Assassin's Cerulean Dagger Novels & Stories

The knife caught the moonlight, reflecting a sharp, icy gleam—clearly a weapon of exceptional quality, capable of cutting through iron like mud. Thomas didn't flinch. He stepped back smoothly, dodging the strike, and in one fluid motion, disarmed the man. The assassin—a seasoned mercenary—froze in shock. Impossible. He ranked in the global top three for assassinations, and number one in close-quarters combat. How could his weapon be taken so easily? In that split second of distraction, a cold gleam flashed in Thomas's eyes. He swung the blade—and with a silver arc through the dark air, the assassin's pinky finger was severed clean off.

*KAEL* Victim: Roman Russo Age: Twenty Assault Weapon: A weirdly crested dagger Suspect: Not found The crest on the dagger is totally the same. It is not a coincidence. It is the same that was on the dagger that was find on both Nino and Olivia.

on all my targets; I always knew where they were. He was at a late-night gala event at a private garden. I headed to my hidden weaponry stash, picking out a long-range sniper rifle and a silencer. Today, I wasn't going for a "planned accident." I was going for a direct, unbranded bullet through the skull. An hour later, I was perched on a rooftop overlooking the garden. I blended into the shadows seamlessly, finding her father through the scope. He was sitting on a stone bench with Raina’s mother, away from the crowd.

The others barely had time to register what happened when Liam burst out, a quintuple-edged dagger in hand. He was a shadow among them, his blade a flash of silver that danced across their wrists, disarming them of their scimitars. In moments, the hallway was a cacophony of clattering blades and piercing screams that filled the hotel. The leader, clutching his bleeding wrist, stared at Liam in horror, leaning casually against the doorframe. Liam's dagger dripped crimson. He watched the fallen assassins with an unfeeling smirk. "You think you can play assassins, skulking around in the dark?" Liam's voice dripped with scorn. With a casual flick of his wrist, a burst of steel needles whizzed th

That would give him an idea of the strength of the other two. What Mane didn’t realize was that the small knife that had been discarded onto the floor was glowing slightly as well. As it drowned in the blood of the dead assassin, the small dagger radiated a red hue. It was not easily noticeable, but it was there. It was clear that this was no ordinary dagger.

Kaelen’s voice roared in my mind—a cry of pure, agonizing devotion. He didn't attack the assassin. He threw his own body over mine. The silver dagger sank deep into Kaelen’s shoulder with a sickening, wet thud. He let out a strangled, guttural whimper as the silver burned into his flesh. His massive black form collapsed against my side, his weight stumbling.

He turned his head slowly, locking his gold-sapphire eyes onto the security camera. A Silence-Weaver detached from the shadows of the ventilation shaft. The assassin raised his rifle, the crosshairs centering on the single, pulsing gold vein now visible on the back of Leo’s neck.

A Were-cat assassin, draped in midnight-blue silk and holding twin curved daggers, dropped from the branches toward Aradaa. "Aradaa, move!" Kaelor lunged. He didn't use the dagger. He used his raw, physical weight. He tackled the assassin mid-air, the two of them crashing into the shallow water with a violent splash. The cat hissed, a sound like steam escaping a pipe, and clawed at Kaelor’s chest. Kaelor didn't flinch. He grabbed the assassin’s throat and squeezed until the sound of snapping cartilage echoed in the silence.

The man who once lived for my breath was now the predator stalking it, his every movement a jagged, lethal promise of my end. We were on the open observation deck of the Spire’s flagship, suspended thousands of feet above the burning Iron Shore. The wind howled around us, tearing at my silk gown and the Sovereign tactical gear that now encased his body. Dante moved with a sickening, mechanical grace, his obsidian arm glowing a sterile, blinding white. He was "Assassin 01," a ghost with no name and no mercy.

These are assassins, wearing the dark leathers and carrying the blessed silver weapons that mark them as specialists in killing their own kind. Lior bleeds from multiple wounds, his curved blade lying several feet away where it was apparently knocked during the initial ambush. The vampire's gold eyes burn with fury and desperation as the hunters close in for what looks like a killing strike. "Kaelen sends his regards," one hunter says conversationally while positioning a silver dagger for a heart strike. "And his regrets that your loyalty proved insufficient to overcome corrupted nature." Lucian doesn't pause to think or plan or consider consequences. The incomplete form just moves, covering