Demonic Warlord's Barding Romane & Geschichten

“They’re here.” A hush fell over the warriors. Across the ridge, black banners appeared tattered cloth bearing the sigil of the ancient bloodlines. Red-eyed figures lined the horizon row upon row of vampires, their armor blackened, their blades dripping with dark magic. Among them, towering bloodspawn snorted and snarled, muscles rippling beneath thick hides. And at the heart of the army, a figure in crimson and silver a vampire lord, tall and cold, with eyes that glowed like coals.

a warrior bowed at that very moment before Zompano and non verbally asked for permission to further speak which was granted by Zompano’s nod. “Alpha, I-I w-wanted t-to t-tell y-you t-that …. ,” the warrior’s stammering was cut off when Zompano punched him straight in the throat. “I hope that boxed out your stutter. Now speak properly,” Zompano roared. “Aa- aa- ah-lpha, w-we s-saw a demon,” the warrior said and before Zompano could kill the warrior, Vlad pushed the warrior behind him and summoned two warriors to take him to the infirmary.

If I had known they worked for him, I would have listened to that faint voice in my head and ran hard and fast. I knew who he was before I arrived in this country. It was important that lone wolves like Hannah and I learned about the hierarchy of the most powerful packs and who not to cross. He came up on the top of the most feared. Not just in the supernatural world. He ruled the underground world too. A deadly combination of guns and claws. It was rumored that he ripped out hearts if a person just took the wrong breath in his direction. Carmine Moreno or as he was known across all factions— The Demon Wolf.

Mercilessly, with the sword in his left hand he slashed at the blonde's head and with the sword in his right hand he slashed at the bald man's head. The two of them died instantly on the spot. Riley shook even more in fear but Brockley immediately hugged her back. “I told you, I will definitely win against them. Those two heads were the start of my big dream. There will still be many more heads that I have to remove from their bodies. Riley, aren't you the teacher who taught me how to be a warlord?”

Victoria wore obsidian scale armor that gleamed like wet blood, a short curved blade at her hip, and a cloak the color of fresh night. They joined the garrison at dusk—two hundred Valrosian soldiers in black and crimson, silent and disciplined. Raven rode behind Victoria on the same black stallion, arms around the vampire princess’s waist, the new book and her father’s tome secure in her satchel. The battlefield waited on the eastern frontier: a scorched valley where demonkin warbands had pushed through the border wards. The air stank of sulfur and burning flesh before the first horn sounded. The fight came fast and brutal.

Clyde moves out of the shadows. The terrifying, blood-soaked warlord who tore through the ambushers yesterday is gone. He has washed the crimson from his skin, his massive, broad-shouldered frame dressed only in loose dark trousers, his bare bronze chest glistening in the soft amber glow of the hearth fire. The dark, liquid mass of his shadow-aura is long and lazy now, pooling across the stone floor like velvet ink, entirely devoid of its violent static.

Barzil Ashfang stepped inside. He was transformed. Gone was the battle-scarred armor. In its place, he wore a formal military dress uniform of charcoal grey and deep crimson. Medals gleamed on his chest. A history of violence written in gold and silver. A cape of black fur hung from his shoulders. Making him look even broader than usual. He looked like a king. "Commander," the stylist stammered. Bowing low. "We were just... applying the accessory." Barzil walked onto the podium. His heavy boots echoed on the marble. He looked at the stylist. Then at the collar in her hands. His expression was unreadable. But the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

The warriors straightened as a shadow fell across the ruined clearing. Darius himself stepped in. He didn’t walk—he prowled, each step deliberate, every inch of him radiating cruel confidence. His dark hair was pushed back from his forehead, the faint glint of metal cords woven into the strands catching the dying light. His shoulders were broad beneath a black embroidered coat, the crest of Bloodfang stitched across it like a declaration of war. His eyes—those cold, venomous eyes—gleamed with an anticipation that twisted my stomach. He looked every bit the Alpha who’d burned villages for sport.

And as the throne chamber transformed fully into a war chamber, as maps burned brighter, as wardstones rattled, as armoured demons knelt and rose in rapid succession to receive command, the atmosphere shifted into something dense and coiled. Preparation.