Dark Souls Novels & Stories

He howled, head snapping back. Dre handed me a rag. “Again?” I nodded. We took turns—fists to ribs, crunching; knees to the gut, making him retch. A knife drawn slowly across his thigh—not deep enough to kill, just enough to make him scream as blood soaked his pants. “Talk,” I growled, twisting the blade just a little. Brandon gasped, sweat mixing with blood on his face. “Go to hell.” Dre laughed darkly. “We’re already there, man. You’re just the guest.”

GRACE'S POV APRIL 12th, 2013 There was a sound. It came first as a distant ringing, sharp and persistent, like something fighting to pull me back from wherever I had fallen. It cut through the quiet darkness, growing louder, closer, more insistent. “Grace?” “Grace!”

The same strength sucking world she’d insisted on walking one last time before the boys got back. I looked down at her, eyes closed, teeth clenched, struggling to hang on. I balanced her silver ring, a gift from our Mother, on my knee and pulled my grey sleeve over my finger tips, dabbing at the beading sweat on her forehead. Something was happening in the Blacklands and for the first time in memory, Shades were crossing the Southern boundry in droves, bringing with them their violet sky and starless nights. They didn’t eat, they didn’t sleep, they didn’t stop. They just kept coming, pushing us back and taking our land, leaving a sea of dead bodies in their wake.

Only if I had known my soul would have been sold for nothing, I would have ended it. The room hadn't changed a bit all these years. Same dark walls that made the room intimidating and the absolute perfection in the way it was organized just as its owner, hiding all that evil just barely underneath the surface, simmering and waiting for the perfect time to strike its prey. I repressed a shudder and took a seat waiting for him to notice my presence in the room. He was writing in a journal on the desk, I had always wondered what he wrote in there, the number of people he killed, or the latest mission he accomplished?

His eyes were pools of absolute darkness, his sclera was as black as the darkest night, but in the center of that darkness was a point of purple light shining in total darkness. The one on the throne was Zark Ar Zatho, the Dungeon Master and overlord of Damenburg Castle.

Determined. Something stirred within Chloe, battling against the fear that wrapped around her like cutting chains. Whatever it was waking up inside of her reacted to the presence of this male as he dominated the space around them. The winds had cut across his cheeks and nose to leave them pink and flecks of snow clung desperately to the wisps of jet black hair peeking out from under his woollen hat. He looked different in what appeared to be fatigues. There were crisp sharp edges that were almost as deadly as the assault rifle strapped to him. The black of the material seemed to absorb the light around it. He looked deadly and it had Chloe's mouth drying up as a curious thirst wracked her. A

He said, he then raised his index finger and a drop of golden god-blood dropped from his finger and landed on the ground “Three days from now a metal vein will appear at this spot, weapons forged from it will be capable of killing them.” He added with a smile, he then pointed the finger at Amelia and another drop of god-blood flew from it and landed on her forehead before assimilating into her body and then her soul. Amelia felt a rush of power she has never felt before coursing through her body.

Daphne gasped, drawing in a deep breath as she awoke. She blinked frantically trying to clear out the remnants of the dream. She felt exhausted from having multiple dreams since one night. She sighed, closing her eyes to compose herself. She could hear the distant sounds of the castle coming to life—servants bustling about, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the occasional bark of a guard's command.

Boots scraped concrete, and one tilted his chin toward Dain. “Boss,” the man muttered, voice flat and dangerous. “The deal. Don’t waste your time on this.” The words landed like a blade to Soren’s chest. Deal? His blood iced. What deal? What was Dain tangled in—what web had they just stumbled into? This wasn’t just about old wounds or possession. It was larger, darker. Something that reached beyond Dain’s obsession.

Frost formed on his armour, ice crystals in his breath. At the bottom lay a cavern that predated human naming. Walls of black stone wept constant moisture that never reached the floor. The ceiling vanished in darkness so complete it might have been void. And at the centre, on a pedestal of fused bone... The Soulstone. It didn't look like much: a sphere of dark crystal perhaps the size of a man's fist. No radiating light, no ominous aura. It might have been polished obsidian except for the way it seemed to eat the torchlight, creating a perfect sphere of absolute darkness.