Black Magician Novels & Stories

a shaky voice spoke up from the back of the room. I turned my head. A very old, frail archivist stepped forward, trembling slightly under my intense gaze. "The Blackwood line has existed for centuries, my King," the old man stammered, clutching a stack of notes to his chest. "Long before the Eastern Kingdom outlawed blood magic, your ancestors fought against it. There are rumors of an ancient text. A grimoire written by the first Northern healers. It contains a specific, highly concentrated ritual designed to sever a parasitic tether by suppressing the host's magic instantly, without harming the victim."

) In the congregational form of the Black Mass the priest, having fi nished his abominations—these are, quite frankly, indescribable—scatters the fragments of the Host on the fl oor, and the assistants scramble for the soiled fragments, the possession of which, they Black Mass 31 believe, will allow them to work their petty and malicious designs. My most memorable personal experience of the effects of black magic occurred when I was living in Scotland. The machinations of a degraded and outcast member of the Order caused my hounds to die, my servants to become insane. The struggle lasted until the recoil of the current of hated caused the luckless sorcerer to collapse. The explanation of its

Well, at least I finally got something I can do as a mage, right? Water splintered like glistening crystals as I turned and followed the rhythm with precision. I closed my eyes as I continued on my track, there was another smooth splash. Once again, I turned and leaped a little, then faced the audience and opened my eyes. I thought I'd see my expectants watching me in awe. But to my surprise, my line of vision was directed to a pair of unfamiliar pitch black eyes, the darkest shade of black I've ever seen in my whole life.

It should be illegal to look this nerve wrecking. The first three buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a patch of clear slightly tanned skin. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, showing off the prominent veins that ran up his back hand. I felt the breath hitch in my wind pipes as our eyes met, his mesmerizing green stare made my cheeks flush and my knees go weak, it was like I was paralyzed as I stood there while his eyes still roamed me. "I don't think I've introduced myself. Damon Blackwood" his husky voice made my heart rate pick up. A smirk crawled unto his features as he stretched out a hand for me and I just stared in awe, his words sinking in.

He felt someone's presence, tugging his mind to talk. "Talk!" he growled. "I think you need to see this," he heard Alec say while he furrowed his brows in confusion at what he had seen to make him link him when he had warned them not to. There was a pause at the other side before Alec continued, "We saw traces of black magic at the western side of the territory with some humans blood," Zaccheus snarled and growled softly; the black witches never learn as he felt his beasts rise which made his eyes to be golden before settling on the normal blue.

Oscar retreated farther away so as not to be seen, he had no intention of eavesdropping, but his sense of hearing was always sensitive because he had half ELF blood. "Sir, we cannot identify the young lady's condition. It's weird. Her breath is ragged and keeps twitching. But at least we managed to stop the seizures, not consciousness. I thought it was because of the black magic, but I dare not say it out loud… as if the young lady's body is susceptible to the black magic directed at her and is making a refusal." The Healer explained while looking at Benedict, who seemed quite surprised. "But Duke, I think this doesn't make sense and needs to be investigated further because we already know.

Beneath a crimson sky, three colossal pyramids rose from the desert, their tips burning with a black flame. At the center of a ritual circle stood a man cloaked in scarlet and gold — the Magus whose name the stars refused to remember. Around him, hundreds knelt in terror as he raised a blade carved from obsidian and bone. With one stroke, he opened his own palm and let the blood drip into a basin carved with wolf sigils and the eyes of witches. His voice thundered across the sands. “From spirit and night, I summon thee!” The blood hissed, turning into a vortex of smoke and shadow. From its heart, something began to take form — tall, lean, carved from the dark itself.

Bone cracked, but it didn’t falter. Above, Daryl reached a ledge and pulled something from his cloak — a vial glowing with sickly blue light. Even from here, Killian could taste the metallic tang of concentrated blood magic. He hurled it down. The vial shattered at the creature’s feet, and the blue glow surged upward, tangling with the red in its veins. The Bloodforged froze, muscles twitching as if caught between two masters. Daryl dropped from the ledge, landing beside Killian. “Now!”

His pair of fused eyebrows showed that he was thinking hard at the moment. "If it's based on Ruby's explanation of the magic spells, it's impossible for black magicians to move around without anyone knowing. In this world, there are no extraordinary magics such as teleportation or making the body transparent like the histories which I think are exaggerated. But, the world has never known how and what a black witch looks like." I leaned my back against the wall with far-flung thoughts.

She was a legend people either feared or pretended not to know. And Blackwood had witches. Hybrid, lunatic, chicken-blooded witches who could sniff secrets out of bones and dreams. “Vivienne Moreau,” he called, voice sharper now, and deliberate. “Open the damn door.” Yep. That was it. Funeral bells. End credits. Roll the fucking montage. I can see my family calling me to join them in hell. “Damn you, Atlas Blackwood,” I muttered under my breath, pacing once, twice, then stopping dead.