Hidden Wrist Blade Novels & Stories

The room was dark except for the dim light above the desk. I stared blankly at the bottle of alcohol beside me. Half empty or maybe half full, I could no longer tell. My wrist still carried faint scars from training injuries years ago. My eyes lingered there silently. Then slowly, I opened the desk drawer. Inside lay a silver blade. I stared at it for a long time. There was no panic inside me, only exhaustion and a deep, endless exhaustion. I was tired. The great Alpha Aiden reduced to this. I picked up the blade and put it against my wrist. The metal felt cold against my skin. For a brief second, Rue’s face flashed through my mind.

No one present—not the three bewildered thugs, nor the whimpering leader, Blade—had clearly seen the move. Skylar Vance’s hand, small and delicate, looked utterly frail, yet it had crushed the muscle and bone of Blade’s thick forearm with casual ease. The sound of splintering bone was relentless, a horrifying, staccato crack-crack-crack that merged sickeningly with Blade’s uncontrollable, animalistic shrieks. Under the weak, sputtering light bulb, the scene was an absolute nightmare.

Yoel's eyes blazed with intensity as he bellowed. Whoosh! In a flash, his wrist flicked in a blur, his blade's movements a whirlwind of shadows that coalesced into a spectral blade, its presence icy and lethal. The phantom blade whirled with an almost magical speed, cutting through the combined assault of the five attackers with ease. It tore through their defenses, leaving a deep, terrifying slash on each of them. The elder from the Calnan family hesitated for just a moment before he crumpled to the ground, his body gruesomely split in two, blood gushing out like a fountain.

His fingers tremble and so does my breath. "Are you sure?" he whispers. I nod, voice stuck in my throat. "Just... don’t let go." His eyes close briefly, as if anchoring himself. "Never." Rowan hands him the ceremonial blade; silver, curved, engraved with runes that glimmer under the moonlight. The sight of it makes my stomach twist. Hold up... Nobody told me this part. Am I supposed to slice myself open? Can I back out now?? I start mentally panicking now.

He stumbles backward, and in that moment of confusion, I notice that one of the smaller blades has fallen from his pocket and landed near my hand. I stretch my fingers as far as I can, barely managing to grab the blade. It's sharp and cuts into my palm, but I don't care about the pain. I start working on cutting through the rope that holds my right wrist. The masked man recovers from his stumble and realizes what I'm doing. He lunges toward me, trying to grab the blade away. But I'm faster. The moment I feel my right hand come free, I grab his shirt and pull him closer, using the blade to cut through the restraints on my left hand.

Raziel offered, reaching for it as if she would really use it. “No thanks,” she answered, warding him off with one hand. The last thing she needed was the mess a blade would make of her hair. “What I really need is a sharp pair of scissors, but since we don’t—” she broke off, staring as the symbiont on her right forearm slithered down into her hand. It coalesced into pair of scissors joined to her wrist by a thin loop of liquid metal. “Hey,” she whispered in astonishment. “Maybe this little guy is good for something after all.”

"And I don't need a sterile field to take it out." "Try it, human." He lunged. The curved blade came at my neck from a horizontal angle, faster than anything I had faced on the ice. I leaned back, the tip of the steel whistling an inch from my chin. I countered with a low jab aimed at his lower abdomen, but his left hand snapped down but his yellowed claws clamped around my wrist like an iron vise. The cold of his grip was absolute. It felt like my radius and ulna were about to shatter under the pressure.

Before turning around and breaking into a sprint, he sprinted right before dipping back to the left. Unfortunately, it was the wrong move. As soon as he turned his back on the woman, something snatched his blade arm from underneath him. His elbow was encircled by a sticky tentacle that reached all the way to his wrist. It was soft and pliable, so even when it squeezed firmly, his leg was spared. Despite this, the hold it had on him was firm, and his feet were on the verge of slipping out from under him. He fought the tentacle with one hand while reaching for his knife with the other. His hands were now immobilized as a second tendril snagged them.