Blade Of Northarch Novels & Stories

Darek’s eyes flick down to the blade, then back up to me. “You got here fast,” he says. “You should’ve been gone before I did.” “Why?” “Because you’re standing too close.” Nyxara lets out a slow breath. She lowers the knife a little more, but she doesn’t let go of it. Light flashes along the metal, and the bond shifts again. Heat flares in the center of my chest, sharp and sudden—then disappears just as fast. My eyes lock on the blade. “Where did you get that?” Nyxara doesn’t answer but the bond tightens again, just for a second. Enough to feel the strain of it. Darek follows my gaze to the knife.

The sword had a name: Uthar. A strange name for a sword, he thought. If he survived this long, he's worth taking. It would be too much to ask for a scabbard. Sword in hand he went through the forest. The shades of the dead slowly rose, trying to block his way. His instincts activated, he swung the sword at the shades. A group of them moved a step back. He moved a step forward. The group stood still, they waited. A tall shade appeared from the group, he was their leader. His great sword was ready to strike. Hjolt looked at him with disbelief, his eyes tricked him, and yet again the leader stood in front of him. He looked like yore King Rathar, ruler of the Northern provinces. There was no mis

My fingers are on my chin as I crouched and looked at it. The cover or the sheath was silver with a few pints of gold, I don't understand the engravings etched on it. Because of my curiosity, I held it and released it from its sheath. Unlike other sword, its blade was bluish and silver, the handle was wood in color and the cover was glass. It was not as heavy as it look. I lifted it up and swayed it... Imagining I was a samurai fighting some bad guys. I chuckled.

I shouted. I stepped out from behind Rowan. The obsidian blade in my hand felt different now. It wasn't just a heavy piece of stone. It was light, almost weightless, and it thrummed with the soft, white light of the girl I had seen in the warehouse. It was the **Blade of the Unsaid**. Every word I had swallowed, every dream I had put aside for the sake of survival, every "I love you" that had been lost in the roar of battle—it was all there, feeding the light. Vane pivoted, his liquid form spinning like a drill. He ignored Rowan and came for me. He was fast—too fast for a human to track. He was a blur of silver and shadow.

In my right hand, my broad iron blade rested against my thigh, its sharp edge red and wet. Beside me, Julian lay unconscious on the cold stone, his jaw swollen and broken, bleeding onto the grand red carpet. The Council Elders were either dead or weeping in the dark cellars below. The old world was gone. I turned my head toward the shattered double doors. A dozen Imperial guards stood in the wide hallway outside. They held heavy rifles and short iron spears, but their faces were white as bone. Their eyes moved from the bloody floorboards to the unconscious body of their nobleman, then up to my bare, red-eyed form towering over the room. They saw my broad chest, the heavy blade in my grip, an

The clearing glowed with the twinkling fairy lights that adorned every tree, and the torches that had been lit along the path to illuminate the participants' way. Brand stood in front of the Yggdrasil feeling like his throat was being constricted by a stiff collar rather than a soft tunic. He wore a bearskin over one shoulder to symbolize strength and protection. He was also glad of its warmth as the first snows had started to fall just in the last week. He huffed as Brodi clapped him on the shoulder. "Nervous yet?" he asked with a smile, adjusting the leather hauberk that held his broadsword across his back and the belt at his waist where the sheath for his ceremonial dagger rested.

The blade caught the fading light. "This is better than my own knife," she said to Yrsa. "If I wasn't dying, I'd take it." I shook my head. Frost was radiating cold so intensely I had to step away from him. "I know you don't like this—" I began. "Shut up," he said. I did. I swallowed whatever justification I was about to offer. None of it would help. Yrsa began explaining the dagger's significance to Hilda. "Blade from north mountains. Forged in sacred fire. Will open path between worlds."

The first Harvester didn't scream when I took its throat. It couldn't. The vocal processors in its white synthetic shell weren't calibrated for pain, only for the clinical reporting of the harvest. I moved before its magnetic boots even settled on the marble. The Phantom Blade was a sliver of shadow in my grip, less a weapon and more an extension of the Sovereign engine roaring in my chest. It wasn't a lunge; it was a high-density burn that turned my muscles into coiled wire and the air into a haze of static.

I braced myself, feet rooted in the earthy floor of the clearing, as he launched forward like a force of nature unleashed. His dedication to the North pack, unyielding and fierce, fueled his fury. With every strike, his muscles flexed, pronounced under the moonlight-a warrior sculpted by endless battles. Scars adorned his skin, rugged and raw, each one a grim chapter of survival written across his flesh. Thorne was not merely a fighter; he was a testament to the North's relentless spirit.

The sword light of his Storm of Swords spell was nearly snuffed out by now, leaving only his Unsullied Sword to resist the Northern Dark Mystic Ice Sword. Never mind that the Unsullied Sword was ranked beneath the Northern Dark Mystic Ice Sword. The fact that the Spirit of the Northern Dark Mystic Ice Sword was taking part in this battle meant that any resistance by the Unsullied Sword was futile. The blade of the Unsullied Sword was beginning to shake and the white light covering it was gradually dimming under the weight of the Northern Dark Mystic Ice Sword's cyan light.