Novels by Tyson Roy

The Moonstone Keep had been built to withstand siege and storm. Its foundations were carved into the bedrock of the eastern mountains, its walls infused with warding glyphs older than most lineages. It had weathered vampire incursions, Lycan uprisings, and centuries of noble conspiracies.But as dawn broke, its silence was pierced, and its walls began to tremble.The first body was found at sunrise.A servant boy. Sixteen winters, barely old enough to carry a sword, let alone die by one.He lay outside the eastern hall. Pale. Cold. A perfect wound across his throat.No sign of struggle. No sound was reported in the night.Only one thing left behind, A black rose, frozen, its petals glistening with dew like tears waiting to fall.Elara woke to a knock.A firm rhythm. Urgent. Familiar.Then Kael’s voice, clipped and low:“Get up. Don’t speak. Just come.”She moved before her mind caught up, cloak over nightclothes, boots unlaced.Her blade hung by the door. She grabbed it.The corrid

The dust of the Silver Arena still clung to Elara’s skin like ash, ghostly remnants of a battle that was supposed to silence doubt. She had emerged victorious, her blades baptized in blood, her body bruised but upright. Yet even as the roar of the crowd echoed off the cliffs, something shifted. The applause turned too quickly. Not to silence. But to something sharper.Dissent.Because Elara Moonstone had spared Dren Varok.And now, the realm watched her with different eyes.The halls of Moonstone Keep pulsed with tension. Normally frigid and distant, the council chamber now seethed with unspoken fury. War banners hung limp on the walls as if waiting for a wind that wouldn’t come. Around the obsidian table, generals and pack leaders sat coiled, their silence a taut string ready to snap.Elara stood alone in the center of the room, a single figure in black against a tide of tradition. No Kael at her side. No Lucien’s shadow in the wings. Today, she stood for her own choice.Her mercy.“

The Silver Arena was not merely stone and blood, it was memory. A gaping wound carved into the northern cliffs of Eldoria, where the mountain wind screamed like the lost souls of challengers past. A place that did not forget. Where the ghosts of old battles clung to the broken stone, and the scent of blood had long since become part of the rock itself.Elara stood in the entrance tunnel, shadowed by jagged stone, wrapped in the silence before violence. Her ceremonial black cloak stirred lightly in the wind, but beneath it, her arms were bare, marked by old scars and new ones still healing. Her skin was chilled, but not from fear. Not anymore.She inhaled the metallic air slowly, grounding herself. Around her, the Lycans filled the stone terraces, shoulder to shoulder, every growl and shifting footstep a low thunder in her bones. Their eyes gleamed, some with scepticism, others with a cruel hunger for spectacle. But none with trust..They hadn’t come to honor her bloodline.They’d come

The silver torchlight spilled across the ancient stone walls of the war room, licking the carved runes and flaking banners with trembling light. The flames crackled low in their sconces, casting long, restless shadows that moved like ghosts—unquiet remnants of blood-stained ages. This room had once held kings, warlords, betrayers, and visionaries. Now it held only three.Elara stood between Kael and Lucien, the charged silence between them almost sentient, as if it breathed alongside them, as if the stones themselves knew that something irrevocable was about to be done.No council sat at the long oaken table. No advisors whispered in corners. No guards stood sentinel at the heavy doors. This moment—heavy with consequence—belonged to them alone.Her heart thudded beneath her ribs like a distant war drum, but her voice, when it came, was steady, steel-veined.“You both saw what happened in that chamber,” she said, her eyes cast not toward either man, but to the floor, as if replaying th

The moon sagged low over Eldoria, a shard of silver etched into the night’s velvet canvas. A restless wind threaded its way through the forest, murmuring forgotten truths, while the air tingled with a charged unease that lifted the fine hairs on Elara’s arms.She stood alone atop the balcony of the Silver Keep, her breath blooming into the chill. Below, the city shimmered like constellations scattered across the earth, unaware of the storm tightening around her heart.Behind her, the door creaked open.“Elara.” Kael’s voice was soft, threaded with unspoken weight. “There’s something you should see.”She turned, noting the rigid set of his shoulders, the hint of conflict burning in his golden eyes. No armor tonight—only the heavy drape of guilt.“What is it?”He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he extended a scroll, sealed in obsidian wax, foreign and ominous.Her fingers broke the seal. The parchment unfurled, its unfamiliar script swimming before her. Her hands shook.Then her breat

The forest was alive with silence.It wasn’t emptiness. It was reverence, the kind that settles deep in old bones and sacred soil.The kind that listens, even when nothing is said.Elara moved carefully, each footfall softened by centuries of moss. Maera led the way, her hands brushing past hanging branches like one touching relics in a temple. Kael followed just behind, eyes watchful, his presence steady and wordless. Above them, the trees arched skyward in towering elegance, their silvery leaves catching starlight and casting it back fractured and dreamlike, like moonlight filtered through tears.This was the Elderglen. A place not marked on maps. A forest not spoken of in cities, not sung of in courtly songs.Only whispered about, in old myths and moonlit confessions. Here, even the trees seemed older than time, carrying the memory of storms and oaths long buried.They had walked for hours, leaving behind the castle’s marble corridors, the cold precision of court, the lies wrapped