Blade Of Northarch Novels & Stories

“Because of you … my mother died! Alice died!” “Your attempt to make me guilty for killing the weak is useless,” Terrowin said, keeping a blank expression. “The lives of the weak mean nothing to me.” Arth grunted as the white ribbons of alar surrounding the king shoved his sword that he had to reel back. He remembered what the Chief had told him before … that he could never win a fight with hatred. So he had to calm himself down. ‘That must be the king’s enchanted sword … Frostbane, the one Lucas have mentioned,’ Arth thought as the strings of alar compressed, forming into a long sword. It had twice the length of Blackwinter, having a white blade and a blue handle.

“You defied me in the Mirrorlands. Now you’ll watch him die.” I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t blink. But I could burn. The Blade of Veyra reappeared in my hand like it had been waiting. It pulsed with fury—mine and the moon’s. I charged. Necros raised the relic. It glowed—flooding the temple with a blinding light. But I didn’t stop. His magic hit me like a tidal wave. It should have crushed me. Should have ripped my mind apart. Instead—something awoke.

George raised his shield, fending off a sea of swords and spears. Ingrid's grandmother rallied the archers atop the walls. Though expert hunters, the unrelenting blizzard threw their arrows off course. Each arrow that pierced a gap in a Blade's armor saved a life. The Frosthold and tribal forces on the battlefield, shaken but recovering, prepared to charge back to the castle and repel Abigail. But then came a second horn blast from the Inquisitor. The bulk of the Inquisitor's Blades emerged from the blizzard, their weapons gleaming. They locked into battle with tribal warriors and the Frostholds, meeting their ferocity blow for blow.

[CW- References to planned infanticide and ablism.] Archer’s arm bled down onto the dusty floor of the desert. North was letting out little growls and grumbles, blood dripping down his little chin. “North!” Ariadne cried out. She tried to pull him off Archer, but he wasn’t letting go. “Argh!” Archer cried out as North’s teeth pressed deeper into him.

We said goodbye and I headed to the address Nick had texted me. As I walked into the shop a friendly gentleman greeted me. “Miss Clarke, Mr. Thorn said to expect you.” “He did,” I sounded surprised. “I have the bottles ready for you.” We walked over to the counter, and he showed me the bottles. First was Chateau Montelena chardonnay and the second was a bottle of Macallan 18-year-old double cask whiskey. I nodded, not having a clue. I watched as he boxed the bottles up and placed a gift ribbon around each of them.

Something had changed. Lucifer stood at the center of the barren expanse, the newly transformed Archai Sword resting firmly in his hand. The blade pulsed slowly, rhythmically, as if it possessed a heartbeat of its own. Crimson light flowed along its edge, yet within that red glow faint traces of celestial blue shimmered like distant stars buried beneath blood. It was no longer the weapon he once wielded. It was something else entirely. Something older and something far more dangerous.

At its center stood a raised dais of obsidian and bone, and upon it, a blade. It floated above the altar, suspended in a web of golden runes and chains that shivered with old magic. Its hilt was carved from spinal bone, its blade black as void, veins of red pulsing through it like a living thing. The room felt alive. And angry. Dirus bowed low before it, not in reverence, but in wariness. "There it is," he whispered. "The Godrender." I stepped closer, the pressure in my chest increasing with every heartbeat. The closer I got, the more my wolf fought it, ears pinned, teeth bared inside me.

And Rowan the golden child stepped forward, face grim with determination. “I can close the gate,” he said. “But I need her power.” “No!” Aria grabbed him. “You’ll burn.” “We’re bound,” Seris whispered. “We always were.” She reached up and touched Rowan’s chest. Their bodies began to glow. And then **a blade of pure ash** erupted through Rowan’s back. He gasped, eyes wide in shock. “Rowan!” Aria screamed. Behind him stood a figure cloaked in familiar armor.

The Final March Ashley’s POV The skies over us were unnaturally still. The type that stops and waits and holds its breath until it is covered with blood. We were in line on the border of the old battleplain where, they said, the old kings lay resting in their bones under the ground. In front of the army rode Nicholas, in his armour of silver, like splinters of moon. Across his back was flung the Moonshard Blade, where its quiet power hummed to itself in ways we could not effect.