Iron Hands Chapter Novels & Stories

Damp concrete, metal, the faint metallic tang of blood already hanging heavy. Four of my men stood guard near the entrance. I gave them a sharp nod. They left without a word. We walked deeper. Small, broken whimpers drifted from the far end. Painful gasps. Chains rattling faintly. Amber’s grip on my hand tightened. She still looked confused, until we rounded the last row of shelves. There she was. Irina. Wrists chained high above her head. Her arms stretched wide, toes barely brushing the floor.

To his annoyance, Zachary remained standing where he was, lips lifted in a condescending smirk. A few meters before he hit him, with lethal precision, Alexander jumped a few feet in the air and went down slicing the fucker's arm, blood spouting everywhere from the severed limb. The blow should have made the enemy weak but it didn't. He watched in astonishment when the wound closed and another arm grew in its place, the new hand was caressing a ball of fire, which unceremoniously Zachary threw at him with a deadly force hitting his torso, burning his skin.

Rowan lunged for his golden shadow, their blades clashing with a sound like glass breaking. "Iris! The book!" Rowan shouted, parrying a blow that would have leveled a house. "Do whatever you're going to do!" I turned to the Manuscript. I threw open the cover. The pages were blank, but as I looked at them, words began to appear—thousands of lines of text scrolling at impossible speeds. IRIS (PROTAGONIST) FEELS CONFLICTED. IRIS WEEPING. IRIS CHOOSES— "No," I whispered. I bit my finger until it bled and pressed my red-stained thumb onto the page. "Iris chooses none of the above."

My hand moved with a fluid, unyielding momentum, the reed making a sharp, satisfying scratch against the dried fiber: ​They looked for us in the sky, and we went into the dirt. They looked for us on the rails, and we took to the water. Now they guard the harbor with iron ships, while ten thousand wooden canoes carry the manuscript through the veins of the coast. This is Chapter 140, written at the confluence of the rivers, where the story ceases to be a single voice and becomes the tide itself.

Sebastian lunged forward, plunging his bare, violet-glowing hand directly into the shattered opening of the Executioner's golden chest plate, reaching for the detonating core itself. (End of Chapter 145)

Chapter 210 Lyra Ugh. My eyes flickered open, and everything was hazy. Like I’d slammed back one too much alcohol the night before, except I couldn’t even recall having a good time. My brain felt wrapped in cotton, all the edges dulled. I tried to sit up, but I couldn’t. My hands weren’t having it. Something cold and hard bit into my wrists. Metal. Chains? I jerked my arms, half-expecting it to be some nightmare, but all I got was the sound of metal clinking and my heart suddenly trying to punch its way out of my chest. I glanced down, and saw the chains ran all the way to my ankles.

In that horrific moment, Gary pieced together what happened: A beam of crimson light had come from the eyes of the masked one, swiftly burning off the tendons that held his arm and hand together. The scorching heat sealed the wound, preventing immediate bleeding but leaving Gary to face the grim reality of his lost hand. … Forever! “Uarrghhhhhhh!!!” * * * [A/N] Thanks for reading! This chapter was longer than usual, but I just liked the way it flowed. I hope you liked it.

Not yet. For a moment, Irwin wondered if she should even take his hand. Was this a test? Was it genuine? A thousand thoughts raced through her mind, but the bond between them pulsed stronger now, pushing her toward him. This connection, which had once felt like a curse, now hummed with a quiet promise. So, without further questioning, Irwin slowly reached for him, her hand trembling as their fingers touched.

Three times. Silver ash caked my fingers, the backs of my hands, my wrists. My left hand, from fingertip to wrist, was curled flesh, char and raw red, the edges of my nails seared yellow and warped. Someone behind me was pulling at me. I threw the hand off. Anyone who touched me, I threw off. But I came up with nothing. The moontear had already melted, gone to smoke, and all that was left in the furnace was silver ash.

I turned for the door. Mrs. Bellandi called after me, and Old Mr. Bellandi ordered someone to stop me, but no one dared touch me. Only Luca caught my wrist in a few long strides. His palm was ice-cold, his grip hard enough to bruise. [Vivi, are you really angry? I was wrong. I shouldn't have let Ava sit there. Look at me, please. Don't leave me. If you leave, I won't know how to breathe.]