Magic The Gathering Wall Scroll Novels & Stories

A first level spell scroll costs around 50 coins, a second level spell scroll costs around 200 coins, and a third level spell scroll costs around 300 coins. As a fifth-level mage, Baron Lorient can use a third-level spell once a day. A single third-level fireball has the power of a mortar shell, and in the age of cold weapons, it can kill or injure 40 to 50 people in dense formations. If he had another Fireball Scroll, he could kill a fifth of Baron Stewart's soldiers.

Elara’s POV The silence in the room was absolute, a heavy shroud that made the scratch of my fingernails against the stone sound like a landslide. I knelt by the base of the wall, my breath hitching as I pried the panel further. The masonry groaned, finally yielding to reveal a dry, hollowed-out cavity lined with cedar wood to ward off the dampness of the mountain. Inside lay a collection of scrolls that looked like they belonged in a museum of ghosts. I reached for the central one, its leather casing embossed with the Obsidian Wolf, the sigil of the Last High King of the North.

A blue light emanated from the scroll, enveloping Wilbur, and the phantom of a succubus appeared, opening its mouth wide. "The Howl of the Banshee?" The faces of the three judges changed drastically, filled with horror. Yes, it was indeed the Howl of the Banshee. This scroll was a gift from the Emperor of the Cherrytopia when Wilbur visited. The Howl of the Banshee was a genuine Higher Order spell, specifically designed for soul attacks. Ordinarily, Higher Order spells required intricate spellcasting and chanting, needing sufficient time for execution. However, spells sealed in scrolls could be unleashed instantly by tearing them open at any moment, achieving the goal of instantaneous spellc

He stepped forward and placed the scroll on the altar stone, a wide slab of sky-colored marble, older than the Tribunal itself. Silence. Then a druid of the Redwind Steppes moved. Slow, cautious. She extended her hand. Touched the parchment. And the world shattered. Flame, white as death, exploded from the scroll. The druid screamed, flung backward, robes aflame. Her hands blistered instantly, scorched not by spell but by divine heat. The chamber erupted. Spells cracked the air. Water surged. Fire was drowned. But it was too late. The parchment was ash.

The magic enveloped her, tightening and constricting. Beside her, Mira cried out as her body trembled under the grip of the power. Amora gritted her teeth, pushing herself to remain standing, to stay awake. She couldn't afford to make a mistake at this moment. Not while they were in such proximity. The markings on the scroll started to shine, throbbing with a mysterious, age-old power that enveloped the space. Amora sensed the magical bond between her and Mira, their abilities merging and becoming unified. She felt overwhelmed and consumed, yet she struggled to persevere.

The moment his fingers made contact, the ley lines flared. The scroll was unlike any he’d seen. Its ink shimmered in violet and obsidian, and the runes didn’t match any known dialect. They pulsed in a rhythm that felt familiar—but hollow. He unwrapped it slowly, careful not to breathe too loudly. The Grove didn’t whisper. It watched. And Lucien knew this wasn’t a record. It was a secret.

And she knew, this was only the beginning. Dawn hadn’t yet broken when the air inside Ashbarrie’s guest wing shuddered. A pulse deep, ancient, and threaded with violet fire rolled through the stone walls like a shockwave. Morgan was already awake when it hit. The scroll he’d been studying snapped closed on its own as the ink inside his inkwell froze mid-swirl, thickening into glass before melting back to liquid. His head jerked up, breathing quickening. “Circle magic…” he whispered. “Strong circle magic.”

The scouts brought more than just rumors. One carried a tattered scroll, scorched at the edges, marked with a sigil none of them recognized — a spiral of thorns wrapped around an empty circle. Elara held it carefully, her eyes scanning the twisted glyphs. They weren’t just words — they pulsed, like veins filled with magic that should not exist. “It’s a warning,” whispered Mira, the seer who had been silent since the last battle. Her eyes glowed faintly as she stepped closer. “A spell to fracture remembrance. They want to make the people forget you ever led them.”

The dust that spilled out caught the pale moonlight filtering through the high, narrow windows, turning the air into a shimmering curtain of silver and gold. Inside rested a single sealed scroll. It was bound not with ordinary twine or ribbon, but with a strip of leather that seemed to pulse with its own faint luminescence, as if it had been cut from something that had once been alive in a way that defied natural law. The seal upon it bore no crest that Marcus recognized, no symbol of any pack he had ever encountered in his thirty-seven years of life.

She then gave it to him too, his brows furrowed in apprehension. “What's it babe?” I asked curiously. “War is coming, we should be ready.” “So we'd go now.” Anita said, pulling Martha out of the office. “What did they steal, Kael?” His blood shot eyes peered at me. “The Bloodline scroll.” “What's that?” He heaved a sigh of worry and said. “It's a powerful and ancient scroll that was used to find the direct lineage of any wolf alive. All that is needed is blood.”