The Quiet Burn Novels & Stories

This was a different kind of silence, brittle and worse, it was the quiet that settled after the screaming stopped, After the digging was done and the fires burned themselves down to embers and there was nothing left to watch but ash cooling on the wind and the scent of freshly turned earth as his life’s blood was reduced to nothing but food for maggots. Matthias was going mad. He had been in this seat since before dawn, a heavy-backed chair that groaned beneath his weight, as the scent of smoke and iron settled thick in his lungs. The embers in the fireplace still burned low, its flames half-hearted, as if even they were tired of pretending to bring warmth.

she said gently. Nya looked down. “Then I’m glad we burned the world after I got to choose.” Ceres chuckled. “I’m glad you stayed.” “So am I.” A breeze passed through the garden. Not cold. Not hot. Just still. A Flame That Doesn’t Burn The Outskirts of the Forgotten Edge, a rewilded village near the former Umbra border The night was quiet. Not the silence of fear, or the hush before a storm. It was the silence of a world exhaling.

I murmured, trying to hide my amusement at the growl my former boss let out. “In Vivienne Sweet's dictionary, gorgeous and sexy are synonyms. So, if I were Tina's boss, who spends hours on his gorgeous mustache, I'd buy her another Old Fashioned and then walk her home because she's too tipsy to walk the small distance separating her from her bed.” “You,” Chief Sinclair pointed in my direction, gritting his teeth. “Don't you dare bringing her back. Your woman is banned from my station, understood?” “Hey! That's not fair. I didn't even ask to drive the truck...”

Nova Quinn The dream always starts the same. I’m standing in a field of ash. The ground is scorched black, trees burned down to skeletal stumps. Everything smells like smoke and lightning. Above me, the sky churns in slow motion — red and gold bleeding through bruised clouds — and a moon hangs too close, too heavy, like it’s watching me. Then I see the fire. It slithers up from the cracks in the ground, licking around my bare feet like it’s been waiting. It doesn’t burn. It welcomes. And when I open my mouth to scream, the flames pour out like a second voice — loud, ancient, hungry.

Something permanent. And if that meant walking through fire? Then let the world burn. I wasn’t losing my son to silence again. Not this time.

Back in the car, every second was agony for Connor. His fists were clenched tight on his thighs, tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. He stared unblinking at the crumbling building ahead. "Connor, relax. It'll be fine, don't worry," one of the guys said. "Yeah, there's no way it'll kill her. We've calculated everything," another said. But their voices didn't register. Connor couldn't even bring himself to speak. Then, all at once, he shot up and made for the burning building.

Storms don’t end in silence. They end in fire. And this one wasn’t over. The night finally went quiet. Too quiet. Every footstep echoed louder than it should have, bouncing off the abandoned brick walls like whispers from ghosts. The city around us had gone still, as if holding its breath. I tightened my grip around Cruz, his weight slumping heavier against me, every ounce of him a reminder of the bullet still buried in his side. My shirt was soaked with his blood, sticky and cold, but I couldn’t let myself think about that. Not now.

Ashes of the Hollow The forest lay quiet now, a heavy, brittle quiet that pressed into John’s chest like ash settling after a fire. The moon hung full and red above the skeletons of trees, their branches snapped, leaves scorched, roots exposed. Black Hollow was burned, not by flame alone but by truth.

The night was quiet now—eerily quiet—except for the soft crackle of dying embers and the ragged breaths of those who had survived. Evelynn sat with her back against a fallen tree, her body trembling, every muscle aching as if the fire had hollowed her out. Her hair clung to her damp skin, tangled with ash, her palms raw from the force of the blaze. The fire inside her was quiet now, dimmed to a fragile ember, but it left her shaken—like a storm that had passed but might still return at any moment.

Veyra carves runes into the oak’s trunk, her hands steady. “The fire will spread,” she says. “There’s no coming back.” The static doesn’t protest. It *agrees*. The Hunter’s voice whispers through the leaves. ***Do it.*** I ignite the petals. --- **The Ashes** The blaze is beautiful. The Seed’s roots writhe, its song a requiem. The Forgotten flee, Veyra leading them into the fractured wilds. I stay, watching the oak crumble, the static’s hymn fading.