Arknight Novels & Stories

I left Marcus with his fire and his wolf and took Garron’s path down the steps, printouts hot in my hand as if the past resented being carried. Ash drifted down, tried to mark me. I brushed it off. My name isn’t theirs to write. The bells kept ringing. The day emptied itself. The pack listened the way wolves do when the weather shifts heads high, ears forward, ready to move. And somewhere in a room no longer on any map, a process called ARCHIVIST-ZERO finished a list, closed a file, and smiled without a face.

Swift dropped her back as she was coughing profusely. The pack was gathered as per instructions of Luna. There was a huge pit of fire in the center. They were all Wolves. The kids were made sure to be put asleep with earstuds not to disturb their cute little snores. It was Sunday night and they had to go back to the city in the morning. That means the kids need to take rest. Right. Luna trotted to the center. He was gracefully walking to the tied up man and his disheveled daughter. And by looking at her Swift was pleased with what Trist's men would have done. As she was desperate to fill herself up.

I needed to know what lived in that void. Gently, I slid out of bed. The floor was ice beneath my feet. I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't need to. I knew the architecture of this cage by heart. I made my way to the mercury-quartz desk, my fingers trembling as I initiated the override I had mapped out days ago. "Show me the archives," I whispered to the dark air. "Authorization: Ivy Moretti. Bypass code: Sanguine Winter." The interface flickered to life, a ghostly blue glow illuminating my face. I bypassed the financial ledgers and the property deeds. I dove past the Ghost Protocol’s surface layers, digging into the sub-directories Dante kept buried in the shadow-root of the Tower’s serve

[SYSTEM MESSAGE: PRIVATE SERVER VANGUARD-01 ONLINE.] [USER: WRAITH LOGGED IN.] [CURRENT OBJECTIVE: ERADICATE ALL HOSTILES IN SECTOR 12-GAMMA.] Midnight in the Sector 3 penthouse was silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the Vanguard immersion pods cooling their internal processors.

“If those cracks reach his heart… I will never forgive you. Not for the river. Not for the five years. Nothing.” He turned his sightless face. His Adam’s apple moved in a jagged, pained swallow. “I know,” he whispered. “But I will lock the fire down. I'll be the anchor until there’s nothing left but the ash he walks on. I promise, Aria.” AWOOOO— A howl tore the night. Distorted. High-pitched. Necrotic Elite hunger. “White Wolf!” Boomed the estate speakers. A Council hack override. “Surrender the anomaly! The harvest has begun!”

GRACE'S POV APRIL 12th, 2013 There was a sound. It came first as a distant ringing, sharp and persistent, like something fighting to pull me back from wherever I had fallen. It cut through the quiet darkness, growing louder, closer, more insistent. “Grace?” “Grace!”

“I might be persuaded. But it would require significant compensation for my distress.” The clerk looked like she wanted to strangle me with her bare hands. Instead, with a trembling hand, she reached into the breast pocket of her resort polo and pulled out a single, fat white candle. She thrust it at me. “Take this. Please.” My fingers closed around the cool wax. The System pinged in my mind, information flowing in. Item Acquired: C-Grade Artifact – ‘Nightwalker’s Candle’ Description: Illuminates the path ahead. May guide the lost back to where they belong.

*Chapter 42: The map had twelve red marks. Now it had eleven. Aria stood over the table in the war room, the Foundry shard’s dust still clinging under her nails. The Oathbreaker was bound again, but the mark on her palm hadn’t faded. If anything, it glowed faintly when the Moonstone was near. “We move on the next one,” Aria said. Mirel tapped the map. “Western marshes. Cell calling themselves the Drowned Fang. Twelve wolves, last seen three days ago.”

because the final round belongs to me. They climbed onto the bike, the roar of Arka’s powerful engine piercing the silence of the night, heading back to the apartment where there would be no third party to interfere—only a lethal intimacy under Arka’s absolute control, and a cold countdown hidden safely inside Bima's locked black box.

I growled softly, my voice a rough rumble that easily cut through the high-pitched shriek of the grinding machinery across the street. He swallowed hard, slowly pulling his calloused hand away from his wrench as he stepped aside, leaving the heavy timber door completely unguarded. Inside, the tavern was a chaotic maze of stained timber benches, thick tobacco smoke, and the deep-throated laughter of Southern Drift mercenaries celebrating their upcoming deployment. High-output electronic slot terminals lined the far wall, their cheap blue display screens throwing a flickering light across the pale faces of the local information brokers. Aria cut a direct path toward the back booth where an old