Amber Sword Novels & Stories

Adonis Arnold also couldn't help but be curious. Indeed, he was extremely passionate about weapons. "Okay! Don't let people down! Open up!" Bernard Arnold looked at his subordinates and raised his voice to command. After the treasure box was opened, two people raised a long sword. The long sword has a handle with a phoenix bird wing, a dragon-shaped head, flexible and extremely beautiful. Everyone focused on the scene ahead, Bernard Arnold increased his tone. "Pair Spirit Blades, famous in one direction, everyone has heard of them!"

It wasn’t for Lazy Eye’s neck that Amberleigh aimed the machete, but rather his right arm. The giant knife slid through just above his wrist smooth as fucking butter barely missing also taking out his thigh as well. The blade cut through the arm rest in the wooden chair and bounced against the concrete floor. Perhaps it was that jarring ring which helped bring Amber back to her fucking senses. Or the wet bounce of Lazy Eye’s hand on the floor. Because his scream had only made her want to hurt him more.

Skylar melted inside me as his huge stature hovered over mine. “The cut is still fresh, why aren't you healing?” I asked. “I think the metal of Ambrose’s blade was forged with Wolfbane and vervain,” he responded. Shit! I know that Katana. “He calls it mors omnia,” I muttered. “It's a blade he forged the day my mother died. He said he would use it to slay his enemies, but I have never seen him use it. There must be a reason he brought it out now.”

Bram’s grip on his greatsword was tight, his posture rigid with unease. As they stepped forward, the passage widened into another chamber, this one illuminated by a deep crimson glow. The walls shimmered with pulsating veins of energy, branching out from a single point at the room’s center. There, resting on a raised pedestal of carved obsidian, lay a sword unlike any they had ever seen.

The Armory was unlike anything Avery had ever seen. The chamber stretched wide and endless, its walls lined with racks of obsidian-forged weapons—scythes, glaives, blades with edges so sharp they shimmered like glass. The ceiling was lost in shadow, but faint lights pulsed like dying stars above, giving the room a cavernous, oppressive weight.

My arm was extended to her. She was glorious, fierce and half-drunk with battle lust. I could feel her talon-like fingers through the leather and 'parzillu' scales guarding my bicep. She half jumped and was half pulled to her feet. Her kinsman presented her 'misplaced' sword, hilt first. In her eyes, I saw the burning intensity of the Shamash (Sun God...consort of Aya?) at the height of the Burning Season. Her martial mirth exceeded any other noise as it passed her lips.

It smelled of damp stone, old hay, and solitude. Makil was already there, warming up with a series of fluid stretches that further betrayed his training. He wore similar clothes to yesterday, and two practice longswords were thrust into the ground at the center of the yard. Leigh arrived silently, a shadow detaching from the deeper shadows of the archway. She'd re-braided her hair tightly. She said nothing, simply walked to the center, pulled one sword from the earth, and tested its weight. "No rules," Makil said, pulling the other. "First to yield, or be disarmed."

To think that his master's sword will be pointing at her is something she would never imagine. "You don't have to do this." Amari was shaking. She was holding her sword and about to draw it. But her hand were shaking she can't do it---no she has to. Shakingly she drew her sword. The Aquarius relic replica sword, given by Alkhun. She just made a promise and she knew she have to hold on to it. "Very well. Defeat me and you win." After saying this nerom immediately disappeared out of thin air.

“She’s inside and there is another man!” “Wait here.” Omar replied, helping the she-wolf to rest against the only wall not covered in blood. Omar moved calmly, pulling a hunting knife from his coat pocket. The way the blade winked wickedly in the pale light sent a chill down Chloe’s spine. She decided there and then she had seen enough of weapons and murder today and turned away from the door, gulping in air. Her throat burned and the bitter taste of bile still haunted Chloe’s mouth. Above her the clouds were breaking and golden sunlight was now filtering through, casting long shadows between the trees. It was too beautiful for the gruesome scene.

The Phantom Blade was too light for something designed to end a life. It sat in Damian’s palm, a sliver of polished titanium that seemed to pull the nursery’s amber light into its edge. Damian didn’t look like a man whose estate was currently being dismantled by orbital strikes. He looked like a man who had finally solved a tedious riddle. He rotated the needle between his thumb and forefinger, his movements slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly steady. "The lion’s head engraving," he murmured.