Writheblood Ruins Novels & Stories

The hollow became their crucible. Mist clung to the broken stone like breath held too long, and the air was thick with the scent of damp roots and the faint metallic tang of spent magic. Morning light filtered in through jagged holes in the collapsed ceiling, falling in pale shafts across the mossy floor. The ruin seemed to watch them—an ancient place, old enough to remember witchfire, wolf blood, and vampire shadow. Old enough to know they were remaking the world inside it.

I muttered the words under my breath as I touched my face with a hand. It'd been over seven years since I was involved in that fire accident, however the burn had scarred my face. I tilted my face to the side to get a better look at the scar. It made my skin appear like a crumpled piece of paper. I'd tried to hide the scar by wearing a make-up, but it was still visible as though I did nothing. “Argh!” I yelled, and smashed the mirror on the tiled floor. It shattered. I leaned my back against the wall and buried my face in my palms as I began to sob. Before long, my mother stormed into my room.

"I'm so sorry." Because I'd failed already, and I had no idea how to fix this. No idea how to survive this. I just knew that Damien Cross had broken me. And I didn't know if I'd ever be whole again. Morgan POV Matured Audience The world had narrowed to the space between his sheets, to the scent of his skin and the crushing weight of a need so profound I felt like dying. I was on all fours, my body bowed and trembling. The air was cold on my heated skin, but the fire he stoked within me was an inferno.

PROLOGUE The battlefield was ruined—scorched earth, broken stone, and skies ripped apart by magic that should never have existed. Mountains had crumbled into blackened dust. Rivers boiled and twisted away from their beds, fleeing the wrath that had been unleashed. The air reeked of ozone and blood, thick with the scent of burnt gods and shattered spells. Corpses lay strewn like forgotten relics—mortals, celestials, beasts of realms unnamed—all silenced by the cataclysm that had torn through reality.

The Sanctuary burned. Ash rained from the cracked heavens like a death shroud, swirling around the once-sacred halls of light. Wolves of every allegiance lay slain among the smoldering ruins—white fur singed black, black fur streaked with crimson. And at the heart of it all, Caelum knelt in the ruins, clutching his bloodstained claws. His breath came in ragged gasps, his silver eyes flickering with tendrils of corrupted red.

“When the bloodline reset, the pack hierarchy shifted. Alphas lost control of their bonds. Rogues started feeling the call again—but not just to one pack. To all of them. It’s chaos, Nora. Wolves are turning on each other, instincts clashing. Some can’t handle it.” I exchanged a look with Kael. The Luna’s warning echoed in my mind: Balance is not peace. “We have to stabilize it,” I said. “If we don’t—” “It’s already spreading,” Janie cut in. “And there’s something else.” Her tone dropped, quiet and grim. “The Silver Ash ruins are waking up.” My heart stopped. “That’s impossible. The ruins were sealed centuries ago.” She shook her head. “Not anymore. There’s energy coming from the underground

Cold air from another world seeped in, carrying the scent of ash and metallic rain. Before her, the world lay in ruins. The werewolf tribe no longer existed—only charred walls, scattered shields, and bones beneath the blackened grass remained. The wind swept through the debris, dragging the names once called by the hearth—names that now had no mouth to answer.

A memory of how she looked while she still lives with her father flashed in her mind, now, she looked prettier and healthier. She smiled but it faded all of a sudden, images of people mangled and lying. Pictures of the world entirely drenched in red. Bloodstained ruins , bloodied people, bloody mountain of corpse, bloodstained land. Even the skies and clouds were dyed in a frighteningly dense shade of blood. The bloodstained ruins were the halls of a castle, the bloodied corpses were made up of the pack members; some that she was familiar with and others that she has never met. The pool of blood flowed like a river.

Bringing her bruised hand upward, she rubbed two fingers on side of her head. Whimpering with each movement, she sat up in fetal position, resting the back of her head against the wall, feeling the world rotating each second. Her eyes watered, seeing visible bruises on her both wrists, testifying how she was cuffed like an animal last night. She lifted her hand to rub the swollen bruise on her forehead only to find the spot damped with ointment. What was the point of this? After destroying her what was he trying to prove? Her irises lowered and traced the marks on most parts of her body, mocking her ruination.

Blood seeped from her wound, staining the floor a vivid scarlet, a stark reminder of the fragility of life. My world shattered. I dropped to my knees, my arms enveloping Zyra's fragile form, her lifeblood seeping through my fingers. The metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air, intermingling with the raw scent of fear and despair. It was a scene etched into my memory, a portrait of helplessness and fractured bonds.