Novel & Cerita Grimgar Of Fantasy And Ash Books

But there was something else that caught her eyes. His eyes weren’t normal. They burned—truly burned. Like fire trapped within. Something inside Julianne trembled violently, like something locked deep away trying to force its way out. A strange warmth coursed through her veins, crawling up her neck and into her chest. Suddenly, she felt a spark inside her and she blinked immediately with widened eyes. Her breath hitched when she realized. She was looking at a dragonborn.

“We were the last to speak her name. The last to keep balance.” Her chest tightened. The air trembled around her, carrying the weight of countless echoes. It wasn’t madness. It was memory, woven into the stone itself. She closed her eyes and let the voices come. Visions flickered behind her lids: monks kneeling in the courtyard, their faces lifted toward the dawn as silver light poured from the sigil. A hand, her hand or perhaps Equinox’s, reaching out to still the flames. Then screams, steel, the sound of chains breaking.

It woke her up a bit, but the vision of that arm seemed painted in her mind. She suddenly wasn’t sure if she could continue. ‘God, now I feel like an idiot… I can understand why Alastair didn’t want me to come here’ that revolting smell that came from the corpse-less-limb surrounded them, becoming stronger as they walked further. She realised then that the sight they would meet would be gruesome. Very gruesome. When they came across the place the smell came from Alexis almost fainted at the gruesome sight before her. The goblins, small and green, with cystic acne like texture marring their faces and sharp teeth which they sunk into other goblins, ripping apart their meat.

The walls were thick, yet Rosy's snores carried even through dead men fingernails. A sky full of stars, no inky cats of darkness, licking the milk up. I preferred cockerels, Gullinkambi, so much more behaved than mother's old jackal fetch Signy, whom father had slain when I was thirteen, and the last remnants of the Northern Holds fell, and Jarngrimr created the border... with the service of her giant cousin Rind, the broodmare victim of Wotan... and Freida's stolen heart. Jarnja, Yola, I, my sisters, the Mara, Felipe - even the Watermen - even Heith herself. Godborn or blood mage or giant. Pawns, all, of our forefathers. But moreso, pawns of the gods.

I ask, the memory of my blood falling on the stone's face and what came after it. “I’m not a hundred percent sure. Saying that I have been led to believe that… certain shifters who hold genes close to the gods, powerful DNA, can access the power or magic those stones hold.” “Like a Grimalkin?” He purses his lips, pale eyes narrowing on me, “Like a Grimalkin,” he confirms. Abner tosses the small black book at me and I easily catch it. It’s plain, with no writing, and thin maybe only twenty pages.

Chapter 14 : The Stalemate ASHFORD The desert takes something out of a man and gives something else back, and I'm still not sure I've made peace with the trade. Three days riding the border scrub, sun flaying the back of my neck raw, sand finding its way into every seam of my armour until I stopped noticing it , and somehow, underneath all that, the only thing my mind kept circling back to wasn't the ride at all. It was her.

just like your mother warned. "Livia!" Asher’s voice suddenly sounded muffled, as if he were shouting from under water. I blinked, and the foggy forest around me dissolved into dark grey stone. The cold forest air vanished, replaced by the suffocating heat of a burning room. I wasn't on my mare anymore; I was kneeling in the center of a ruined stone hall covered in ash. A few feet away stood Asher. But his eyes weren't warm gold—they were black as pitch, smoking with dark Primordial magic. He held a dripping broadsword in his hand, and at his feet lay my father, motionless in a pool of blood.

Then he stopped beside my father’s desk and lowered himself onto the edge of the chair. “Sit down, boy.” He wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were on the sea chest lying on its side. Photographs had spilled out across the floor. One of them was partly trapped beneath a broken drawer, but I could still see the corner of a woman’s face. My mother’s face. “I’ve been standing in this wreckage for two days,” I said. “I don’t think sitting is going to make much difference.” A small smile crossed his face, but it disappeared almost immediately.

My breath caught as the shard’s pulse merged with my own heartbeat, binding me tighter to the vision that unfolded. I stood on soil not of Dark Hollow, but of an older land where banners dripped in crimson firelight. Before me stretched a kingdom built on stone and blood, its high towers collapsing under waves of flame. Soldiers screamed as their armor melted, and at the center of the inferno stood a woman with my face—Ashara—her eyes molten gold, her hands drenched in fire and blood. I staggered back, heart hammering, yet the vision pulled me closer, commanding me to watch.

Her hands trembled slightly, the strain of sensing the corrupted magic overwhelming. Suddenly, a guttural roar shattered the silence, echoing through the ravine. Ashton drew his sword in one fluid motion, signaling the trackers to spread out defensively. From the shadows emerged a creature, massive and grotesque—a warped beast of twisted fur and burning red eyes, its limbs jagged with bone-like spikes. Its maw dripped with black ichor, a corrupted wolf spawn tainted by Malrik's dark magic. "Get back!" Ashton shouted, stepping in front of Ava as the beast lunged.