Arcane Artbook Novels & Stories

"You always know how to make me feel better, Xavier." I chuckled softly, grateful for the connection we shared. "Well, that's what partners do, isn't it? Support and uplift each other." We continued our walk, the conversation flowing freely. Arcane's mind was a mosaic of aspirations, each fragment waiting to find its place. She spoke of her love for art, her fascination with the human mind, and the thrill she found in exploring new cultures through books and documentaries. "Maybe," she mused, "I'll find a way to combine all these interests. Create something that truly speaks to people, you know?"

Stumbling back, I crouched down, ready to attack, “What in the name of Loki are you doing? Go now before I change my mind and kick you, sorry little ass!” Arcane stood between us, blocking my view of her, and his eyes bored into mine. His fingertips had turned to long black talons, and almost black eyes focused only on me. Why the fucking hell did his beast interfere in this!?

She had already gone through the bookshelves, torn through drawers that hadn’t been opened in years, even lifted the corner of the ancient rug covering the stone floor—but nothing felt useful until now. Her hand pauses over an older scroll, different from the rest. It isn’t sealed, just loosely rolled and tied with a frayed red string. The parchment is brittle, the edges browned with age, but when she unrolls it, her heart skips. It's an old scroll their coven used to discern things unseen... She draws magical signs on it with her finger dipped in animal blood. One name appears a second later. Arwan. Written over and over again. Some of the letters trail off, others bleed into one another. S

The following night I returned to the Arcane Archives wearing a simple button-front dress that fell just below my knees — easier to remove, just as Elias had instructed. My body still hummed from the previous evening’s surrender, the faint marks from the silk bookmarks hidden beneath my sleeves like secret ink. Elias waited for me at the large oak reading table, the floating candle orbs casting a warm golden glow over the black shelves. He held a thick, leather-bound volume with ornate silver clasps. The title, embossed in deep crimson, read *The Bondage Codex: A Victorian Manual of Restraint and Ecstasy*.

Yam sliced it open slowly, hands trembling. Inside was their book. “The Art of Staying.” Cover: a sunflower. A crooked shelf. Two mugs—one chipped. And behind it all, the suggestion of a fan, mid-spin. Franc stared at it like it might whisper back. “Feels unreal,” Yam said. Franc flipped through pages. Some with artwork. Others with Yam’s poetry. Their story—wired beginnings and all—now bound in matte finish. “I think this book breathes,” Franc said.

But hope, like magic, has a price, and I am increasingly aware of that price. The book itself is a work of macabre art. The cover, made of dark leather that almost appears black, pulses with a life of its own, as if it were breathing. The leather is stained with deep shades of red, almost as though it has been soaked in blood over the centuries, giving it a sinister and throbbing appearance. Along the edges of the cover, aged silver chains are interwoven in complex patterns, depicting ancient runes and seals of protection, symbols only an enchantress could decipher. The title of the book is carved into the leather in rustic letters, subtly glinting with ruby, as though the words had been wri

He paused briefly, then gestured toward the parchment in Raven’s hand with great reverence, “This is the only thing we retrieved, an ancient book made from animal hide, preserved through extraordinary means. We didn’t dare open it carelessly and brought it straight to you.” Raven lowered his gaze, fingers tracing the coarse surface of the book, his eyes flickering with both suspicion and curiosity. To his surprise, the handwriting on the aged pages remained sharp and clear, the ink as dark as though it had been freshly penned. Not a trace of fading or decay, surely preserved through some unique method. “Magic Array.” That was the book's title. Inside, each page revealed intricate drawings, t

“I know it sounds batshit insane. Like the caller’s hallucinating or screwing with me. But he knew things—details no one should. And if there’s even a chance…” Lysander held up a hand, stopping me. “It doesn’t sound insane. Not entirely.” I blinked, caught off guard. “What?” He pushed off the table, walking to a bookshelf in the corner crammed with art books, sketchpads, and a few dusty tomes that looked older than the school. He pulled one out—a thick, leather-bound volume with faded gold lettering: “Mythos and Metaphor: Ancient Lore in Modern Art.” He flipped through it, landing on a page with illustrations of snarling wolves under full moons, runes etched around the borders.

With a subtle incantation, she disarmed the enchantment lacing the edges of the stone. As the panel slid away, a dim chamber revealed itself, lined with shelves of dusty tomes and scrolls. Amongst them, there were objects that glinted dully in the scant light-a collection of artifacts, each radiating a malevolent energy that made my skin crawl. "Careful," I warned, as Eden reached for a leather-bound volume. His touch sparked a faint glow from the runes embossed on its cover. We gathered around as he opened it, his fingers deftly turning the age-worn pages. The script was unfamiliar, but the images... they were unmistakable.

He looked like he was about to cry. "Awe, babe. You can get another one." Anna rubbed his arm. "I'm just glad your safe." He planted a kiss on her head. I rub my head. "Ok. What was she doing in Deruse?" Alexi opened the passenger seat door and pulled out a book. "I believe she wanted to acquire this." "What is that?" I look at the old book in her hands. "The Prophecy. The Book of the Dragons. Come inside." She walks us all into the conference room.