falling by the wayside in the interim, but she’d given up alt

She ran her fingers over the ancient book, the Reflection Game, her expression grim. She had seen this book before. Decades ago, it had caused unspeakable chaos in her village. Stories of children disappearing, their spirits lost to an underworld of torment, were etched in her memory. She had thought the cursed object was destroyed, yet here it was—back to haunt her family.

These delicate remnants hold stories of resilience, survival, and the enduring spirit of a civilization lost to the depths. The library's vast halls, once bustling with energy and the pursuit of knowledge, now represent the transient nature of human achievements. Yet, within these ruins, there remains a tangible sense of the profound wisdom that once resided here. It is a place where the past and present converge, inviting those who dare to explore its depths to unravel the mysteries of a bygone era.

She cautiously made her way back to the quiet library. She scanned the thousands of titles, her fingers brushing over worn leather spines. She should have picked a history, or a strategy text, something to sharpen her mind. Instead, her hand hesitated and then settled on a novel with a worn, colorful cover depicting a windswept couple. A romance. It felt foolish, indulgent, but she pulled it from the shelf anyway.

The letter lay crumpled between them. The broken promise felt more visceral than ever. And the house remained silent. Waiting. Grieving. Unraveling.

The work felt steady and familiar. As I lifted one damaged book, a single loose page slipped free and drifted to the floor. I picked it up carefully. Most of the writing had faded or rotted away, but one sentence remained readable. "...the child must never bear the royal mark." I read it twice. The words made no sense to me. Before I could search for more, the brittle page crumbled beneath my fingers. Tiny fragments scattered across the stone floor. I stared at what remained, a strange unease settling over me. I brushed the pieces aside and continued stacking the books, but the sentence refused to leave my thoughts.