Cinderpelt Warriors Novels & Stories

The thirty elite warriors standing behind me were all thoroughly exhausted and drained out, their shoulders slouched low and their weapons drooping toward the wet earth in absolute defeat. One of the senior warriors, a battle-hardened sentinel named Caleb, marched forward to my position with a deep frown etched into his scarred face. He wiped a mixture of rainwater and sweat from his eyes, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow cycles as he stared at me with an intense look of desperation.

The grand doors of the Silver Moon Palace were no longer made of oak and iron; they were a solid slab of lightless black ice that pulsed with a rhythmic, freezing hunger. As Killian stepped onto the frozen flagstones of the courtyard, the air around him began to warp from the sheer intensity of his Alpha fury. Behind him, Cinder and her Sun Pack warriors stood in a jagged line, their copper skin glowing with the fierce radiance of the Tempered Flame. They were the hammer, and the frost was the anvil.

Mom had to work two different jobs as I took over running the shop, but I knew things weren’t going well. That’s when I met Prez and the Wolf Riders MC! They were on the run from their own Enforcers and the president at the time, having failed a coup. The president was forcing their patched members and prospects to do the drugs they were supposed to deal, only allowing them their fix once the drop was done. Even going as far as overdosing on a couple of them, and the women inside the club. Men who didn’t get their fix got aggressive, and on more than one occasion, the fight ended with someone dead on the floor.

The older ones wore traditional jackets and played with iron balls or walnuts, making a rhythmic clicking sound. In the ruthless world of Cloudsea, where the young perpetually challenge the old, the most formidable figure was Tiger from Southshire, also known as the Black-hearted Fat Mantis. Today, he was at the heart of the action. Present were Wystan Roberts from East Star District, with his fearsome face, earning him the nickname Flying Centipede, and Laird Cole from West Grace District, a towering man with a booming voice, dubbed the Thunder God. Then there was Hugh Reardon from North Gate District, known as the Water Monkey, small in stature but with eyes that twinkled with both cunning

He sounded annoyed. Ciara looked back up. She cleared her throat. “Good morning!” she shouted. No one returned the greeting. “I came here to meet someone.” “We do not welcome anyone’s arrival,” said one of them. “You’d better go.” This turned out to be more difficult than Ciara had expected. But she didn’t want to just give up. “Moon Warriors,” she said. “You are the Moon Warriors pack and you were subjected to a terrible attack nineteen years ago and lost a member of the pack in that incident.”

I nodded and headed in the direction he pointed and zapped a few enemy warriors on the way. I knew we couldn’t stay together all the time and eventually had to split up, but I was pretty nervous despite how powerful I was. Yet it warmed my heart knowing Xipher had faith in my ability to be separated. There were many enemy warriors in the air on flying tayrens as well as warriors from the other worlds that came to help us. So we were not alone in the battle in the air. The warriors from the animal world Kerron had warriors that shifted into vary large flying creatures. And warriors from the water world of Nympha had these strange land creatures that had legs with hooves and a mer type tail. T

even full-blown wars. As a Goldman, her family had been members of the Moondale Wanderers since the start. Since the day they had decided to disguise their pack identities as football teams to stay under the human's radar. Their closest allies were the Forestside Rangers—a pack living in a village 90 miles away. Around 50 miles in the opposite direction were the Wolfvalley Warriors... their biggest rivals. The Wolfvalley Warriors outnumbered them 3 to one, but despite their superior numbers, had lost badly during their last attack. Theon had destroyed them, tearing their greatest fighters to shreds. He was the only thing keeping them safe, and deep down, they had all known it all along.

When our palms met, the fierce, unshakeable resonance of our mate bond surged between us, steadying my racing pulse. We turned and walked out of the tent into the freezing morning. The strike force had already gathered in the central clearing. Sixty-eight warriors stood in silent formation, their breath rising in synchronized, pale plumes against the iron sky. Jarek’s Frostpeak warriors formed the northern vanguard, their white bear pelts making them look like ghosts against the dusting of fresh snow. Reka’s Shadowfang archers stood to the flank, quivers bristling with black-fletched broadhead arrows. Kael and Marcus stood at the center, leading twenty of our heaviest melee fighters.

There is only the ghost of what we had here. Snapping twigs and the rustle of leaves underfoot draw my attention to the perimeter of my homestead as five River Crest warriors emerge from the trees. I recognize them from training; these warriors are ranked as the best River Crest has to offer. Why the hell are they here? The largest, Remy, steps forward with the other four scatter around my homestead, grimacing at my meager belongings.

I say, my voice carrying that low, melodic resonance that makes the air around us shiver. I pull away from his grip, but I don't walk away from him. I reach back, my fingers locking into his broad palm, our charcoal-stained hands sealing together like a single weapon. We step out from between the boulders and descend into the amphitheater. The moment my bare feet touch the volcanic rock, the three hundred Southern warriors let out a simultaneous, earth-shaking roar—a rhythmic, subterranean howl that makes the basalt pillars vibrate. They drop to one knee, their heavy iron shields striking the stone with a sound like thunder. The Council guards look at them, then at the massive obsidian wolf-