Fenrys Throne Of Glass Novels & Stories

Otsana’s gold mark burned beside me, but its light bent toward the throne like a flame leaning toward wind. Ashina sobbed harder, gripping her stomach while Maelor’s heartbeat echoed through the black bone like drums beneath a coronation hall. The first Blood Feather book floated above the throne, no longer thrashing, no longer screaming, but opening itself like a servant obeying its true master. A circle of old blood appeared around the throne’s base, then spread outward until it touched Blackfang warriors and Northridge nobles alike. Conri shouted orders, but the blood ignored every blade, every title, and every frightened foot trying to step away.

“You’re not their savior anymore. You’re their executioner.” “Enough.” Her voice rose, breaking the quiet like a whip. She turned sharply, the long folds of her silver gown whispering across the marble floor. Her reflection shimmered in the obsidian glass of the throne behind her , a queen of ice and fire, her beauty both terrifying and magnetic. Her dark curls framed her pale face, and the faint trace of silver tears dried at the edge of her lashes. But she wasn’t alone.

The silver liquid didn't just pool: it etched. It ate into the black glass floor with a hungry, acidic hiss, carving deep grooves that glowed with a sickly yellow light. I stared at the frost, my breath hitching in a chest that felt like it had been hollowed out with a hot iron. Fenra.

But that throne changed us all. Even me and him. He was once my guard, my protector. Now, he’s after my kingdom. The path to the throne is paved with thorns, pain and blood. To win, I’ll risk it all. I should risk all of that I have even if my heart is included. --- ETHAN ASH PENDLETON

Nothing can interfere with what I’ve already achieved—the dominion that is now mine. With my right hand, Fenrer, by my side, I walk toward the throne room. The space is vast and majestic, adorned with paintings of the kings who came before me. At the far end stands a massive stone throne atop a grand, elevated platform with a marble staircase leading to it. Behind the throne, the wall is made entirely of stained-glass depicting the phases of the moon. I take in the scene prepared by my soldiers—cameras positioned strategically, lights focused on the throne. I stop in front of it, admiring its grandeur, its power, it's meaning.

“How wonderful it is to see you.” Griff and I waited at the foot of the stairs as Fenrir ascended, and I tilted my head up to take in the full majesty of the throne. It wasn’t just a gigantic hand that had curled to form seating. Suspended above it was the flaming skull of a giant, with a pair of horns that curved toward the ceiling, each shooting out bolts of lighting, and another set that pointed downward to where the two women sat. Fenrir paused halfway to the top. “Franklin, Cathwulf, come.”

They could smile at me all they wanted, and I would simply smile back. "Bring my niece here," Uisdean called from his gigantic throne. The throne was carved from obsidian and polished to look like glass. Uisdean sat in it casually; one arm draped over the table in front of him while he sipped from a goblet of wine. At least, I hoped it was wine. The wall behind him was covered in black, thorny, thick vines and hanging from them was a banner with a device embroidered on it, just like the one in the Twilight Castle. Except this device had a silver moon instead of a star and its background was completely black.

The mortar that bound the stones carried flecks of battlefield ash, a silent promise that their sacrifice would never be forgotten. Where the legendary Nightglass Throne once loomed, an obsidian seat carved to resemble a crown of icicles, now stood a simpler chair: fashioned from blackened moonwood and braided phoenix feathers, veins of gold running through its curves. It neither towered nor dazzled. It waited.

The hall fell silent, the storm of battle broken at last. Serenya lowered her hands, shards slipping through her fingers, her blood mingling with glass on the floor. She felt no triumph, only the weight of what had been lost. A crown of glass could shatter—but could it ever be remade? As silence deepened, Maelis Rowan, the seer, stepped forward from the shadows. Her voice, soft yet heavy with portent, echoed through the hall: “This was not the end, child. Shattered glass gives way to sharper edges. And those edges cut deeper still.”

Fenris asked Remus in a low voice, “The Eclipse is coming. We can’t afford any mistakes.” “Yes, I’m sure, Fenris,” Remus whispered back, “He is the prince of the northern reign. We’ll have a check of his mark.” “Marvelous. As soon as he’s dead, my men will attack the city, just as I promised.” Fenris was pleased. After one more small step, the northern throne would be his. His elder brother, Olcan, refused to wed any women since his luna died. Without a proper heir, Olcan would have to give the throne to him on the day of the Eclipse. All he had to do now was to kill his nephew. He had searched for him for years.