Meteorite Blade Elden Ring Novels & Stories

With the screams of the old man still ringing in his ears, Tine turns to the young man, hanging against the wall shackled, dirty and crying out in terror. Without taking his eyes off of the the young man, Tine picked up the wickedly sharp, curved blade. The blade itself had an unnatural glow to it. The moonstone the goddess Mystera gifted his dad with when he was born had been used to craft the blade. His dad had it crafted into a blade mixed with celestial steel from a fallen heavenly body. It had never dulled in all of his 700 years, and he had occasion to use it often in his life.

No Alpha could bestow this. No mate could earn it. It came only from the flame, and from the legacy that refused to be silenced. Mama Oya stepped forward and drew something from beneath her cloak. A blade. It wasn’t steel. It looked like obsidian, carved from volcanic glass. The edge shimmered red and orange like it was pulled from lava. “This blade was made from the last forge of Hollow Moon,” she said. “Carried by your father into exile. It was never used. It waited for this.”

I look at her in shock. “How do you know all this?” I ask her and she looks towards the fireplace. “I had a dream about the sword. The blade is made of Elven steel. The blade is enchanted. It is the purest metal. It absorbs the soul of the dead. Only the one who is the bearer can wield the sword without them being killed.” She says like it’s no big deal.

"Like a knife sharp enough to cut through a spirit?" Sofia was already filling up her glass again. "Yeah, that would do it. I have no idea where you would get one though. A blade capable of damaging an ethereal creature is extraordinarily rare. They have to be made of a non-Earthly metal, and that stuff is extremely challenging to come by." "The witch had a knife that did that." Sofia's drink paused on the way to her lips. "I seriously hope you stuck it in the Vault." "Uh, no." Mike looked down at his feet. "I left it in the greenhouse. With the Mandragora."

The sheath was made from the spine of an adult giant wolf, and a low wolf howl resonated when it was gently shaken. "Anilo, you came second. You usually use a blade, right? This 'Purple-Gold Moon Devourer Blade' is yours. The steel is a blend of purple-gold ore and wolf bone. When you slash, it can tear through the enemy's pheromone shield. It suits your fierce style better." "The Purple-Gold Moon Devourer Blade?" Anilo was so happy he nearly leaped up. A wolf's regard for a good weapon was almost as strong as their regard for their bloodline.

The blade itself was crafted from what looked like obsidian, a material that seemed to absorb the light around it. As I stared at the weapon, I couldn't help but marvel at its artistry. The blade was adorned with symbols that I didn't recognize, a language of magic that spoke to something primal deep within me. The hilt, too, was a thing of wonder, decorated with delicate carvings of wolves that snarled and bared their teeth with a savage grace.

“The fated bond cannot survive a parasite blade, Elena! If Klaus dies, our core will shatter!” Elena’s fingers clamped around the hilt of her silver-rimmed dagger until the leather wrapping bit into her raw palm. She didn't look at the sword. She didn't look at the army of weeping mercenaries on the perimeter. She locked her silver, pupil-less gaze directly onto the Weaver’s obsidian eyes.

I shouted. I stepped out from behind Rowan. The obsidian blade in my hand felt different now. It wasn't just a heavy piece of stone. It was light, almost weightless, and it thrummed with the soft, white light of the girl I had seen in the warehouse. It was the **Blade of the Unsaid**. Every word I had swallowed, every dream I had put aside for the sake of survival, every "I love you" that had been lost in the roar of battle—it was all there, feeding the light. Vane pivoted, his liquid form spinning like a drill. He ignored Rowan and came for me. He was fast—too fast for a human to track. He was a blur of silver and shadow.

Eryndor's Shadowing dagger seemed to dance in the moonlight, its dark blade slicing through the air with a haunting screee-ksss. Each strike landed with a thud-thwack-thoom, sending tremors through the troop's warriors. The troop's hearts raced as the violent zing-ting-zap of clashing daggers filled the field. The savages of warriors, fueled by fury and loyalty, clashed in a frenzy of arms and teeth. The ground grew slick with blood, the earthy smell mingling with the metallic tang of steel. Jack Wolf stood firm, his Moon-whisper spear shining with a soft, ethereal light. He parried Eryndor's strikes with a precision born of desperation, his movements a blur of speed and strength.

He pressed a hand to the back of my neck and spoke the oldest of the words: *"By the Moon who bore us, by the blood that binds us, I, Damien Thorne, claim you, Elara Vaelorien, as my mate, for this life and the next." When he was done, he unhooked a dagger from his belt and held it out to me. "I spent three years sharpening this," he said. "The core is cold iron. The blade is sheathed in silver. Cold iron is poison to elves. Silver is poison to wolves. This blade is the only thing in the world that can truly hurt either of us." He looked at me, and gave a small, crooked smile. "Elara — if I ever hurt you, use it. Kill me with it. That way, when I die, at least I die at your hand."