Flesh And Blood Armory Novels & Stories

He turned toward the iron locker shattered in the corner—the armory storage for the dungeon guards. With a brutal kick, he took the door completely off its hinges, reaching inside to pull out fresh gear. He tossed a heavy, dark combat tunic and structured leather riding trousers toward me. They weren't an Omega's rags. They were thick, reinforced garments lined with flexible steel mesh, designed for high-ranking warriors of the Bloodmoon elite.

It scared the hell out of me. By the time I dressed—black suit, crisp shirt, the holster hidden under my jacket—I’d armored myself up. Pushed Ethan to the back of my mind where he belonged. Alex was waiting downstairs in the garage, leaning against my Audi with a smirk that said he knew I looked like shit. “Rough night, boss?” he asked, tossing me the keys. “Fuck off,” I muttered, sliding into the driver’s seat. He chuckled, climbing in beside me. We drove in silence for a bit, weaving through morning traffic toward the warehouse in Brooklyn. Alex fiddled with the radio, landing on some rock station that blasted guitars and angst. Fitting.

Quenten Yilmaz: Blood. Violence. Gut-wrenching, paralyzing screams. They follow me everywhere, including in my sleep. It’s like a reel of snippets flashing before my very eyes. Splatters of blood paint the walls. Screams of terror intertwine and become a single, continuous harmony of devastation that rings in my ears. Flashing balls of light ignite in the dark as illuminated bullets slice through the air, hitting everything in their path. Men drop to the ground swiftly, followed by a hush of silence.

Knowing that my life was secure, I was willing to risk anything else to get out of here. I gave her my arm and then she began her incantations. “Summon summon, the dark demons of death and decay, preserve this flesh and let it stay. Summon, summon the greedy god who lust for blood, connect ye now this pound of flesh to us!” I kept wondering why she kept talking about flesh when without warning, she used one of the stone daggers to slice a pound of flesh clean off from my arm. The pain cut into me deeply as blood began to pour from my skinned flesh. I gnashed my teeth and a low growl escaped my throat.

There was a nearby stream I used whenever the chance presented itself, but with the Circuit coming up, I barely had the time to eat and shower. Nestled directly in between six wooden sheds was a building comprised of auburn brick. It stood out in the winter and blended in during the summer. The Armory, as many called it, was where every blade, sword, and gun was stashed when not in use. During my first year, I’d snuck in with the hopes of stealing a weapon to protect myself with, but that was before I realized how thoroughly this camp kept track of things. Anytime someone wanted to check out a case of throwing knives, or perhaps a machete or two, they had to be signed in and out.

This one was cold, dark, and silent. The air grew colder. The smell was iron and oil. He stopped at a set of iron-banded doors, guarded by two warriors in full, black armor. They didn't just pound their fists. They slammed them against their breastplates. Ares pushed the doors open. The armory. It was vast. But unlike the kitchen, it was silent. It was cold. It was organized. The walls were a forest of steel. Racks upon racks of swords, of axes, of spears. Barrels of arrowheads. Stacks of shields, all bearing the black, snarling wolf of his pack.

The Armory was unlike anything Avery had ever seen. The chamber stretched wide and endless, its walls lined with racks of obsidian-forged weapons—scythes, glaives, blades with edges so sharp they shimmered like glass. The ceiling was lost in shadow, but faint lights pulsed like dying stars above, giving the room a cavernous, oppressive weight.

Declan stands motionless by the floor-to-ceiling window, the neon glow of the city bleeding across the hardwood like liquid gold, painting his silhouette in flickering light. His shirt hangs loose, the fabric clinging to the damp heat of his skin, sleeves pushed up to reveal the corded muscle of his forearms. The faintest sheen of sweat glistens along his collarbone, catching the light as his chest rises and falls with controlled restraint. His jaw is set, a muscle ticking beneath the stubble, his shoulders taut with something raw and unspoken. I can see the pulse hammering at the base of his throat, the way his fingers flex at his sides, as if fighting the urge to reach for me.