Korvold Fae Cursed King Novels & Stories

Standing a few paces away from the dais was Elder Malakor, his thin, bloodless lips curved into a triumphant, reptilian smirk. As I took my place near the periphery with Susan and Elara flanking me like protective sentinels, Malakor stepped forward, bowing mockingly low before the King. "Your Majesty," Malakor’s dry, raspy voice echoed off the vaulted stone ceiling, carrying clearly to every corner of the hall. "We come before the throne today not to dispute your grace regarding the Omega omega, but to address a matter of critical survival for our entire pack. With the constant breaches at our borders, the dark magic attacks plaguing our inner wards, and the glaring, dangerous absence of an

Sigrid said, dumbstruck by her finding and looked at the blue eyed man with mixed emotions. “Vane?!” Zeke frowned as the name sounded familiar to him and soon widened his eyes in shock, realising the identity of the person. “As in….” he said, staring at the zoned out Sigrid. “The last king of the Lycanor Kingdom.” She completed his words, astonished by the wake of fallen king’s portrait.

Yet their presence sent a ripple of fear through the crowd that lined down the path. Even the pack warriors avoided their gaze. Kaerith’s gaze lowered to the ground. Her stomach twisted, her breath shallow. Everyone knew the stories — the Black Sun, the cursed king who rose after 1,500 years, and the monsters he made of men. They were no longer wolves. Not quite human. They were called the Dreadborns It wasn’t blood the king hungered for now… it was worse. He began to claim the daughters The Fenrir's Fang ever produced, their flesh and heat.

Fao demanded. "My name is Corvin. I'm a loyalist — one of many who never accepted House Varen's rule." His eyes swept over Fao's face, cataloging every feature. "The coloring. The size. The royal scent beneath the death-smell. You are Alaric, second son of the High King." The name hit Fao like a physical blow. I felt it through the bond — confusion, shock, something ancient stirring in the depths of his memory. "That's not my name," he said, but his voice wavered.

A voice — deep, ancient, hungry — rolled through the darkness. “You defy me again, wolf.” Cole’s teeth bared. “Damn right I do.” The ground erupted. From the fissures rose the shadow of a man — tall, faceless, cloaked in light and smoke. The same figure that haunted Lila’s dreams. The King of the Cursed. “Would you give your life for her?” the voice asked. “Yes.” “You would give your soul?” “Yes!” Cole roared. The figure tilted its head, almost amused. “Then bleed for her.”

, her braid stiff with brine where it stuck to the edge of her hood. She'd burned her old cloak at the chapel gate after they stacked the Thorn-Crowned Path with the last of the envoys. No more crests. No more colors. Only pitch, roots, and hush. She lifted her hand, tracing her knuckles along the fence rail until her fingers brushed his. "Cassius says they're moving," she said. Her voice carried no fear , only the hush settling between each word. Kieran didn't turn his head. "Ridge path?" She nodded. "The marsh is frozen enough for them to crawl through the orchard's teeth." His mouth cracked into a grin that tasted like old blood. "Then we bury them before the thaw." In the courtyard, wol

Drakonios, in human guise to honor Xaerath tradition, had just sealed an oath with King Rhaedon when the first wave struck. Rhaedon recognized the warlords’ sigil—a black sun devouring a silver star—and knew the onslaught’s true target: not the kingdom, but the unborn heir. A single glance exchanged between king and dragon king passed volumes. With a roar that cracked marble, Rhaedon threw himself between Drakonios and a volley of spears. One struck deep, laced in venom designed to paralyze dragons. It had no such effect on a human king; it simply killed more slowly. “Shield her,” Rhaedon gasped, blood foaming at his lips. “Shield them both.”

a deep voice said behind me. I startled, half-choked on my drink, and spun around—only to find a tall, broad-shouldered stranger leaning against a nearby tree. He wore black from head to toe, his mask carved with faint silver edges. His voice? Pure sin. Low, smooth, like something meant to be whispered in dark corners. “Oh great,” I muttered. “A woodland stalker. I knew this dress was cursed.” He chuckled, stepping forward slowly. “Didn’t mean to scare you, princess.”

Thoughts were sweet but their own false hope still residing turning down the sweetness earlier Everyone knew, the curse wasn't healed? Why no one knew? The words spread , luna being impure creating the remorse in the members . But who would dare to speak it loud .Moreover , the clossness of Richard and Eliss happened to be oil in fire . Richard, whose name was forbidden was roaming in the palace in bright light, laughing and enjoying as if the shadows of past never lingered in the hall of palace . Stunned the very soul in the palace who knew, who he was.

I’m heading toward the back exit when voices drift from the corridor ahead. I stop. Two warriors. Whispering. Their tones are low and serious, unlike the usual gossip I hear in the pack house. Curiosity tugs at me, and before I can help it, I step closer, staying hidden behind a wide stone pillar. “…it’s getting worse,” one of them says. “Of course it is,” the other replies. “The curse is tightening. You saw how unstable he was last night.” My heart jumps. Curse? Damon?