Malam Kelam Novels & Stories

The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight against the morning sun. A half-empty bottle of whisky sat on the nightstand beside an empty glass, the amber residue at the bottom catching the thin sliver of light that had slipped through. Malakai had tried to drink himself into oblivion last night. He hadn't succeeded. The blackout he'd chased had stayed just out of reach, leaving him with nothing but a sick, hollow ache and the kind of headache that made every breath feel like a hammer strike.

Winter The courtyard was frozen in time. Malashcar stood at the end of the parted path, tall, broad, black coat swirling like smoke, silver-streaked hair catching the moonlight. His smile was slow, cruel, the same one that had haunted my nightmares for months. But it was Isla beside him that stopped my heart.

and less like a person. On the third night, the door opened. Malphas stood there. He was no longer wearing the suit. He was bare-chested, his skin covered in silver tattoos that looked like circuit boards. His eyes were solid silver, glowing with a predatory light. "It is time," he said. He led me down, deep into the bowels of the estate. We passed the marble floors, passed the gold statues, and entered a room made of damp, black stone. In the center of the room was a stone altar. And around it were twelve chairs.

"Kneel, or I’ll let the light burn you from the inside out." Malakai stood on the altar of the hollowed-out cathedral, his bare feet pressing into the cold, cracked marble. Above him, the moon bled through the shattered rose window, casting a bruising violet hue over the rows of shivering wolves and broken men. In his right hand, he held a circle of jagged black glass—dark, sharp, and smelling of ancient ozone.

The word burned in his mind like a brand. He stalked past the familiar sections—Werewolf Histories, Lunar Cycles, Pack Law—until he reached the dimly lit alcove marked "Supernatural Relations." His claws pricked his palms as he yanked out the first relevant tome: The Bewitched & The Beastly: Supernatural Attractions. The wooden chair protested as he threw himself into it, the lamplight casting jagged shadows across the pages. Dust motes swirled around him as he flipped to the chapter on witches.

A strange gleam flickered in the Sheikh's eyes as he spoke, his deep voice breaking the silence: Shams al-Duhur: In a small town, there once lived a sect of corrupt humans who gathered the innocent and slaughtered them as sacrifices to demons. But the demons betrayed them, killing each one and leaving no bodies behind. Their blood filled a vast pit beneath this very town—a pit dug by the devil himself, which became a lake of human blood, fed daily by the endless violence of wars and accidents. From this curse, Malik was born. The devil claimed to be a soldier on Earth and sent him to fill that lake with blood without end. No human being can stop him or uncover his true nature.

The noble says. “Yes, noble.” They leave the noble, and go out. They were torn between feeling relieved the fight was postponed, and the fact that they would have to waste time, and even lose the progress they had gotten. Grayson was still stuck in the chambers reading and reading. “There is no way I am let anyone or anything come to my mate,” his wolf says. Grayson reads, and feels something as though something had touched Malisha. Malisha was born during an eclipse. He keeps on reading and reading.

Surrounded by twelve elderly chamberlains who stood frozen in their silk vestments, he looked less like a living monarch and more like a preserved relic of an era that had already been erased from the history books. "You took your time clearing my gates, Aria Hale," Malakai said, his deep, resonant voice carrying the practiced, archaic dialect of the high Eastern courts. He did not rise from his jade throne, but the dangerous, volatile flaring of his black eyes betrayed the absolute fury building within his chest. "You spent three days marching your northern killers through my provinces, breaking my mountains and burning my ports, all to stand before a lineage that existed before your ancest

The Great Cathedral of Light was no longer a sanctuary; it was a throat, and it was swallowing them whole. Elara clutched Malachi’s fading form to her chest, her fingers digging into the scorched leather of his tunic. The smell of his burnt palms—flesh sacrificed to set her free—mixed with the cloying, sweet scent of the First Kingdom’s decay. She looked at the center of the Well of Souls, where the shimmering image of Astraeus flickered like a dying candle.

The sweat had already covered his whole body. He released his hand and rose without doing anything to him. “You don’t know who Eagle is.” BAM! An explosion erupted not far from there, although Amino wasn’t sure where it was. Malikul looked up and his smile deepened and brighter. “Ah…” He moaned excitedly like a psycho. “The doom is coming…” his eyes looked down, staring hard at Amino. His barn red eyes pierced through his vision, and a pair of fangs appeared within his mouth. “He is coming to take your soul.”