Fable Of Blades Novels & Stories

My father had told me stories about how he found a hidden cave in our backyard when he was young and stumbled upon an ancient blade that belonged to Vangoda. Had my father known this was going to be my fate? Was he the one who etched my name on the Blade? I decided to take the blade out of its case and hold it. I felt a surge of energy run through my body as soon as my fingers wrapped around the hilt. The blade was light but sturdy, made from an unknown metal that was strong enough to slice through concrete or bone with ease. I could feel its power coursing through me, the same way a soldier feels when he straps on his gun and goes to war. It was as if the blade had chosen me as much as I ha

From these minuscule threads, I wove something grander—a hundred blades conjured from their essence. I did it! Raising my hands, I conjured the blades from the ground, as if plucking roots from the soil. The earth and rocks cracked open, yielding forth an arsenal of blades. With a gesture, a torrent of a hundred swords surged toward the unsuspecting foes. This was my reckoning! Despite Kenru and Killan's combined assault, most of Lady Montay's warriors stood resolute, untouched by the chaos they witnessed. They were likely legendary combatants, their might impervious to the combined force of Kenru, Killan, Borracho, and Rouma.

Crescent Blade. A famous blade passed down through centuries… Prince’s gaze locked onto it. “What is that?” Her voice softened. “Something older than the packs and any of us..” She stepped toward him, holding it carefully. “Something they buried.” “Something they feared.” The air around it felt heavier. “This blade doesn’t just kill,” she continued. “It rewrites.” Prince’s eyes narrowed slightly. She stopped in front of him as they were close now. “Stab it through your heart,” she said quietly.

I knew he didn’t want his granddaughter to suffer the fate of many before her, but he had to understand that fate was fate and if the girl was to have any hope of survival, then she would need to be released into her true image. I held the blade over her stomach and plunged it in quickly. It slid in with ease and I felt the energy spring out into the body. I took a deep breath and sent out a prayer before I removed the end of the cloth and grabbed the handle of the blade. I hissed as the burn hit me. Each blade was made in its own bloodline and only that divine warrior could wield it. But this was the only way I could get the connection that I needed. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to b

As our fingertips meet, I fall forward. An unbearable pain rips through my heart. I look down, see the tips of my snowy alabaster hair drenched in blood. The hilt of a sword is buried in my ribs. Redness seeps into my gown, trickling over the tiny seed pearls, dripping down onto the sand below. I look up. Felix stands before me. His dark hair is longer, almost to his shoulders. His skin is white as death. His hazel eyes are rimmed with onyx, and he’s wearing strange black armor. His face twists in pain, as if it was he who had a sword buried in his chest.

He was the wealthy, arrogant playboy girls would swoon around, and also the Blade family's eldest son. "Ezekiel?” A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Ezekiel Blade,” he said. "Why are you without your glasses, freckle face?” He always mentioned his last name like he was nothing without it. But I knew that he loved the name so much as it meant people would fear him. I rolled my eyes, pulling my hand away from his grip. “Still a bully, huh? Besides, I don't wear glasses anymore, and I'm definitely not freckle face. It's Lydia Winters,” I said, mimicking his words.

Belief. I had given all three. The scars lived on my skin. My mind held the names of those who died in divine silence. My faith had fractured under what I had seen—but I stayed. And tonight, I would give more. I stepped onto the dais and lifted the ceremonial dagger—the Black Blade. Not forged metal, but obsidian fused with the bones of priestesses who had died mid-prophecy, minds split by divine madness. It could cut through flesh… and fate. I drew it across my palm again, deeper than before. My blood struck the altar and hissed.

"The Ghostblade. Or, as the Old Poets called it, Silentium." "What is it?" "It’s not Western," Kaelen said. "It was forged in the Void Lands, before the borders were drawn. It doesn't generate light, Elara. It absorbs it." I looked at the blade. It seemed to pull the shadows of the room toward it. "It cuts through magic," Kaelen explained. "Shields, wards, hexes. It drinks them. My father hates it. He says it looks like a peasant’s tool." "It looks like a wolf’s tooth," I whispered.

one voice sang. “We’re already here,” the other whispered as if in my ear. And the fog began to move. I spun around, instinct taking over, and my glowing hellblade met steel. The clash rang out sharp and shrill, sparks exploding between us, lighting the fog for a split second. The impact numbed my arms all the way to the shoulders, the vibration rattling my teeth. Twin blades. Short, curved, mirror-bright daggers crossed against my sword. As I looked up, my heart froze.

Raphael replied, "I do not plan to annihilate or conquer a race or anyone except Roosevelt, what I will do instead is forge an alliance between me and each race, just like the pact I want to propose to you, wolf." I demanded, "What pact exactly." He smirked, "Annihilating Roosevelt together, and serving me." Mars snapped, "You expect us to serve you? Who do you think you are?" Raphael gripped his sword, he looked seconds from unsheathing it, his fingers locked the hilt, I could witness frozen tendrils of mist bleeding out. "You nearly forced me to draw frostbite" So Raphael’s sword is called Frostbite Blade. The blade is long, straight, pale blue like glacier ice. It doesn’t shine. It drinks