The Ruins By Scott Smith Novels & Stories

He swaggered towards the table, he swaggered until he pulled out a seat on the opposite side of where I sat. His taunting eyes remained on me, and his lopsided smile unchanging, stirring awake a great storm of anger within me. I sat there like a mannequin, unable to move, unable to blink—I could barely understand what was discussed. I was completely shut down. Cyrus slipped a pill into my palm, I threw it away. I had had enough of the pills. I needed to live, to feel—no matter how dangerous my raging emotions might’ve seemed, I needed to live my true nature.

[Briar's POV] A smoky room with the lingering scent of cigarettes and alcohol. A single spotlight fixed on me, casting my silhouette across the audience. The smooth, sexy beat begins to play. And a single pole that will become my lover as I put on a show. This place is my home and my place for digging. A small club called Claire Delune, fixed in the heart of the city, is the prime spot for gang lords, criminals, and dark characters alike.

And even now, as I stand in the quiet aftermath once again — another husband gone, another chapter ended — I remind myself of one thing: I’ve lost everything before. And I still found a way to rise. And so, before the storm — before heartbreak, loss, and the long road that would shape the rest of my life — there was light. There was laughter echoing down dirt roads, Sunday dinners that stretched late into the night, and the kind of childhood that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. Before the pain, there was peace. Before the scars, there was innocence. This is where my story truly begins.

And with one single post, it shattered. “You’ve ruined me.” I muttered brokenly, staring straight at nothing. “You did this to yourself.” Ethan huffed with a hint of discomfort in his voice. A broken smile cracked my lips. “You’ve always been nothing more than a spoilt brat, throwing a tantrum just because things don’t go your way.” “Don’t talk like you know me.” He hissed. I arched a brow slightly. “Don’t I? Does Annette really know you and how truly soulless you are?” I asked in a taunting whisper.

Some days he wrote ten thousand words in one sitting. Dr. Patel read chapters as he finished them, making sure he was processing everything healthily. Dante read the final draft and cried. "This is important," Dante said. "People need to read this." The book published two years later. *From Ruin: A Survivor's Story* became a bestseller within weeks. Luca did interviews, book tours, speaking events. He told his story over and over, and each time it got a little easier. The shame lessened. The power shifted.

The scent of corruption thickened the deeper we moved. Rot. Decay. Rogue. But beneath it… was magic. Old magic. The ruins began showing up in the distance. Rylan slowed suddenly and raised his hand. The entire army stopped instantly. Ahead of us, the forest opened slightly. Moonlight spilled through the canopy of trees, illuminating the clearing below. And there it was. The hideout. My jaw tightened. A rogue camp sprawled across the clearing, crude shelters and watch fires scattered around the crumbling remains of ancient stone structures.

the firelight flickered behind him, casting long shadows into the forest as the tension lingered in the air. “You warned us not to go into the ruins,” Salvaxe said. “We did not listen to you then, but we want to hear what you have to say now.” The old man’s jaw tightened. He did not move from the doorway, but the grip on the wooden frame loosened slightly. “You did not listen,” he repeated, the words flat and heavy. “And now you come back with your ears open like dogs who have finally smelled something they can’t ignore.” He turned his head toward the dark treeline behind them, then back to Salvaxe. His eyes were hard, stripped of the earlier frantic energy, replaced by something colder. “Th

The air within the ruins was heavy, suffocating, thick with a silence that almost seemed alive. It pressed against my lungs, turning every breath shallow, as if the world itself were holding still, listening, and waiting. Broken stone archways rose like skeletal remains of a forgotten temple, jagged and mournful against the bruised sky above. Dust drifted in slow spirals through fractured beams of moonlight that forced their way inside. Somewhere in the distance, faint cracks and pops whispered as shadows slithered restlessly along the walls, licking across the rubble as though feeding off the decay.

The air in the ruin became a thick, stagnant soup of limestone dust and the metallic tang of old blood. I pressed my spine against the jagged edges of one of the concrete slabs, my lungs burning with the effort of keeping my breathing silent. Beside me, Caramen was a statue made of shadow and grief. We had heard them before we saw them. The heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots against the debris-strewn floor—a sound that had become the metronome of our terror.

Disoriented by everything happening, I perched over the gallery railing in the double-height living room that led to an open balcony, glaring at the message that would not stop bringing back memories. I had healed from this… I really thought I had, but thanks to him, I get to grieve over the pain that I had tucked somewhere in the deepest part of my broken heart. Tears formed on my lid and I raised my gaze to blink them back, but in that moment, something caught my attention and I realized I wasn't alone. Lucan Cyrus stood in the lower standard living room, glaring at his phone while his hand moved up and down like he was stroking something