A Night Without Armour Mga Nobela at Kwento

[LYCAN KINGDOM B - OUTSKIRTS - NIGHT TIME] The vast expanse of the Lycan Kingdom stretched out before Zilver and his army, a seemingly endless forest cloaked in the vibrant hues of autumn. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the distant promise of adventure. Zilver, the formidable lycan king of kingdom A with eyes as sharp as his silver armour, rode at the head of his troops, their horses pounding the earth with each thunderous step. The army moved with a synchronised precision that spoke of years of training and discipline.

Zara’s P.O.V The fortress woke before the sun. Steel clashed in the training yard as warriors honed their blades, the rhythm of combat echoing against ancient stone. The scent of sweat and iron hung in the air, sharp and unrelenting. I stood at the center of it all. Barefoot. Unarmed. Unyielding. My cloak lay discarded on the sidelines, replaced by a fitted training tunic. Bruises blossomed along my arms, silent proof of the trials I had already endured. And the ones yet to come.

POV: Neoma The armor didn't feel like protection. It felt like a burial shroud. It was a tactical bodysuit of woven Barzil-mesh. Black as a moonless night. Heavy enough to make my knees ache with every step. It hugged every curve—stiff, unyielding, suffocating. It smelled of ozone and the stale, sharp sweat of whoever had worn it last. Whoever she was, she probably died in it. I stood on the metal grating of the armory floor. My arms held out as a silent Null attendant tightened the straps across my chest.

Those who had worked their way out of the novice ranks and were trusted enough to control their own minds wore their facial expressions like masks, barely covering the bubbling mixture of exhilaration and fear which simmered just below the surface of their composure. “You alright?” Ally asked, her skin almost luminous in the pale light. I nodded, not trusting my voice enough to speak out my anxieties. I had helped Morpheus with his armour, marvelling at the gold-plated breast plate which had been engraved with a poppy – the symbol of the Dreamlands. He looked so dashing – like a knight from my wildest dreams – that it was hard to maintain serious about the whole fight... until I remembered t

Neither Mom nor Dad spared me a backward glance. From that day onward, I learned to stand on my own two feet. I had to take care of myself. I was only six years old when I faced the loneliness, the danger, and the helplessness of life on my own. I forced myself to be strong and resilient. I forced myself to be independent. I made sure to build a tough armor around myself to protect myself from harm. My armor was close to perfect during my childhood and teenage years. However, on the night of my 18th birthday, the first crack started to form in my carefully-crafted armor.

Nightwind’s walls had never fallen, But they had also never faced this, The Voidchildren came at dawn, wrapped in silver fire and bone-dark armor, Their mouths moved, but no words came. Only absence, At their center marched Luma, her hair a veil of burning starlight.

Raiden POV The leather settled against my shoulders like a second skin. Not ceremonial armor. Not the heavy plated regalia meant for intimidation. This was war gear. Flexible. Lethal. Built for movement. Lucian adjusted the strap on his forearm guards nearby, equally prepared but unburdened by excess metal. We would not hide behind armor tonight. We would meet them properly. I stepped out onto the field beyond the fortress doors, and the sight before me would have made lesser men tremble.

The twilight that had settled over the royal castle no longer carried the uncertainty of the previous nights, but the gravity of an unshakable purpose. In the Great Armory, beneath the dull glow of resin torches and the acrid smell of weapon oil, silence was filled only by the sound of metal being sharpened. Cedrik stood in the center of the hall, his black combat armor now proudly bearing the seal of his lineage with renewed ferocity. Beside him, Freya was no longer the prisoner he had once dragged through ashes. She wore reinforced leather and suede battle attire, practical for combat, yet her stormy eyes carried the golden light of the Ancestral Luna—an unspoken authority that made even t

He must have seen the shift in my face, because he took a measured step closer. “I don’t feel lost with you,” he said, softer now. “I feel unarmored.” The word landed like a punch. I almost flinched. In his world, armor was everything. The second you took it off, you were dead. “That’s not a good thing,” I managed, because someone had to say it. He nodded, a small, bitter smile twisting his mouth. “No. It isn’t.” He released my wrist then, but didn’t step back. His fingers curled at his side.

His armor was ancient, stolen from the tombs of old kings, and his face hidden behind a mask of jagged obsidian. He raised a hand. And the battlefield roared to life. The Day of War – Light and Flame Against the Darkness The skies over Xaerath roared. Black clouds gathered like beasts above the valley, pulsing with corrupted magic. Lightning crackled red through the heavens as if the stars themselves were holding their breath.