Demonic Warlord's Barding Novels & Stories

she muttered, her heart racing as confusion swirled in her mind. Before she could fully process the scene, her eyes fell on Alaric, striding confidently on the other side of the courtyard, clad in his battle regalia—gleaming, intricately designed armor that molded to his powerful form like a second skin. His presence was formidable, radiating a cold, terrifying authority. He looked every bit the warrior king, a man who could inspire both fear and loyalty. "Wait... war?" Amaris's heart sank at the realization. Is he going to war?

A short, neatly kept beard frames his mouth, the tips dipped in crimson lacquer as homage to every foe he’s felled. Blackened steel pauldrons embossed with a Phoenix’s wings, a crimson war‐cloak that billows like charged flame, and gauntlets etched with the same runic glyphs as his skin. Even in our silence, a low, rhythmic hum - like distant war drums - surrounds him. Grandmother used to tell me how his footsteps sometimes cracked the earth as though summoning thunder.

When he mentioned a warrior who wore all black clothes and wore a caping hat and had piercings on his face, he immediately knew that the warrior in question was a black demon warrior. "King, the warrior who disturbed the Ranau Baringin kingdom was one of the undead belonging to one of the Nuswapala demons. If that warrior is there, then the demon controlling him must also be nearby." Ki Janggan Nayantaka tried to explain. "Oh, I see. Then, prepare two Bhayangkara troops to check it out immediately. Destroy that soldier. And if the demon is really there, no mercy, kill him too." King Swarnabhumi gave his orders.

Across the rubble-strewn wall, Varrow stepped forward through the mist. The warlord’s armour gleamed like obsidian oil, runes glowing faintly red across its black plates. The crown wrought into his helm was jagged, wrong, a set of barbs curving like broken teeth around his skull. His presence pressed against the air itself; the mist bent away from him, curling back like smoke recoiling from flame. The Guild did not move. The beasts did not move. Even the warlocks below stood still, hands half-raised, waiting.

It was him. A storm wearing his skin. A wound in the world, bleeding light that wasn’t light at all. And the worst part—the part that made my breath stick in my throat— Was that he looked calm. Not cold. Not cruel. Just calm. Like everything burning around him was exactly the way it was supposed to be. The Warlord rose out of the crater Kael had driven him into, molten blood dripping from cracks in his obsidian armor. And he was smiling. “Better,” he rumbled, shaking dust from his bone crown. “So much better.”

Bardolph’s eyes lifted, and for one breath the old power returned. Not cruel. Not blind. Focused. “Yes,” he said. Before anything else could be spoken, a horn sounded from the Blackfang side of the field. The elders turned. So did Bardolph. So did I. A line of Blackfang warriors entered from the western road, wearing old ceremonial armor and carrying the banners of noble houses. At their front walked a tall wolf with dark hair, cold eyes, and a scar across one cheek shaped like a half moon. The watching wolves whispered his name before anyone announced it.

"Take off the armor, Riheirk. Get on the bed. Closer to me." Riheirk froze, his pale skin flushing beneath his dark stubble. The fiercest warlord in the vanguard was suddenly looking a tad reserved. He reached up, unbuckling the heavy iron clasps of his brigandine, letting the dark leather drop heavily to the stone floor alongside his weapons. Yet, even as he cautiously slid onto the mattress, he remained in his simple black tunic, his posture slightly rigid as his ancient modesty fought against the raw reality of the moment.

Behind him, ten warriors stand like statues, their uniforms neat, their expressions unreadable. Beside him, Alpha Dorian Vex emerges, adjusting the cuffs of his black leather coat. Unlike Elias, Dorian carries an aura of cool confidence rather than brute force. His high cheekbones and sharp, calculating eyes make him appear almost regal. His jet black hair is slicked back, a single silver streak cutting through one side. He wears a fitted black combat suit with a silver wolf emblem stitched over his heart. His ten warriors follow him closely, their matching dark attire giving them a ghostly presence.

I'm made of sharp edges and vengeance, and I will not crumble. "Eleven years. You should be more informed," I snap. It's a foolish mistake to irritate a Warrior, but I'm tired of being undermined and treated as a disposable toy. He clenches his fists. He's the perfect impersonation of danger, and for the first time, I wonder who exactly I'm dealing with here. "Careful," the word barely escapes his gritted teeth. "We're done here. I will only answer to your Alpha," my voice comes out cold and detached.