Blood Blade Dance Novels & Stories

He hoped so but a part of him knew something was wrong. When they were done eating, they left the dining area and went to the living room where Maya presented the tickets. "What is this Maya?" Sarah asked. "Tickets to our production of The Swan Lake." "Oh wow, I've never been to a ballet production." Wanda said with excitement. "When is it?" "This weekend." "Still an apprentice?" Elliot asked mocking his little sister. He knew she was no longer an apprentice. Maya frowned and folded her arms. "I'm an official corps de ballet dancer. I've been one since I was sixteen Elliot."

The crowd quieted once again, as though the air itself held its breath. He lifted a ceremonial blade, forged of moonsteel and so sharp it sang in the silence. “Kara and Dylan,” the elder said, “extend your hands.” Dylan gave me a gentle nod. I swallowed hard and held out my palm. The blade met my skin, slicing through it with a sharp, icy sting. I winced as warm blood spilled into the bowl. Dylan’s blood followed, and then the elder pressed our palms together, fingers locking. Our mingled blood shimmered with a strange, silvery glow. The air around us thrummed as though the room had become a living thing, inhaling with us.

“Bloodied Blade: Crazed Cut of the Blade King!” With a furious bellow Mane announced the name of his technique. It wasn’t to anyone in particular. It was more like a declaration of what he was going to do. He intended to crash the foe before him with absolute force. The lightning around his blades screamed even louder as they became more destructive. The Bloodied Blade Series was so much more destructive than the Prideful Sword Series. So much so that Mane had been able to pick up just one technique from it so far. And when used in conjunction with an element of mass destruction like lightning, its effects were catastrophic. As the swords reached Camila, the temperature of the blades caused

The pain of it was a physical white–hot agony in my shared chest. The hesitation was all Blade needed. The curse, fed by that fresh, devastating pain, surged back with a vengeance. The grey in his eyes vanished, swallowed by the violent red-blue. *I’LL SHOW YOU STRONG!* With a snarl that held no humanity, Blade’s clawed paw shot out. It wasn’t a swipe to wound. It was a killing blow. Fast, brutal, final. The girl’s whimper was cut off. Silence, except for the drip of the rain and Blade’s heavy panting.

she whispered, fear threading her voice. “You survived it,” I said, gripping the handle of my knife, feeling the familiar weight like an extension of my arm. “And then you make sure it never comes back.” Blade gave me a nod, a silent agreement. His gaze flicked to the shadows. “It’s not human. Not really. But it can bleed. And when it bleeds…” His eyes glinted. “…we make it count.” From the corner of my eye, I caught movement. A black blur, almost imperceptible, circling behind the trees. My heart hammered. The figure was patient, letting us think we had a moment’s reprieve. But that was all it was—an illusion.

The master officiating the match called for it to begin. Immediately Nila sprung from a ready stance into Sparrow Through The Brush, she flitted back and forth stabbing with her thin rapier. Fur blocked each stab with Falcon On The Wind, a form normally used for fighting an opponent using a sword with a single edge. He struck back with Tiger Jumps Its Prey, a huge over hand blow that Nila side-stepped. That move would have sheared her and her thin blade completely in half. Nila was wide eyed now, she was completely out classed and she knew it. The fear left her eyes again, replaced by resolve and anger. Boro's fear only increased.

He grunted in pain and his grip loosened enough on her hair that she was able to dance away from him. Right into the arms of another shifter. This man was taller than Killian. His ham fist struck her ribs and she felt the crack of bone. She used her smaller stature to slide past him, her elbow coming in to her side so she could baby her ribs. She streaked through the crowd, blows raining down from all sides on her naked body, but no one could catch her to keep her still enough to finish her off.

It’s a dance of legacy. They move with grace, spinning and slashing through the air as drums thrum in the background. It feels like the pulse of the earth itself, like the heartbeat of every Luna that ever ruled before ours. When the final movement of the blade dance concludes, they drop to one knee as one, heads bowed. Then, from the line of soldiers, the lead demonstrating soldier steps forward. He is a tall man with broad shoulders and scars like cracked stone lining his neck. He’s handed a brown-golden container by one of the ceremonial aides.

Belief. I had given all three. The scars lived on my skin. My mind held the names of those who died in divine silence. My faith had fractured under what I had seen—but I stayed. And tonight, I would give more. I stepped onto the dais and lifted the ceremonial dagger—the Black Blade. Not forged metal, but obsidian fused with the bones of priestesses who had died mid-prophecy, minds split by divine madness. It could cut through flesh… and fate. I drew it across my palm again, deeper than before. My blood struck the altar and hissed.

Before the phantom could swing, I sharply slid the sharp edge of my silver blade directly across the palm of my left hand. A sharp spike of pain flared through my skin as my hot, ancient lineage blood welled up, completely coating the silver steel in a thick, glowing crimson layer. With a fierce, explosive battle cry, I dodged beneath the phantom’s heavy, slow sweep, utilizing my martial arts training to pivot sharply onto my heels. I drove the blood-coated silver blade straight into the center of the phantom's chest.