Ruins Dust Sans Novels & Stories

The lock sounded louder than it should have. Dim emergency light glowed overhead. The room smelled like old rubber mats and dust and years of forgotten equipment. Shelves crammed with cones and nets and deflated balls. No windows. No other door. Just us. I turned fast. "This isn't a photo op." "No," he said, voice low and calm. "It isn't." He stepped forward without hurry. Backed me up until the edge of a stack of folded bleachers pressed against the backs of my thighs.

"Saw you through the glass. Figured I'd say hi." He didn't sit down. He just stood there, rain dripping from his jacket onto the floor, creating a small puddle around his boots. "You're soaking wet," I said. "Yeah, well." He ran a hand through his damp curls. "Rain came out of nowhere." An awkward silence stretched between us. The barista called out an order. The espresso machine hissed. "Jax, about the book—" "It's nothing," he said quickly. "Don't make it a thing."

Her plush slippers were gone from the entryway, and the blanket she used to curl up with on the sofa had been folded into a perfect square, as if it had never been used. A deep frown creased Vittorio’s forehead. He hurried up the stairs and threw open the bedroom door, only to be met with a devastating emptiness. The wardrobe was entirely bare. Her skincare products had vanished from the vanity, and even the dog-eared book she used to read frequently was missing from the nightstand. The entire room was spotless as if she had never existed here at all. Following closely behind, the assistant asked cautiously, “Mr. Vittorio…where is Sylvia?”

This wolf was everything the old one wasn’t. I straightened, wiping my tears with the back of my hand, and continued my exploration. The apartment was elegant but showed clear signs of decline , a once-luxurious high-rise unit now carrying the weight of faded glory. The living room had plush cream sofas, a small balcony overlooking the bustling streets of Lagos, and stacks of unpaid bills on a marble coffee table. Seraphina’s surface memories trickled in as I wandered: late nights studying business, quiet determination to restore the Voss name after the family’s fall from grace following “my” death. No close friends. No mate. Just survival.

The ruins had a way of swallowing people. A footprint disappeared beneath windblown dust. A broken branch looked exactly like every other broken branch. Even blood could vanish beneath the rain. Kael knew that. That was why he wasn't following Sera and Husen directly. He hadn't seen them for nearly an hour. Instead, he followed what they had left behind. A faint impression in the dirt. A disturbed patch of rubble. A strip of dark fabric caught on a piece of rusted metal.

“Be warned.” This doesn’t just seduce you. It ruins you. For anyone else. For any future. For the life you thought you wanted. And once you’re ruined… there’s no going back.

All were amazed and had to call Shola out from his room. “You guys should allow that boy rest, he just joined today, or you want to blend him already?” Shola uttered from his room while approaching close to them. “Wotowoto, na so we go do am” a tall, huge boy reply. He goes by name Sanjo. He is a rugged cultist, always dressing decent with ties and shoes but deep within his bags are weapons for war. Sanjo has been from his ss1 he joined the school, a thorn in the flesh of teachers. He is handsome and doesn’t look like what he does.

Jason followed him and glanced back once with an apologetic smile while the cold girl named Alyssa stared at Noah for a bit before taking her leave too. Noah, on the other hand, frowned. He didn't know what the man was talking about. To his knowledge, Ruins were sort of like inheritance grounds where a high level Battlesoul master once lived while they were alive. The things found could be weapons, Elixirs, resources or battle techniques. He didn't think that his three-day absence would cost him some valuable intel.

Still, admitting weakness remained difficult for both of us, especially Ruin. Later that afternoon rain settled over the estate again, turning the grounds grey and quiet while Aurelia finally slept upstairs. I found Ruin sitting alone near the covered porch overlooking the lower yard; he stared out toward the rain with one elbow resting against his knee, not working, not distracted, just still, and I sat beside him quietly. For several moments neither of us spoke; the rain filled the silence instead. Eventually, he exhaled slowly. “I used to think exhaustion came from violence.”

Sirelia’s arrival was an omen first felt, rather than heard. Above the Dustborn sanctum, the sky bled red, each star a pinprick of warning in the dark canvas. Her bone‐plated armour, once pristine, was etched with ash and soot, remnants of Moonfang’s ruins, a silent testament to what she had endured. She did not dismount. She did not speak. With each measured step off her mount, the camp seemed to exhale dread.