Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Ruinous Ends by I. V. Marie, which releases on July 14th 2026.

The Decennial is over, but for the students of Blackwood Academy, the fight for the afterlife has just begun.

The infamous school was hiding more secrets—and lies—than any of the Decennial’s participants could have imagined. And there’s still so much that remains buried beneath its ancient foundations. Now the future of the academy, and all the souls within it, rests in the hands of six former pupils:

The charmer and the golden boy . . .
The traitor and the girl desperate to save her . . .
The Chosen One and the one who would choose her over and over again . . .

Any of them could be the hero the afterlife needs . . . or the villain who will destroy it for good. Because the truth is, Blackwood’s biggest secret has yet to come to light—and when it does, it will shake the institution to its core.

1
AUGUST

Augustine Hughes was losing his mind.

Time had become a fickle and unstable thing; it drifted through his fingers like the remnants of a bad dream. There were moments of clarity—­breaths of hope among the rot filling his lungs—­but it was never enough to drag him back to reality. The darkness was too hungry. The poison too thick.

It was almost comical, the absurdity of it all. Losing his mind in the afterlife. He would have thought the worst of his troubles were behind him once he had died. Yet there he was, wandering the outskirts of purgatory, mind fragmented, whispering to the darkness like a madman.

He was mad, wasn’t he?

August laughed and the sound grated against his skin. He was fairly certain he was lying on the dirt floor, though it was impossible to tell. The only thing he was truly certain of was the agony. It filled every crevice of his soul. Every ligament and bone. Every atom of his being.

How long had he been like this?

The last thing he could remember was Wren’s voice dripping into his mind, warm and inviting, and then . . . fury. An anger he had never known possible. Everything blurred after that, twisting together until all semblance of reality had lost its meaning. And now all he knew was this torture . . . this suffering.

Old memories flickered through his vision like a sun-­damaged film reel, vignettes of a life that was no longer his.

August watched as a group of strangers slowly lowered his mother’s body into the ground. Next to him, his sister sobbed. She gripped August’s wrist as though she might float away if she let go. As if he were the only thing tethering her to the earth. Behind them, their father remained silent. He had not wept for his wife, and August was certain he never would.

Why would he?

He was the one who’d killed her, after all.

The memory fluttered away, drifting like morning fog, replaced by another.

“We must do something,” Edith pleaded, red-­rimmed eyes brimming with desperation. They were standing in the garden, hidden beneath the shadows of night. Above them, their father’s study window glowed amber.

“What are you suggesting?” August asked, fearing her answer.

Edith’s gaze drifted to the window, her face torn between sorrow and rage.

“We can make it look like an accident.”

“Edith,” August whispered. “You mustn’t say things like that—­” But his sister interjected, cutting him off.

“Her death was no accident, Augustine. We both know this.” Edith stepped closer, her dark eyes blazing beneath the light of her lantern. “Do you truly believe she simply fell down the stairs? After everything we’ve seen? Everything we’ve heard?”

“How will we be any different if we do to him what he did to her?” August challenged.

“What he did was murder.” The word spoken out loud, with such candor, sent a chill down August’s spine. “This . . . this is vengeance.”

“But . . . what if something happens?” he asked, voice shaking. “What about your soul?”

“My soul?” Edith chuckled, though her smile dropped when she saw the sincerity in her brother’s eyes. “Oh, Augustine. Do not fear for my soul. It is in nobody’s hands but mine.” When August didn’t budge, Edith let out a long and weighted sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say these things out loud. I just need some rest.”

August stepped closer, carefully inspecting his sister. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, little brother.” Clearly sensing August’s apprehension, Edith reached out and wrapped him in an embrace, whispering the next words into his ear. “I promise.”

But when she hugged August, he felt her heart hammering in her chest, her pulse beating like the frenetic wings of a hummingbird. And though he could not see his sister’s face . . . he knew exactly what she was staring at.

He knew her eyes were locked on that study window.

August tried desperately to cling to the memory, but it faded before he could watch what happened next, drifting within the invisible current. A new one took its place from one breath to the next.

The one he had tried so desperately to forget.

The door to the kitchen was ajar. August took a step inside, peering around the corner. His sister didn’t notice him at first, her lips lifted into a serene and placid smile as she poured a cup of tea. When he stepped forward, the old wood creaked beneath his weight and his sister’s head snapped up in surprise.

“Augustine. I thought you were asleep.”

“I was.” He approached the counter, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. “But I heard you down here.”

“Go back to bed.” Edith set the teacup on a tray, stirring the liquid inside with a silver spoon. “Father is in one of his moods. It is best you stay in your room and out of his way.”

“Is that for him?”

“Chamomile tea with a splash of rye and valerian.” She winked, stepping around the counter. “I am hopeful it will be enough to calm his nerves and send him to sleep.”

“Let me come with you—­”

“No,” Edith interjected, pausing beneath the doorway. “If he lashes out, I’d rather it be me than you.” She offered him an apologetic smile. “Please, Augustine. Just go to bed.”

August conceded with a nod and watched as Edith made her way upstairs, her footsteps receding. He was moments away from walking back to his bedroom when he noticed the empty glass vial on the counter.

He picked it up, lifting it toward one of the iron sconces lining the walls. The label had been partially scratched off, but he could just make out the writing. Squinting, he read what was written upon the vial.

Arsenic.

And Edith had poured the entire bottle into their father’s tea.

August scrambled out of the kitchen, running up the stairs so fast he nearly slipped, barely catching himself on the railing. He gasped, picking up his pace, panic clouding his judgment. And before he could stop himself, before he could even decipher what he was about to do, he stumbled into his father’s study.

Edith stood next to their father, a hand on his shoulder. He had lifted the teacup to his lips and begun to take a sip when August first stepped into the room. Upon seeing August, their father froze, the edge of the teacup pressed against his mouth.

“Augustine . . .” Edith’s face contorted in confusion. “I thought I said to—­” Her voice caught in her throat when she noticed the glass vial in her brother’s hand. She tried to hide her reaction, quickly averting her gaze, but it was too late.

Their father had noticed.

“Come here,” he instructed, motioning August forward. “Hand me that.”

What happened next, August couldn’t quite remember. The memory sped up and slowed down, warping like a fun-­house mirror. The scene jolted, staccato, each moment flashing from one heartbeat to the next.

His father realizing what had been poured into his tea.

His hands gripping Edith’s neck.

August slamming his fists against their father’s back.

The unfathomable pain as his father threw him to the floor and snapped his leg in half.

Edith removing the knife in her waistcoat and plunging it into their father’s back.

Their father screaming like a wild animal as he ripped the knife out.

The look on Edith’s face when her own father brought the same knife down upon her.

In that moment, the memory came rushing back in with unwavering clarity. The knife had sliced clean through Edith’s abdomen. She fell to the floor, hands clutching her stomach, blood seeping through her fingers. August’s reaction was instinctual. Primal. He tackled his father, pushing him onto his desk, sending a candle tumbling to the floor.

The curtain closest to the desk caught fire. The flames ate away at the fabric, inch by inch. Beneath August, his father had hardened into stone. Mouth agape. Eyes wide.

August pushed himself away from his father, collapsing as the pain from his leg took hold. Next to him on the floor, Edith lay motionless, her vacant eyes staring up at the ceiling, the ghost of a smile on her lips. August dragged himself toward her, screaming out in agony as his broken leg arched unnaturally behind him. Around him, the fire grew. It devoured everything in its path—­the bookcases, the piles of notebooks, the old wallpaper.

Black smoke rushed into August’s lungs. He coughed, sputtering, choking helplessly.

There were two options. Two conclusions to his story. He could attempt to pull himself out of the study, to somehow drag himself down the stairs and out of the house. Or . . . he could stay there. He could end their story, once and for all, and burn.

The decision, however, was never truly his to make.

It was in that moment that a dizziness came over him. Whether it was from shock or his wound, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he was unable to move. His head slammed against the floorboards, as though he had been knocked to the floor by an invisible weight.

Smoke clouded his vision. Through the haze, he swore he saw someone standing on the other side of the room . . . watching. But before he could properly understand what he was looking at, the flames swallowed him whole.

And then . . . darkness.

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Hi, I.V.! Can you tell our readers a bit about yourself?

Hi, everyone! I’m Isa, also known as I.V. Marie. I’m Peruvian/Chilean and was born and raised in Miami, Florida. I’ve been living in LA for almost eight years and have a wonderful (but chaotic) dog named Mr. Darcy. When I’m not writing (which, to be fair, is most of the time), you can find me getting the most out of my AMC Stubs membership, adding books to my never-ending TBR, and attempting to get rid of my fear of heights at my local climbing gym.

When did you first discover your love for writing and stories?

I was a reader before I became a writer, though it didn’t take long for my younger self to get the writing itch! I started writing fantasy short stories on my grandpa’s computer when I was seven, which eventually led to A LOT of fan fiction in middle school and high school.

Quick lightning round! Tell us:

• The first book you remember reading: Magic Tree House! I was absolutely obsessed.
• The one that made you want to become an author: Hunger Games. 100 percent.
• The one that you can’t stop thinking about: Six of Crows––no mourners!

Your debut novel, Immortal Consequences, is out now! If you could only describe it in five words, what would they be?

Magic, Yearning, Dark, Tension, Obsession

What can readers expect?

A twisty dark academia fantasy set at a magical school in the afterlife, where six teens compete for the once-in-eternity chance to change their fate––or risk remaining stuck in purgatory forever. It has academic rivals to lovers, dangerous magical trials, unlikely found family, six POVs, and of course, lots and lots of tension and romance.

Where did the inspiration for Immortal Consequences come from?

I grew up getting lost in fantasy worlds, and I knew I wanted to create that same experience for other readers. I wanted readers to have that all-consuming, sweeping feeling that YA fantasy books have always given me. Also, having endured a really intense personal family loss, I knew I wanted to explore the concept of grief in the book, and setting the school in the afterlife seemed like the perfect way to do that. It was also very much inspired by some of my favorite multi-POV books, like Six of Crows and The Atlas Six.

Were there any moments or characters you really enjoyed writing or exploring?

Any scene where all six POV characters were together was truly a joy to write. I love them each so much, despite their many flaws, and I just absolutely loved getting to write their dialogue when they were together and play around with their clashing personalities.

Did you face any challenges while writing? How did you overcome them?

When I first started writing the initial draft for Immortal Consequences, I was still working in retail and had recently gone back to school. I essentially did not have a single day off. But I was determined to finish the book, so I dedicated every possible minute to writing it. I had to really prioritize this project, and I sacrificed quite a bit of my free time, but it was incredibly worth it. Now I can happily say I’m a full-time author!

What was the road to becoming a published author like for you?

It was a complete and utter whirlwind. I truly had no idea what I was getting myself into when I started querying. I had never met another author and was learning every step of the process as I went! Luckily, I found the most amazing team with Ariele and Gwen at UTA, and they held my hand through the whole thing (and continue to do so!). I count myself so immensely lucky that my journey to publication was fairly quick.

What’s next for you?

I’m editing the sequel to Immortal Consequences. Writing a sequel has been a challenge, but in the best way possible. It’s also a little sad to be writing the end of the series. I’ve been with these characters for three years now, and I’m not sure I’m ready to say goodbye!

Lastly, what books have you enjoyed reading this year? Are there any you’re looking forward to picking up?

There are so many, but some of my favorites have been Difficult Girls by Veronica Bane, The Weaver Bride by Lydia Gregovic, and Dream by the Shadows by Logan Karlie!

Will you be picking up Immortal Consequences? Tell us in the comments below!

The post Q&A: I.V. Marie, Author of ‘Immortal Consequences’ appeared first on The Nerd Daily.