Blooded Warhammer Novels & Stories

"That mark belongs to me." She stepped back, blade raised again. "You're lying." He took a slow step forward, his eyes glowing brighter. "I wish I were." Before she could react, the sky darkened. Dozens of crows rose from the trees at once, shrieking and circling above them. The air grew heavy, the ground trembling under her boots. Kael looked up at the sky. "The Bloodbound has awakened." Seraphina didn't understand what he meant-she only knew one thing.

“They’re here!” The words struck me like physical blows. They’re here. The nightmare we’d spent weeks whispering about in council chambers had become reality. The Ironbloods. Magic-wielding killers who had burned entire villages to ash. Malakor. The warlord. I froze. The slums had taught me how to survive. How to steal. How to fight. How to disappear into shadows. But this wasn’t another tavern brawl. This was war. Monsters. Magic. Blood. Death.

I grabbed the hem of Felix's shirt, fixed a pitiful expression on my face, and mumbled, "I believe you, Felix." Felix's expression softened as he helped me back to my feet. Taking advantage of the fact that the other wolves' attention was still on us, I retrieved a document from my bag and handed it to Felix. "I accidentally recorded your pup's blood type as AB when I registered his information last time. The truth is, his blood type is O." Felix's face twisted as he snatched the document from me. An eerie silence descended upon the hall. Everyone knew that all the wolves of the Blackrock pack had type-AB blood, making it impossible for a pup with type-O blood to exist in the pack.

she whispered. Kael tilted his head. The baby’s eyes were barely open, unfocused, but when they flickered beneath the dim torchlight, he saw it. Molten gold, faint but there. His blood. His heir. His everything. Outside, the wolves moved with quiet reverence. Bodies were covered. Wounds were stitched. Names of the fallen whispered like prayers. The Hollow had seen battles before, but tonight, something older had been stirred awake. The blood moon had birthed both a life and a war.

When it cleared, only glass and bones floated on bubbles that popped with tiny screams. War lifted his sword and brought it down. The strike split the world. Stone cratered, sand flew, wolves tumbled as if mountains had been kicked. The edge of his blade slammed where I stood—earth caved, sparks scattered, dust choked the air. When it cleared, Hollowflame curled around me like an unbroken crown. War snarled. His teeth were red, his eyes molten. “You cannot burn me. I am the first blood spilt. The scream in the cradle. The hunger that makes men carve each other open.”

"Then let them come." Luis and Pearl step beside me. Their power pulses. Behind us, the Bloodborn army chants: "Unmarked! Unbroken!" The wind howls. The ground quakes. War is coming.

BLOOD AND VOWS --- CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO THE MONEY WAR “Cut a man’s throat and you kill him once. Cut off his money and he dies every day after.” The war had shifted. That much was clear. It was no longer about bodies, bullets, or blood sprayed across marble floors and warehouse walls. This chapter of the war moved quieter, deeper, and far more dangerous—into numbers, offshore transfers, encrypted ledgers, and the bloodless battlefield of finance where a man could lose an army without firing a single shot. Emilia had always known this war would come. It was inevitable. Men like Jace didn’t just build power through violence; they funded it, insured it, turned it into something mathematical and u

Burned meat and blood are so old that they don’t belong to anything natural. There is only one thing it can be. A name whispered in the Pit’s dark corners when the guards thought we were too broken to listen. Bloodborne Hounds. Bred in the dark and stitched together from dead wolves and dead men. Made for one purpose: to tear the right out of anything too stupid to run.

The battlefield around me blurred, the clash of claws and the scent of blood becoming a disorienting symphony. Alpha Draxler, undeterred by my waning strength, refocused on Trevor. A vicious slash, a grotesque ballet of violence, painted Trevor's chest in a vivid display of crimson. The scene unfolded in agonizing slow motion, each drop of blood a testament to the sacrifices demanded by our world.