Shattering Book Novels & Stories

Every decision. Every sacrifice. Every act of courage. Each became its own complete story. The First Reader watched in silence. "So this..." "...is where stories are truly born." The little girl shook her head. "No." "They're born in hearts." "This is only where they're remembered." Suddenly... the entire library shook. One shelf, far in the distance, collapsed with a deafening crash. Then another. A deep crack spread across the marble floor. The White Book snapped shut. For the first time since Adrian had found it...

The memory was a shard of glass in my heart. “What we had?” The words were quiet, but they cut deeper than a shout. “You mean the years you let me believe I was broken, while you knew the truth? The art you stole from me? The child you murdered? That’s not a marriage, Vincent. That’s a damnation.” "It was a misunderstanding! It was all Sophia’s plan!" Vincent sobbed, tears and blood mixing on his face. "I already made her pay! I made her life a living hell!"

For a moment, I thought it might hold. But then, with a sickening crack, the wolf shattered them apart, silver fragments scattering across the floor. The force knocked Benedict backward, her body slamming against a shelf that collapsed on top of her. “Benedict!” Shantel cried. “Princess.” Kaela tugged at me, but I shook my head, snatching my hand from her grasp. “We can't leave. We have to help them.” I said, rushing to Benedict, I tossed the book to Keala and joined Shantel as we both tried to lift the shelves off Benedict.

“But it still shakes me.” “That means you’re human.” He kissed the top of my head. “And still healing.” Later that night, I sat at my desk and opened a blank page. I began typing the first words of what would become my book. Title: The Anatomy of Betrayal By Dr. Elena Hart “This isn’t a story about revenge. It’s a story about what happens when the lies dissolve, and all that remains is the truth—raw, unspeakable, and liberating.”

He pressed his forehead against mine, whispering, “Tell me I’m not already losing you.” The walls seemed to close in, shadows thickening, heat rolling like a storm trapped beneath my skin. I wanted to answer, but another vision tore through me, blinding and merciless. A battlefield soaked in ash. Damian’s body crumpling, golden eyes dimmed. My own scream echoing over a ruin of fire that stretched as far as the horizon. The shard purred at the sight, feeding on my terror, until I ripped myself free with a sob.

The sun was warm as its rays filtered through the windows. I tore up the DNA test report. Finally, all the love and hatred in the past could be sealed away in these torn-up fragments now scattered across the floor.

The Triarchs were right—we don't have much time. We swim toward the temple's entrance, and the doors—massive things made of some dark metal—swing open at our approach. As if we're expected. As if something wants us to enter. The interior is vast and echoing, filled with that same diffuse light. Murals cover the walls, depicting scenes from before the Shattering—the Mother deity whole and radiant, her children gathered around her, a world of peace and beauty. And then the war. The Shattering. The Mother torn apart, her fragments becoming the gods we know now. And at the center of it all, a single figure—neither god nor mortal, but something in between—falling into the abyss.

He finds the passages that confirm it. Bonded pairs may share pain and fear. His breath stutters. He throws a book across the room. It slams into the wall with a violent crack, pages fluttering like wounded birds to the floor. In my library, my vision blurs. My fingers curl around the fragile page, and before I can stop myself, I tear it in half. The sound is soft. Final. I stare at the torn edges, at the truth bleeding through the room around me. Books lie open everywhere, their words screaming the same conclusion in a dozen different ways.

The second Thursday, she stayed for forty-seven minutes. They did not talk about Vanessa. They did not talk about the past. They talked about a book. The Remains of the Day, which she had been rereading because it was the only novel she had brought with her from London. He had read it. He had hated the ending. She had loved the ending. They argued about it for forty minutes, and by the time dessert came, she was laughing once. Not a real laugh. A half one. But it escaped her mouth before she could stop it, and Damien looked at her like a man watching the sunrise after a long night.

I said. He slipped out of the room, leaving me alone in the suffocating silence of the penthouse. The fire in the hearth crackled, casting long, dancing shadows across the polished marble floor. I sat on the edge of the sofa, my hand resting protectively over the mahogany trunk containing the Shattered Mirror. My spine. My salvation. Twenty minutes passed like a slow agonizing torture. Every creak of the hotel walls made me flinch. Every gust of wind against the glass sounded like Lir’s voice whispering threats into the dark.