Bloodstained Dagger Novels & Stories

My stomach dropped out from under me. “ANA!!” I screamed her name, my voice cracking. I hit the ground hard, gravel digging into my palms, but I scrambled up instantly, my eyes fixed on her. She was on her back, the rogue’s weight pinning her to the dirt. Blood pooled around her, dark and sticky, seeping into the hem of her shirt. Her silver dagger—her most trusted weapon—lay a foot away, its blade glinting faintly in the dim light.

Blood poured down his skin, dripping onto his collar. He stumbled back, clutching his chest and face. He was screaming. Crying. Begging. His voice was a high, desperate wail that echoed off the walls. I stood there. Panting. Shaking. The dagger was still in my hand. The blade was slick with blood, warm and sticky against my fingers. Castiel stood beside me. Half-shifted. His claws were dripping with blood. His chest was heaving. His breath was ragged and his eyes were still burning gold.

His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, the silver dagger at his belt gleaming in the dim light. Slowly, his gaze dropped to the floor between us. The golden blood was shimmering brighter now, swirling like liquid fire against the grey dirt. The toxic scent of the silver wire the rogue had scratched earlier still lingered in the air, causing my hybrid blood to hiss slightly where it touched the ground.

Beside him lay a small, intricately carved wooden box, its surface etched with symbols she recognized as belonging to the Shadow Stalkers. A scream tore itself from Lyra’s throat, a raw sound of betrayal and anguish. Inside the box, nestled amongst a bed of crimson velvet, was a single, obsidian dagger, its hilt adorned with a silver wolf’s head—the sigil of Silvermoon. The same sigil she wore. The dagger was undeniably Rhys’s. She knew it intimately.

The bond flared between us, fierce and aching. I reached up and cupped his face (cold skin, stubble, fangs still half-extended from stress). “I’m not cutting anything,” I said. His eyes searched mine. “You sure?” I took the obsidian dagger. The blade was warm (dragon-warm). I pressed the tip to my palm, right over the lifeline. One cut. Dragon blood welled (molten gold shot through with black). I let three drops fall into the sigil. They hissed when they hit stone, spreading like liquid starlight.

Every single one. “She hid you,” I whisper to the empty room. “She fucking hid you.” I picture Helena. Pregnant. Scared. Trusting the wrong people. And then dying while they took her baby away. I let out a roar. Pure rage. No confusion anymore. “That thing,” I say aloud. “That child.” There is no version of this where the child is innocent. That blood carries war. It carries defiance. It carries unfinished business. And then it hits me. Hard.

His hand was injured, blood was dripping profusely from it, and the wound didn't show any signs of healing as long as it was in contact with Reinhard's dagger. "Is it a mystical weapon? I don't feel any demon race aura in it." "Of course, I hid it. Would you like to greet him?" Reinhard removed the seal given by Damien to conceal the aura of his dagger, and at that very moment, Caskey smiled widely. "Black demon series. Where did you get it from?" "Guess for yourself." "Hmm, fine." Caskey jumped back a few meters and stood up straight while Reinhardt was still in his fighting stance while tightly gripping the hilt of his dagger.

Slowly, the two halves of the altar slid apart, grinding across the ash-ringed floor until a cavity yawned open between them. Inside lay a dagger. It was nothing like the crude hunting blades Silas carried. This was a ritual weapon, slender and wickedly curved, its hilt wrapped in dark leather etched with runes that seemed to shift when looked at too long. The blade itself was silver so pure it seemed almost liquid, but down the centre ran a vein of black, pulsing faintly like a living thing. Ava’s breath caught. “It’s real…” The child-wolf crouched low, ears flat, eyes fixed on the dagger. In Ava’s mind a rush of images slammed into her: a hand driving that blade into a chest; a man’s face

At the heart of the Light Saint Pack’s mansion, where marble and moonlight blended, Michael stood before the altar in his private sanctum. The dagger in his hand, Lucifer’s dagger given by Lucifer himself Incase something happens to him which was just locked inside his scroll, blackened by the Morningstar’s own blood. Hummed softly, alive with power both divine and damned. He traced its edge against his palm. Blood and grace mingled, silver and red, dripping onto the mirror-like sigil carved into the stone floor.

Of course I would. I took the ritual dagger she held out. Its hilt was wrapped in obsidian leather. The blade? Bone. Not metal. Bone. Of what, I didn’t ask. I pressed it to my palm, inhaled sharply, and drew the cut clean. Pain bloomed, but I didn’t flinch. The blood that welled to the surface shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Not red. Not entirely. It was tinged silver. Maela’s eyes flicked to it, and for a moment—just a second—something like awe crossed her face. Or fear.