Frecklewish Warriors Novels & Stories

*** The forest north of Blackmoor is quiet in the way battlefields often are before blood is spilled. Our warriors move through the trees in silent formation, like shadows slipping between trunks and brush. Wesley leads the forward flank while I remain slightly behind with the second wave. Riddick paces beneath my skin. ‘Frostveil wolves smell nervous.’ “They should be,” I reply. We reach the ridge just as the clash begins. A Frostveil warrior lunges from the brush, teeth bared, fur bristling silver under the afternoon sun. Behind him, more wolves burst from the trees. They are too loud and aggressive. Not disciplined at all.

But then, a ShadowClan patrol, alerted by the sounds of the fight, arrived as reinforcement. The ShadowClan warriors, known for their stealth and agility, moved like wraiths through the undergrowth, flanking the Crimson Fang and cutting off their escape routes. Their attack was coordinated, not with elaborate plans or pre-arranged signals, but with an intuitive understanding born of shared experience and mutual trust. Rhys, the hotheaded Silvermoon warrior who had previously clashed with Kael, found himself fighting alongside the ShadowClan leader, their movements a ballet of deadly precision. They fought not as rivals but as equals, their combined strength turning the tide of battle.

Laughing and drinking with his sisters as they shared stories about their beloved brother. "Anyways," Dimitri cleared his throat and the image of three brown-eyed beauties faded from my imagination. "When they saw some of the Viking warriors styling their hair in braids, they told me I should do the same to help them see us as more than just allies in combat," Dimitri tilted his head to the side and scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "I learned at a very young age that arguing with them was useless, but in the end they were right."

With precision, he began to share the security report, focusing on the able warriors within our pack. "Our pack consists of highly skilled and dedicated warriors, meticulously trained to defend and protect our kind. The statistics show a steady increase in our ranks, with a current count of 150 able warriors who have undergone extensive training and are equipped with advanced combat techniques. This includes 40 specialized fighters proficient in hand-to-hand combat, 30 expert marksmen with exceptional accuracy, and 20 agile and swift scouts who excel in reconnaissance missions."

When our palms met, the fierce, unshakeable resonance of our mate bond surged between us, steadying my racing pulse. We turned and walked out of the tent into the freezing morning. The strike force had already gathered in the central clearing. Sixty-eight warriors stood in silent formation, their breath rising in synchronized, pale plumes against the iron sky. Jarek’s Frostpeak warriors formed the northern vanguard, their white bear pelts making them look like ghosts against the dusting of fresh snow. Reka’s Shadowfang archers stood to the flank, quivers bristling with black-fletched broadhead arrows. Kael and Marcus stood at the center, leading twenty of our heaviest melee fighters.

Her friends giggled. Even I couldn’t stop my mouth from laughing at these girls. Yes, the warriors looked like they came out of a magazine cover titled Alpha Candy. One of them flexed his arms and kissed his biceps, knowing very well a group of she-wolves was watching. His eyes met mine and he winked. I immediately got repulsed. “Let’s go,” I said to Alicia. “Come on, a little while more,” she whined, staring at a warrior on the side with his arms crossed across his chest, looking at his warriors with disgust.

“They definitely have balls of steel to break into my manor and behave so badly before a Creed!” Dace let out a deafening scream. At that precise moment, a swarm of warriors rushed toward him. Apart from Dace, nearly thirty warriors showed up in the end. They were the finest Transformation warriors who also happened to be the Fryees’ guardians. Dace strode outside in a towering rage under the accompaniment of those warriors. He hadn’t gone far when he noticed a stocky foreigner approaching him. A blanket of body hair covered his body and gave Dace the impression of a wild beast. That man smashed a building and reduced it into ruins with a punch.

Four warriors were rushing towards her; they were in the back corner of the packhouse, and no one had crossed this area or found them due to the sudden attack. "Oh, look! Your devoted subjects have arrived!" Malcolm sneered. "Get the hell away from her!" As they drew their swords, the warrior growled. "How come I didn't find that even remotely threatening?" Malcolm shook his head and crossed his arms. He glanced at Freya, who stood up and nodded. The warrior charged at them, but he came to a halt and winced as he looked at Freya. She held his heart in her hand and threw it away like it was trash, and the warrior collapsed to the ground. She sailed with the wind, and in an instant, the rest o

"Tell him that he's going to fight alongside me then, he should step inside and not stand as a spectator. I need to know who is for me or against me." I said that loud and clear to his hearing if he actually did and a sharp gasp escaped from his lips. "Okay, this is not cool at all." He said. "What is it?" "The warriors," he exclaimed. "Damn! They were not visible but they were all emerging from all the corners of the pack. What the fuck?" He exclaimed In fear and his breathing was ragged. "What do they look like?" I asked. "I seriously don't know, they have black art of ink on their face and they are -"

Whiplash said, his voice accompanied by a hoarse whistling, a sign of his old age catching up to him? The squad members pulled up their displays from their hero suits, and one by one, they read out their current rankings and attributes. The readings were disappointingly low, except for Dante, who was on the cusp of breaking into the B-rank. His ranking was 11,382, the lowest of the low, showcasing the scarcity of ranked superheroes compared to the unranked ones. To be ranked was truly an honor and privilege, reserved for the most skillful and promising individuals. The rest of the squad reported their low attributes, all of them unranked.