Lords Of The Rings Novels & Stories

“What about his mother?“ Edith started to speak again but Joan beat her to it. “We're not permitted to talk about her, my Lady. The King promised to behead us if we do. I only told you about his identity because you for—really wanted to know.“ Freya observed both the maids' expressions after Edith spoke. She saw that they both looked genuinely scared so she didn't pester them further. “Let's go back to the—” Freya started to say when she suddenly heard the sound of clashing metal. She looked at the maids with questioning eyes. “That must be Lord Draven's army doing their early morning training,” Edith explained. “Oh!“ Freya nodded and started to walk away again when she realised that Karen m

I stared ahead but paid attention to their conversation. "So what's this prophecy?" Jissa in her normal inquisitive nature, asked. "When Silver meets Gold, when White meets black," Miranda replied and I could almost hear what was going on in Jissa's mind. "How's that a prophecy? So incomplete, in my books," she said. "What would happen if these colors or stones meet each other?" She added to my amusement. My best friend could be a clown sometimes. "That's when the great war of the supernaturals would happen," Miranda broke it and I stopped abruptly.

The war room buzzed with tension, lit by the dull glow of enchanted magical lanterns. Maps of the Eastern vampire territories were spread across the grand table, red ink marking the fallen clans. King Draven stood at the head, his arms crossed over his broad chest, crimson eyes burning with barely contained fury. Around him, his council whispered nervously, exchanging fearful glances. "We must respond swiftly," said Carlos, Draven's loyal assistant. He pointed to the affected regions. "They've struck seven clans already. We can't risk losing the Eastern front."

“Is this it?” the king demanded. His voice boomed, iron on silk. “Is this all that happened?” He leaned forward, and the throne room leaned with him. It felt like a beast that had swallowed the daylight whole. Lanterns guttered behind latticed screens; carved eaves threw long, serrated shadows across the polished wooden floor. Silk banners stitched with coiling dragons hung from the rafters, their embroidered eyes catching torchlight like accusations. The king sat on the raised dais—black robes heavier than the chair itself—his crown a circlet of hammered gold that made him look less a man and more a Herald of Verdicts. Around him the court stood stiff as bone: ministers with folded palms, g

Luka started, but Theoden spoke first. “I remember.” His voice was low, calm. But it hit the clearing like thunder. His warriors froze. Luka’s brow furrowed. “Remember what?” Darius, still catching his breath, frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?” Theoden inhaled slowly. Then—he looked them in the eye. “My name is Theoden.” Silence. A heavy, unnatural stillness. Luka took a step back. Darius let out a breath—a disbelieving, almost stunned laugh.

“A day may come when the courage of Men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day.” - Aragorn, The Lord Of The Rings #3 The Return Of The King. ~ CASPIAN ~ Night finally comes. The sun has long faded away, now replaced by a moon shining so brightly over the war fields just beyond the pack river. The fields separate the river from the boundary on the east side, and everyone—including Jocelyn—is already out here.

“Our dances aren’t too difficult, but you’ll probably need to learn how to let someone else lead.” “Are we inviting all the royal families? From all the kingdoms?” His mouth thinned into a line. “I’ve been trying to persuade Nicolais, but he’s struggling to invite both the King of Winter and the King of Darkness.” The King of Darkness. The one who could slip into the deepest, most secret corners of anyone’s mind.

Then came the sound of hooves. At first, I didn't think much of it — travelers and merchants often passed through our village. But when I stepped outside, I saw the dust rising, the banners snapping in the wind, and the armored men riding closer in formation. Then I saw him. Darius Venn. He wasn't a king, though he fancied himself one. A warlord — brutal, ambitious, the kind of man who built power from other men's ashes. His armor was blackened steel, his red cloak torn at the edges and crusted with dried blood. I'd heard the stories — how his blade never stayed clean, how villages that resisted him never stood again.

Cold sweat gathered on Jack’s forehead, and Alanna turned pale with helplessness. The fans, fueled by both long‑held devotion and intense curiosity, were ready to uncover the truth at last. The only person who looked relieved was Lionel. His gaze steadied, his fists tightened, and he whispered under his breath, “Lewis, we’ll clear your name. We won’t let you be slandered even in death.” Unfortunately, Lionel was destined to be disappointed. The organizers released only a short segment from before the accident. In the footage, my expression was grave, my hands locked around the steering wheel.

Nora said smoothly, wiping a smudge of red dust from her cheek. Dom turned his head, his sharp Lycan ears catching a deep, rhythmic vibration shaking the ground behind them. Out of the eastern mist, the thunderous clopping of hundreds of heavy warhorses echoed down the road. Banners of solar gold and midnight blue emerged through the fog, led by two magnificent figures on heavy steeds—King Leo, wielding The Moonlit Edge, and Queen Freya, her hands glowing with golden light, backed by three hundred heavy Northern war-wolves.