Balerion The Dread Novels & Stories

A bunch of assorted boards and beams rested against the wall in the corner between the boiler and the left wall. In the kitchen that still hadn’t been renovated, Brandon Price faced the wingman’s handheld cam to say they were about to investigate the basement, where rumor had it an evil entity was lurking, that wasn’t there for their previous investigation. He would go down ahead of the others, all by himself, to see if he was able to make contact with said entity, which he suspected to be of a demonic nature. “The brave dear leader,” I grunted. “Purposely.” “You mean he came already planning to get rid of his attachment here?”

He did feel, however, that they now had a much better chance of reaching the Dwarves in relative safety. The rain was less oppressive as that thought cheered him. Ghaeron carefully swept the terrain below with his sharp Draconic vision. The mountainous country was thick with forests, obscuring even his remarkable sight in places. He had been flying over the wide lands for days. This day he was sweeping across the western edge of the Haedral Mountains. There had been little out of the ordinary. Humans going about their daily business, farming and trading. At one point he felt a surge in his mystical awareness, and he noted a small group of Black Knights far below. His keen vision allowed him

Dark veins curled around his neck like creeping vines, disappearing beneath his tattered cloak. “I was once called Dain,” he said at last. “But that name belongs to a man long dead.” Elara’s fingers twitched at her side. The name sounded vaguely familiar, like something she had read in an ancient text. Vesper exhaled sharply. “Dain the Forsaken.” His voice was laced with recognition—and something close to dread. Kael frowned. “You know him?” Vesper nodded, his expression unreadable. “A legend. A warrior of the old bloodlines. He fought against the rise of the dark gods and was betrayed by his own kind.” His gaze flickered to the chains. “They didn’t kill him. They sealed him away.”

“The creatures are gone. Burned. The rift in the sky closed as soon as you collapsed. But he escaped. The warlock.” I closed my eyes. “I felt him watching. Like something behind a mirror.” “His name is Velarion,” Dorian said softly. “One of the warriors found summoning scroll... He’s… not just a warlock. He’s one of the Forgotten. Ancient. Dangerous beyond anything we’ve seen.” The air grew colder. “And he knows who I am and where I am. This was the second time he came...” I whispered. Dorian didn’t answer - he didn’t need to. The bond between us was thrumming low and urgent. He was terrified. Not for himself. For me.

“You don’t let the healers take care of you either.” “I am full-grown. You’re still a boy.” Gildeon’s breath hitched as the volcanic rock pressed against his back where Paikon’s tail had stabbed him. His fists clenched between his legs. The magical fire burned into the wound, clearing out the venom’s leftover damage in his muscles. He wanted to scream but bit it back, holding still as the healing energy worked its way through him. “What did Baltae say this time?” the commander asked. “Said my mother was a dragon’s whore,” Gildeon muttered through gritted teeth, slamming his fist onto the bench. The wood cracked, and for a second, he thought it might break. “Said that’s why my beast form look

Hunter growled lowly. "He's so f*cking strong. All of you guys are against him, the king, and all the other packs, and yet Alonso is alive, successfully hiding and planning a massacre. That man is inhuman. He won't stop until he gets what he wants and his ambition is f*cking crazy." Lennox stated the obvious. It was true that the werewolf race had never come across such a strong threat that they still couldn't eliminate. Even after losing a strong pack like Draken's. Alonso still stood strong prowling towards his goal. It was f*cking intimidating.

The myrmen swapped jokes as they enjoyed the warmth of the fire, but young Lord Bar Emmon had turned a splotchy grey, and Lord Velaryon was watching the king rather than the conflagration. Moriah would have given much to know what he was thinking, but one such as Velaryon would never confide in him. The Lord of the Tides was of the blood of ancient Storm Drone, and his House had thrice provided brides for Drone princes. It was the same with the other lordlings. He could trust none of them, nor would they ever include him in their private councils. My grandsons will joust with theirs, though, and one day their blood may wed with mine. In time my little black ship will fly as high as Velaryon'

"I had magic on my side. And not the kind you read in faerie tales or have seen in Harry Potter, though some of it isn't too far off. I am what people call in my world a Dacian. Half Fae, half werewolf. Though my mother was a true Dacian, my blood holds more werewolf than fae. Nevertheless, I am of royal blood and rule my pack here while my family rules the realm of Gardenia." "I said the truth, not some more lies to diminish what little trust I have for you already." I deadpanned. Balor rolled his eyes like I was the one who was being unreasonable. "You should show them, or would you prefer I do it," Balthazar suggested, excitement filling his voice. Balor stood up, straightening his postur

until the black wolf at the centre of it all shifted. Bones cracked, fur receded, and a towering man stood where the beast had been. His hair was dark as pitch, his build monstrous, muscles coiled with unnatural power. Around his neck hung a black jade pendant carved with jagged symbols that seemed to drink the light. His violet eyes swept the arena like a predator measuring the size of its prey. “I am the Dreadlord,” he announced, voice echoing with layered resonance, as though more than one being spoke at once. “You may call me nothing else.”

They were massive, their fur matted with black ocean silt, their eyes clouded by a necro-magical haze that rendered them indifferent to pain. "Hold the line!" Kael’s voice echoed from the left flank. He was shifted, a massive grey shape tearing through the bone-armored invaders, but even he was being pushed back by the sheer mass of the horde. Elias stepped into the clearing. He didn't have his mercury eyes to scan the battlefield. He had to rely on his ears and the panicked reports of runners. He saw a Dread-Tide warrior, a hulking beast with an iron hook for a hand, lunging toward a young healer.