Iron Gates Book Novels & Stories

The lover of my dreams who would love me unconditionally. Finally I could see a door at the end of the staircase and these were made of metal instead of wood. The door was plain and simple, just two bars of heavy iron shut together with the help of a latch and two giant rings that could be pulled open. But for some reason, they felt ominous.

Sandy’s ten paces ahead by the time we reach the wrought-iron security gate at the packhouse drive, and I have no doubt the distance would only grow wider if our path wasn’t blocked. It’s as she materializes I realize my mistake—the bars are iron. I leap for her, pulling her hands away. “Are you alright?” I ask, turning them front to back to front with my own, only to find there’s no injury, no burn. “I should be asking you. What was that about?” Pressing one hand over the security panel, I start the gate opening, then look back at her. “Iron. The gate’s iron. It doesn’t burn you?”

​Thorne’s POV ​The threshold of the North Gate felt less like a boundary and more like a cliff’s edge. Behind us, the Iron City was a silent giant, its furnaces cooling and its steam whistles choked with the soot of a thousand years. Ahead of us, the Black Fallow was a living, breathing ocean of obsidian glass and violet velvet. The air was heavy, humid, and smelled of things that hadn’t existed on this planet since the first solar flare turned the topsoil to ash.

The silence here wasn't the peaceful quiet of the sanctuary; it was the airless, metallic weight of an industrial grave. Below us, Iron Ridge sat nestled in the throat of a collapsed silver mine like a crown of rusted iron and shattered glass. Toxic neon indigo flickered through the haze—advertisements for bootleg silver-salt and black-market adrenaline that had no business being so bright in a world that had forgotten the sun.

"He'll be a slave to your garden!" "Everyone is a slave to something, Kaima," Malphas said. "At least here, the view is nice." He gestured to the wolf. The creature crouched, ready to spring over the counter. --- ### The Song of the Broken Iron I looked at the iron sword. It was just a piece of metal. It wasn't magic. It wasn't the violet quill. But then I remembered what the Librarian had said. *“The ink doesn’t follow the pen. The ink is the story.”*

“He's thinking about the men, Calla. Lucien, you and Calla plan to scale the vertical slope. But what about the rest of the pack? What about Fenric and the men that will be waiting to infiltrate the Ironwood? How do you intend to open the gate for them once you are inside?” The question hit me like a physical blow. I felt the air leave my lungs. I looked back at the window, the silence in the room becoming more suffocating. I hadn't thought that far. My mind had been so consumed with the image of Willow in that garden and the western slope that I had neglected the role play of the actual siege. How would we open the gate? The Ironwood gates were massive slabs of iron-reinforced oak, held shu

Vren’s voice carried to me. I looked up grudgingly as the cut on my head sealed up and the pain subsided. “First lesson of the Fae. Iron is deadly to us and our magic.” Vren chuckled and stood in front of my cell. “This. “ he gestured to the cell bars. “Is made up of iron and silver,” I blinked at Vren, not quite understanding. He was Vren but he was not. He looked…more. His skin, is smooth with no mar. His hair was more luscious than it had appeared and even his jaw.

They seemed to have changed clothes into something more proper, and they wore serious expressions as they waited for us. This door was…different from the others. Rather than wood or carved stone, it seemed to be made of iron, with thick, heavy bolds and a dense lock clasped over it like a prison gate. My stomach twisted into a hard knot. I thought back to the old stories the aunts used to tell us. Tales of breeders, locked in caves. How they were used and discarded by heartless dragons. Of course, those were just stories—but looking at this door, I couldn’t help but wonder.

I stood before the central iron bookshelf, the soft white dusting cloth held loosely in my fingers. The room was illuminated only by the pale, silver moonlight cutting through the frost-covered glass windows. I reached out my hand and touched a thick, leather-bound volume of old historical texts. It was a book detailing the ancient royal boundaries of the high-ranking packs. I gripped the heavy spine and slowly pulled it out, intending to shift it a few inches out of alignment, just like I had done the night before. "Click.” The sound of the heavy steel gate at the penthouse entrance echoed through the vast living room.

But he was too late. As Vorlag reached the gates, they did not swing open. They dissolved. The massive iron bars, reinforced with ancient magic and Varek steel, did not bend or break. They turned to dust, a silent, effortless corrosion that was a testament to the entity's absolute power. The robed figure flowed through the opening like smoke, a grey shadow against the black night, with its new prize in tow.