Arthur's Grave Novels & Stories

We knew he would have wanted us to separate her from the rest. We did it out of respect too. He laid down close to her grave for hours. We didn’t know how to tell him it’s getting late. He had to let him be. Oliver and I were just scouting around. We were there till dawn. We didn’t sleep, because we needed to keep our eyes on any danger. “Alpha Arthur.” Tate calls my attention. I jump down from my car and approach him. “Thank you.” He appreciates me. I nod at him.

The Anatomy of a Fallen Kingdom While the masses struggled on the grass, Leo felt the pull of the Thorne Manor on the hill. It loomed like a gargoyle, watching the "Unwanted" peasants from its height. He knew that the seed-vaults and purifiers Arthur had mentioned weren't just "gifts"—they were the last leash. Leo climbed the hill alone, his boots crunching on ancient gravel. Inside the manor, the air was still and smelled of a thousand years of dust. He found the "Actual" Arthur Thorne still sitting in his chair, his eyes closed, his hand resting on the iron key.

"Arthur’s final failsafe. If he can't have the world, no one can. You have sixty seconds before the harbor becomes a graveyard." Dante grabbed the tablet and threw it toward the sea. He didn't look at the ships. He looked at the Silver Queen. "Where is he?" Dante asked, his voice a low-timbered promise of death. "Where is Arthur?" The woman pointed toward the burning ruins of the mansion. "In the vault. Waiting for the end of the show." Dante turned to me, his face a mask of sadistic triumph. The silver was gone from his eyes, replaced by a cold, territorial hunger. He offered me his hand—the same hand that had chained me, and the same hand that had just saved me.

"There’s someone above him. Someone pulling strings.” A shadow moved in the alley across the street. Damien saw it too was at my side in an instant, his body angled protectively in front of mine. The figure stepped into the dim glow of a streetlamp. Tall. Lean. A familiar arrogant tilt to his head. Arthur. He lifted something, a chess piece. The king. Then placed it deliberately on the sidewalk. And walked away. Leaving us with the chilling certainty: This wasn’t over. It had only just begun.

I made my way toward him, the sound of my heels echoing sharply against the church floor. Arthur lifted his gaze when I got closer, and his expression softened faintly when he saw me. "Anabel,” he said softly. I sat beside him and reached for his hand gently. His fingers tightened around his walking stick while he gave a faint shake of his head, like he still couldn’t process any of this. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. Arthur exhaled unevenly. “I still don’t understand how this happened.” His voice sounded worn down by grief. I swallowed hard and rubbed his hand gently while he continued staring at the coffin ahead.

Her coffin contained items retrieved from the sea – bloodstained shoes, fallen hair, and hair clips. She had come so lightly and left just as lightly. Caesar refused Arthur's suggestion to hold an umbrella and walked through the garden in the snow, away from Lola's small tombstone. On her tombstone, Caesar had inscribed the words he chose for her – "Here lies a brave nightingale." The snow grew heavier, and Caesar didn't walk fast. The discomfort of his vulnerable period attacked his body, but he still maintained his upright posture. "If…" Arthur thought he was hearing things, his heart tightened, and he looked up at Caesar. Caesar was expressionless, not sorrowful, not in pain, but more lik

He handed them two Elixirs of Life each. After finishing the suturing, he rushed out of the Hall of Herbs and into the Patriot Hall. When Chad pushed open the Patriot Hall gates, he discovered Arthur sitting on the main chair, covered in blood and not breathing!

I dismissed it, but Gregory’s careful tone suggested there was more to this. “You won't believe who made a comeback!” He snapped, gasping suddenly at the revelation of whatever he saw on his tab. I can't believe I had someone this dramatic close to me for this long. “Gregory you either talk or get out.” It's getting tiring. “It’s Arthur. Arthur Lumberton,” he whispered. “I thought he was dead.” My hand froze, eyes narrowing as the name registered. Arthur. A faint smirk tugged at my lips. “Isn’t that the man who got Moore sent to prison, the one she murdered? And now he’s still alive?” Gregory’s voice held a mixture of disbelief and suspicion.

"I heard you and Arthur talking about sacrificing me. As in killing me." "You must have misheard." "No offense but why should I believe you about any of this?" I asked, tossing my hands out. "Arthur wouldn't hurt you." "I'm not so sure." Anthony sighed in resignation. "I know how private Arthur is but let me tell you a little bit about him," he said. I slid closer to him on the couch so he could speak more quietly. "Please, go on. I'm all ears," I answered. "When Arthur was a pup, he witnessed his father being killed."

Neither of them noticed the envelope sticking partially out of Arthur's jacket pocket. Old. Worn. Addressed in Jonathan Hartwell's handwriting. And marked with a date only three days before his death. Because if they had, they would have realized Arthur still hadn't told them everything.