Melkor Novels & Stories

The Crown of The Dead, made out of the bones of his ancestors, sat heavily upon his spider-silk hair, the gray ash of his skin making his eyes into a stormy abyss. The sky darkened outside my curtains, and I knew it was his displeasure that made it so. Here was not my godfather but Lord Ingálvur Nam-Tar of the In-Between, Drow Lord of the Dead and Dying, One of the Six Swords of The Court of Moon and Shadow, and Sacred Culler of the Mortal Realm From Infinite Death's Corridor. And he was not to be fucked with.

As I approached, a figure emerged from the shadows—a towering guardian with eyes like molten gold. "I am Eryndor, Guardian of the Relic," the figure intoned, his voice resonating through the clearing. "Who dares to possess the Amulet of Fenrir?" I stepped forward, my heart pounding. "I am Emily Hawthorne, and I seek to use the amulet to protect Silverwood Falls and its people." Eryndor's gaze bore into me, his expression inscrutable. "To wield the power of the amulet, you must prove your worth. Face your deepest fears and confront the shadows within your soul. Only then will you be deemed worthy."

I bumped into Henry, a sorcerer who had saved me on my way to the southern pack claiming that I was digging my own grave if I dared to go there. I don't fully trust Henry for now but he wasn't as bad as I had imagined him to be. He has been quite helpful, one could say. I wanted to sever all ties with Sage and not ever walk back into his life or have anything to do with him but fate had other plans for us, now I am bounded to him completely. I am carrying his heir and I’m sure if not now, sooner or later he’d come to figure out my whereabouts, I can hide under Henry's cocoon for too long

Something that does not belong to a stranger. She steps forward, lowering herself onto one knee in a silent gesture of respect. “I ask again,” she says, her voice steady but cautious. “Who are you? And why do you look at that child with such emotion?” The elf does not lift his gaze from Lynette. Instead, a soft, bittersweet smile tugs at his lips. His fingers tighten around her hand as if grounding himself. Then, finally, he speaks. “I am Eryndor Sylvaris, ruler of the White Elves,” he murmurs, his voice carrying the weight of his pain. He finally looks up, his golden eyes meeting Vivian’s with unwavering certainty.

Nine was their sacred number since it connected the nine realms that existed within Yggdrasil. “I choose Gungnir, the great spear of Odin, Angurvadal, the stream of anguish, Gram, who brought death to Fafnir, Freyr’s sword, to fight when I am weak, Dáinsleif, to inflict wounds that never heal, Lævateinn, so that my step will never falter, Skofnung, the supernatural blade, Hǫfuð, the great sword of Heimdall and lastly Mjolnir.” Malachi chose his nine gifts and the rest were returned to the vault. These gifts would be sent to his house in Seward and he knew Jessica would banish them to his study.

she popped the top back on the bottle and jumped up from the carpet “and it just so happens that I have something that might help” Dawn watched her walk over to a small black box secured with a latch that was sitting on her shelf, nestled amongst the crystals and candles. Lena flipped the latch and opened the lid. Taking care not to smudge her nails, the brunette removed the jade pendant, tracing the koru/spiral pattern with her thumb. As she did so, she recalled the words the blind witch had told her five years ago. “This is the way to the heart of the forest guardian” Thinking about it, the Green Man could be considered as one since he IS essentially a forest god. Lena shifted her hold on

Slowly, I turned my head and came face-to-face with a who could only be described as a god in human form. Oh my God! My subconscious screeched in disbelief. God sent an angel indeed. I mean only angels can be this good looking, right? He had dark silver eyes and jet black hair which made him look divine, complementing his god-like look. Strands of his hair fell on his face. His sharp jaw seemed as if it was carved by God himself. And the silver lip ring attached to his pale pink lips was my last undoing. With eyes glued to his lips, the only thoughts that claimed my mind were;

She had figured out that could help kill the monster. Harold Hearst sat in what looked like a den adorned with many kinds of crystals, an assortment of precious stones, mirrors and vials containing colourful potions. He loved spending time in this hideout as it reminded him of a peaceful life that he once lived. He was the oldest elf sorcerer alive and also the Warlock Alpha.

The flute's melody guided my steps, leading me deeper into a realm of mystery and wonder, where each breath held the promise of new enchantments waiting to be unveiled. As I ventured deeper into the mist-kissed realm, my senses remained attuned to every nuance of this enchanting world. It was then, through the delicate tracery of fog, that I glimpsed him – a figure perched on a thick branch, like a guardian of the woodland, framed by the vibrant hues of cranberry leaves. He sat with an otherworldly grace, his form seeming to meld seamlessly with the ancient tree. His features were ethereal, marked by the agelessness of the elven kind. Silvered hair cascaded in gentle waves, catching the firs

The very air around these places crackled with dark energy, a palpable testament to the malevolent forces they wielded. One particular sorcerer, a gaunt man named Malkor, had proven to be exceptionally skilled in tracking Elara through the ley lines of the land. He claimed to be able to sense the disturbance in the magical currents caused by her presence, a ripple in the otherwise placid flow of arcane energy. Malkor worked closely with Isolde, his findings feeding directly into her operational plans. He would describe ethereal landscapes, the subtle shifts in the spiritual winds, and the faintest echoes of Elara’s power, painting a picture that allowed Isolde’s agents to narrow their search