Darkhold Iron Man Novels & Stories

Not of biology, like me, but of iron and hatred. The man stood nearly seven feet tall, bulked out by a crude, industrial exoskeleton. It wasn't the sleek, polished armor of a superhero movie. It was ugly. It was welded together from scavenged mining equipment, stolen military plating, and exposed hydraulic cables. Thick steel plates covered his chest and legs, painted a dull, matte grey. On his right arm, he wore a massive, piston-driven gauntlet that hummed with magnetic energy. On his left forearm was mounted a sawed-off, drum-fed auto-shotgun. But it was his face that froze the blood in my veins.

a voice rasped. It wasn't a human voice. It was a mechanical, harmonic vibration that shook the very foundations of the smelting vats. The Iron Hook sat behind a desk fashioned from the jagged, turbine-blade wreckage of a downed Council drone. His entire right side was a forest of pneumatic hydraulics, his shoulder an exposed nest of copper wiring that hissed rhythmically, keeping time with the city’s heart. He was the monopoly of Iron Ridge, a man who had traded his marrow for a seat at the table of scavengers.

A blast of freezing air rushed in, instantly numbing Vespera’s face. She stepped out. The Ironhold wasn't a palace. It was a fortress carved from black volcanic rock, perched on the edge of a jagged cliff. There were no gardens. No statues. Just high walls, archers shivering in watchtowers, and a courtyard filled with mud and ice. A man was waiting for them. He was massive, clad in battered plate armor, with a wolf-pelt cloak over his shoulders. His face was scarred, and his eyes were hard as flint.

Through the spray of oil, steam, and dark blood, the heavy iron doors of the central command tower ground open. A massive figure stepped onto the deck. He wasn't wearing a diving suit; he wore the heavy, dark-blue military coat of a Western Admiral, his chest covered in medals made of unrefined moon-gems. His face was pale, his eyes entirely black—a sign of deep, generational Abyssal corruption. In his right hand, he held a massive, mechanical broadsword powered by a glowing, violet core that hissed with unstable energy.

Evren wrinkled his nose and spoke before thinking. "You reek of blood." The man nodded as he grinned. "Sorry, I did wash my hands but I do admit sixty seven kills at once would leave a bad smell." Impressive, Evren almost said but he nodded instead. The man extended his hand towards Evren. "I'm Holden, your future commander. Nice to meet you." Evren eyed him, looking him over before his gaze dropped to the crevices of his fingernails. They were stained with blood.

Jack stood on a reinforced observation balcony overlooking the primary casting floor. He was entirely insulated from the harsh environment. Varkas had provided the Sovereign with a localized, hard-light cooling mantle that draped elegantly over his white silk tunic, regulating his body temperature perfectly. Jack's chameleon skin pulsed with a steady, radiant Pink High, entirely unaffected by the brutal heat. "The Throne of the Iron Barrens," Varkas announced, his synthetic voice amplified over the roar of the furnaces. The Elder pointed a pristine, manicured finger toward the center of the casting floor.

A deep, calm and terrifying voice came from the shadows, sounding like the voice echoed from a demon in the hell A figure stepped into the light. He was tall, built like a fighter, wearing a black leather jacket with a patch I didn't recognize. A skull bandana covered the lower half of his face, hiding everything but his eyes. Olive-green eyes. Cold, predatory, and burning with a specific kind of hate I didn't understand. "Iron Vultures," the man said, answering my unasked question. "I'm Ryan." I pissed myself. I couldn't help it. Warmth spread down my expensive designer jeans as terror seized my bladder.

"It was not hard to manipulate you. Just had to stroke your ego a little. Make you think you were untouchable. That you could have anyone you wanted with no consequences. Easy." "What do you want from me?" Grayson demanded. "Where are my kids?" The massive iron door at the back of the warehouse groaned open. Rusty hinges screaming in protest. And a man walked in. Bald head reflecting the dim light. Long white beard that hung down to his chest. Built like he had been a soldier once. Broad shoulders. Ramrod straight posture. But it was his eyes that made Grayson's blood run cold. Dead. Empty. Don Volkov.

The heavy creak of an old iron door pulled my attention. I turned, expecting Caius. But I froze. It wasn’t him. It was another man. Taller. Broader. With harsh, pale eyes and skin too clean for a rogue or a stinger. He wore black tactical armour that looked reinforced with magic—cold steel plates running up his arms and neck like a second skeleton. I stood quickly, my breath catching. “Who the hell are you?” I asked, squinting. He didn’t answer. Instead, he marched forward.