A Storm Of Swords Novels & Stories

Eldrian charged toward Tyr on the ground with a million swords trailing after him. “Come on!” Tyr didn’t dodge that attack, instead opting to meet it head-on. Then, he used his blade to block the first sword that was shot at him. Clang! The sound of metal colliding echoed throughout the void. The sword storm kept rotating around the two of them. It eventually engulfed the two, forming a massive sword storm that rushed straight into the sky. Meanwhile, Dillon continued to retreat. His aura was being negatively affected, and he had numerous open wounds on his body. Despite this, he couldn’t bother with his injuries and stared worriedly at the sword storm which formed in the sky.

Seeing Elder Hanuman’s preparations, he too grabbed his blade and span it continuously before him. “Sovereign Sword Arts: Super Shield” *Boom* A small fiery storm broke out and swept over the land. From the flames emerged a furious fire dragon that roared out in frustration and anger. Mane roared within the midst of the beast. With each roar a flame breath was released and things were turned to ash.

The Clash of Kings The air split as Erebus lunged, his shadow-forged blade carving a jagged path toward me. I met it with steel, sparks flying as our swords collided. The force of the impact rattled through my bones, driving me back a step, but I planted my boots and shoved forward, refusing to give ground. The battlefield roared around us soldiers clashing, wolves snapping, guardians hurling fire but all of it blurred at the edges. There was only him. Only Erebus. His eyes burned with scarlet fire, and every strike carried the weight of centuries of darkness.

Only forward. Only into the storm.

If Storm and Keratin were handsome and had poise and grace, these men were the direct opposite with their beast-like appearance and ungainly posture. They were everywhere, blurring the room with their movement. On the tables, the floor, even the ceiling. The worst part was Storm and Keratin were just two men and those other one's were. . . everywhere. Pride bloomed in her chest as she watched Storm and Keratin take on the men. They stood back to back against each other, wielding their swords like it was an extension of their hands.

Ashton let out a savage laugh. His long sword swept out once more, carving a crescent arc through the air. The blade's energy surged, rapidly compressing the air around it. Tendrils of jet-black flames crackled with murderous intent, coiling around the blade, transforming the strike into one akin to the might of a tempest. With a thunderous roar, a series of explosions followed as Ashton's sword sliced through the air. The terrifying might of the blade descended upon William, forcing him into a corner.

Then he gave a slow nod to his men. He looked at Sergio with unbridled hatred. "This isn't over, not by a long short. I will be back to claim what is mine." One by one, they backed off. Fading into smoke. Into retreat. ************************************************** The silence that followed was deafening. Rosana stood alone in the center of the destroyed hallway, her dress streaked with soot and blood. A shard of broken mirror leaned against the wall nearby, reflecting pieces of her—sharp, splintered, unrecognizable.

I slashed, and a streak of lightning leapt from my sword, cutting him in half before steel could even reach me. “Good,” I muttered. The soldiers surged. A spear thrust toward my chest that I was barely able to weave. I twisted, shoved it aside, and drove my sword straight through the man. Lightning danced in the arc of my sword, every swing became a thunderclap. Men fell in lines, their eyes were filled with terror. They tried to form ranks, tried to hold ground, but each time they closed in, the storm tore them apart. Ten fell, then twenty, and then thirty. The courtyard became chaotic as screams were drowned by the roar of thunder.

“Until now.” A sense of inevitability settled over them. The sword was waiting for him. Elior approached, his pulse matching the rhythmic thrum in the air. The whispers around them grew urgent, pleading now. Do not touch it. You will not return the same. But Elior ignored them. His fingers wrapped around the hilt. The world shattered. A violent wind roared through the chamber, snuffing out the torches. Darkness swallowed everything, suffocating, endless. Then—light.

Hearing it spoken in the open air above the Atlantic gave it a different quality. Permanent was the word she kept arriving at. Not ending. Permanent. The crown of the Vael bloodline was a physical object smaller than she'd expected, old metal worn smooth by time, carrying nothing theatrical. Seren placed it on Caspian's head with the precise care of someone who had done this for three hundred years and understood that the object was less significant than the moment. He became, in that moment, what he had been becoming for a very long time. She watched it happen.