Malivore Legacies Novels & Stories

“I’ve been begging for scraps from a man who never saw me. Now, I don’t need his validation. I don’t need anyone’s.” Malachi frowned. “This isn’t the same woman who came to me months ago.” “No,” I agreed. “She’s gone.” I turned, shoulders straight, voice calm as a still lake. “I’ll do what needs to be done now. No more hesitation. No more tantrums. No more sentiment. I’ll break her. I’ll burn everything she loves. And when I’m done, there will be no legacy for her children to inherit. No pack left loyal to her memory.”

To stay competitive, factions had to engage in conflicts to keep their immortal word vibrant and dynamic. Spectral Legacy, ranked seventh among the major factions, was frequently targeted by the others. Being the weakest, it often faced friction and conflicts from stronger rivals. Ragan, despite being raised by the Spectral Legacy, was quite perceptive. He recognized that the faction's situation was unsustainable. The faction's finances were strained, and the apprentices lacked motivation for their training.

And behind it, coiled in shadow and smoke, was the Sleepless One. It stirred. The air rippled. Voices not of this world whispered in a thousand forgotten tongues. Lucian drew his blade. “We end it here.” Malrec’s laughter echoed from the shadows. “End it?” His figure emerged from the gloom, robed in black and crowned with flickering fire. “My dear children of defiance, you have done nothing but hasten your own ruin.” Saraphina’s pulse thundered. “You can’t control it, Malrec. It will consume you just as it did the founders.”

“Looking for this? Or for absolution?” Domenik’s voice was smoke and violence. “I came to bury you.” Marsel laughed. “You already did. Years ago, in the basement with your brother. Or did you think ghosts stay buried in a city like this?” Eirwen stepped forward, never lowering her weapon. “What do you want?” Marsel’s smile thinned. “Legacy. Not the kind you two keep burning. The kind that leaves scars.” He tossed the drive at Eirwen’s feet. “Your mother’s name is on that. The Widow. She left you more than a grave.”

Is this why Lavi despises the Morales family? “I can kill him any time I want but that is too tame for him,” Lavi continues in a bitter tone. “I will destroy the very thing he desires. Even if I have to walk on thousands of corpses. Killing him is not enough but when he sees me cutting down that filthy thing, that is when he will be utterly ruined. And that is when I will kill him.” “You mean…” Anna slowly realizes the truth. Lavi nods. “Moira and her father want the throne,” he reveals. “Moira is not having a child because she is infertile. She killed her child in her womb.”

“Mag-uumpisa tayo ng sarili nating samahan. A group that will rival the Death Legion. We will take down Valencia and start a new legacy. We will assemble, heal, and provide. Unveil what's within, reveal what's covered. Our name will leave a new definition to his downfall.” ⚘ little ⊹ lies ··································································································································

Veronica's POV: As Malia lay crumpled on the floor, her once formidable presence reduced to a broken figure, a solemn silence fell over the throne room. The weight of her actions hung heavy in the air, and the kingdom braced itself for the consequences that awaited her. My father, Tyler, the lycan king, stood tall and resolute, his voice ringing out with authority. "Malia," he declared, his tone laced with disappointment, "you have betrayed the trust of this kingdom and tarnished the honor of our bloodline. Your actions have brought pain and darkness upon this kingdom. For your crimes against the crown and its people, henceforth, you are stripped of your royal title and sentenced to the dung

Everyone who still mattered in the underworld had come. And not one of them had been told what she was about to say. She didn’t pause. She didn’t ask permission. She simply spoke. "Legacy is a coffin." The room stilled. "Bloodlines have made us weak. Inbred. Predictable. Every war you’ve fought was born from your grandfather’s grudge. Every alliance you’ve honored was bought with your father’s guilt. You call it tradition. I call it stagnation." Murmurs. She stepped forward.

The scarred wolf dipped his head again, his eyes on Elira holding a fierce, instant loyalty. The story spilled out in fractured pieces, punctuated by tears Lyra no longer fought. She spoke of Malven—a charming, ambitious noble who discovered her latent werewolf heritage not with horror, but with calculating fascination mixed with his profound hatred. Of her own weakness, her power dormant and shackled by his control. Of the birth of a daughter who carried the same hidden blood.