Blade Of Northarch Novels & Stories

Blood coats my knuckles, the sight of it almost as sobering as the feel of his bones breaking beneath my fists. And then, in one final act, driven by the deep-seated anger, I reach into Cezar’s chest, my claws sinking deep, and with a ruthless tug, I pull out his heart. The blood rushes to my head as I watch the life leaving his eyes, but I still feel hungry for vengeance. I listen as Orion swallows hard, his voice barely a whisper. “Nero... what did you see?”

His crimson eyes stared down her shaky emerald ones holding it for a few seconds before growling menacingly and lunging towards an already weak Ilena. She made an attempt to dodge but his claws struck her harshly, slashing her neck deeply. She shifted back to her skin mid-cry from just the pain as blood gushed out of her neck like a waterfall. The last thing she sees is his blurry form heading straight to Tora’s unconscious body that laid on the cold snow. She tried to form words but blood coughed up her throat till she choked slowly and succumbed to darkness.

"Jack wolf, please!" With a surge of adrenaline, Jack Wolf summoned every last ounce of strength. The spear shone brighter, its power surging through him like a river of light. Eryndor's eyes widened in surprise as Jack Wolf's grip tightened, the spear's tip pressing deeper into his chest. The dark magic swirling around him began to falter. Eryndor stood on his ground. The air was electric with the clash of steel and the scent of sweat and blood. Eryndor's Shadowing dagger seemed to dance in the moonlight, its dark blade slicing through the air with a haunting screee-ksss.

The impact sent him crashing to the ground of the cage. The crowd cheered crazily, screams erupted all around me. "BLADE!" "BLADE!" "BLADE!" I pulled out my custom-made blade gleamed with a savage hunger under the bright arena lights. The polished steel bore the name "Capone," etched into the metal like a proclamation of death. Its edge was as sharp as a serpent's fang. It looked eager to cut, having tasted the blood of many before. The handle, wrapped in black leather, felt like a coiled snake in my grip, ready to strike with deadly accuracy. This blade wasn't just a weapon; it was a merciless instrument of brutality, a symbol of my unrelenting power in this world.

He did not speak, only unfastened the Northern blue-crystal longsword from his waist and offered it to me. I looked up at him. "My own blade is enough." "This one is different," he said in a low voice. "This is the sword of the Northern Alpha Kings, blessed by the Moon Goddess herself." "I place it in your hands." He took a single knee in the snow, holding the longsword horizontally before him. "From this moment on, you are its master." The hilt of the sword felt burning hot. The Northern blue crystal glowed in my palm. I turned around, gazing toward Black Moon in the south.

Chapter 3: Blades and Bonds The crisp northern air carried the promise of coming snow as the days in the Northshield village settled into a steady rhythm of preparation, training, and quiet moments that strengthened the ties between me and the three kings. My life as a captive had transformed into something far more complex—a role that blended duty, desire, and a growing sense of belonging. The brothers—Gunnar, Leif, and Erik—treated me with a balance of commanding authority and surprising tenderness, their presence a constant source of strength amid the gathering storm of conflict with rival clans.

I stopped at the threshold, my jaw dropping. Astance, the High Archon of the North, a man who could freeze a lake with a glare and had survived three centuries of political assassinations, was currently engaged in a life-or-death struggle with a grapefruit. He was still wearing his black silk trousers, but he had foregone a shirt, his scarred, muscled back gleaming in the morning light. He held a small paring knife with the same lethal precision he usually reserved for a dagger, and he was staring at the fruit as if it had just insulted his lineage.

For the first time since entering the temple, I felt hope. We stood together. Not because prophecy demanded it. But because we had become a family. Noctis watched us in silence. "You remind me of us." His gaze shifted toward Aurel. "Long ago." Aurel slowly drew a magnificent spear forged from crystal and moonlight. "The Spear of Dawn." Noctis summoned a blade of pure darkness. "The Blade of Oblivion." The air itself split as the two ancient weapons collided. Their impact unleashed a shockwave that shattered every remaining window in the temple.

He opened it carefully, and pulled out something wrapped in dark cloth. When he unwrapped it, I saw a blade. It was long and curved, wickedly sharp, with symbols etched along its length. It was the same blade from my vision. "This is the ceremonial blade that killed her," Alaric said, holding it up to catch the firelight. The metal gleamed with a reddish tint. "It's been passed down through my family for generations." I couldn't look away from it. That blade had killed the woman in the mirror, had pierced her heart while multiple alphas held her down.

the more the general spoke, the more twisted his expression grew – from a loving gaze to the look of a fanatic. “And for that purpose the North has to fall. Move aside my friends. I don’t want to hurt you” General Thoth’s expression grew cold when he finished his statement. His gaze sent chills down the spine of all the wielders who dared look into his eyes. “Archers!” Sir Blunt shouted “HERE SIR” “Ready Yourselves!” he commanded and several wielders strung their bows and took aim. “Gunners!” Duke Essandor screamed out “HERE SIR!”