Crimson Corsair Novels & Stories

I temper her thoughts as I begin to recite my conversation with Lamia, bringing these werecats and whatever Crimson is, up to date and informing them of the new enemy – Orion Artos. “We are not strong enough,” Crimson interjects after I have relayed the details. “They are going to war in less than three months. I will be the first to admit our army has been weakened.” I watch Crimson as he runs a hand down his face and then through his dark curls. His yellow eyes flashed in a reptilian way. I swear they change, not just the color because I have witnessed them turning a deep red. But the pupils sometimes seem to take on a different shape.

One Week Later The sleek and powerful destroyer slowly flew up and away from St. Jakque’s star harbor towers. She was joined by three corvettes, a dozen mecha, and a half dozen fighters. Emblazoned on each and every single one of the ships was the seal of the Corvus Republic - a black silhouette of a raven’s head, whose eye was bright purple and aggressively angled. Tens of thousands of people watched the nation-state from the star harbor’s observation decks, and cheered heartily for their success. They watched as it flew higher and higher into the sky, until they disappeared from sight altogether.

The Tournament was littered with possible 'crimson ones'. Of course, he could be completely wrong in his assumption, and what Madam Josefa actually meant was that he should beware the 'crimson one' because meeting him or her in a race meant he would owe them his life, not the other way around. When he found out that Zafir was his next opponent, a bad feeling settled into his gut. Of all the people in the whole Tournament, he was the one Colin had considered most likely to be the 'crimson one'--red hair, red suit, red wyvern--and also the most unlikely to need his help during the race (the newbie was a natural-born racer). Still, he kept his guard up, ready to either dive into action in case

CRIMSON'S SCANDAL. Chapter 1. . Subtitle: a fan sign. The atmosphere was buzzy and disorientating as Crimson stepped out of her white lamborghini, the paparazzi and the crowd blocked her way into the large stadium at once as soon as she stepped out of the car, however her gaurds were active as they quickly covered her up while others tried to clear the road for her to go in, the crowd was continuesly jamming her road.

The motorcade was a spectacle of raw, industrial intimidation,twenty obsidian-black SUVs led by a single, armored Rolls-Royce, cutting through the gray morning like a funeral procession for the Rossi legacy. The transition from the tropical warmth of Turks and Caicos to the biting, industrial chill of the North was complete. The tires didn't just roll over the asphalt; they claimed it, a relentless thrumming that echoed Czar’s heartbeat.

I looked closer, and my breath hitched. It was a symbol. A crown entwined in thorns, etched with dark precision. It looked like a family crest. “Maximilian,” I said cautiously, “what is that?” His jaw set tight, his eyes burning with a volatile mix of anger and hidden fear. “Crimson,” he said, his voice dropping low and dangerous. “It's Crimson's mark.”

I heard a low growl from Paul, but he kept mute with a warning sign from me as Kim spoke again. “The Crimson Wolves is a group of loyal wolves whose sole aim in life is to spill blood. In a more basic statement, the Crimson Wolves are warriors, fighting for whatever our Master says is right. We swear allegiance to only one ruler, and he dictates everything we do. As a result, we've been involved in numerous killings, notable among them being assassinations. Kings, Alphas, Betas, Gammas, Chiefs, Elders…whatever rank they may be, they are living. And living things can die.”

He had known all along that their family was tied to something supernatural, something dangerous. The journal revealed the existence of a hidden society.—The Crimson Circle—a secretive group that operated in the shadows, monitoring supernatural activity and protecting the balance between realms. Her parents had been members, tasked with guarding a powerful artifact that kept the veil intact. But there was more. Lysandra flipped to a page where her father had drawn a detailed family tree. Her name was connected by a red line that spanned centuries. At the bottom of the page, her father had written: You are the last of the line, Lysandra. The prophecy is tied to you. When the time comes, you m

The rooftop bar glistened like a glass jewel above the city, suspended between the fog of power and the sky of illusion. Neera stepped out of the elevator into cold air that tasted of tobacco and expensive whiskey, the combination that she once hated but later on learned to just ignore. Her heels clicked against the marble, an unspoken declaration of war in a world of velvet threats. Kieran Renzaro was already there, seated in a booth that overlooked the skyline. A low amber light bathed his features in gold, but the rest of him remained in shadow—calm, composed, unreadable.

“I guard it. My family built this place centuries ago. My bloodline… has responsibilities.” “To what?” I asked, genuinely curious. He didn’t answer. Just sat in the chair across from me and watched the fire. I noticed the necklace around his neck this time—barely visible beneath his collar. A silver pendant shaped like a crescent moon, etched with runes. I’d seen it before… in one of Elara’s journal sketches. “You knew about me before I came here,” I said quietly. “Didn’t you?” His jaw tightened. “You’re a Crimson,” he said. “Your bloodline doesn’t go unnoticed. Not here. Not in Ashwood.”