Mistwraith Mistborn Novels & Stories

With King Ozar at the front, he is at the centre of it all—his anger is a catalyst for chaos. We burst into the courtyard and there, the world tilts on its axis. I have known this courtyard to be a serene space but it is now a battleground, a maelstrom of steel and flesh. At the heart of it all is Magnus, my brother. As soon as I set my eyes on him, he finds mine too. His form is as imposing as a mountain, surrounded by a tempest of steel - the Mistwalkers. The Mistwalker wolves are cloaked in dark, ethereal robes that could blend in with the shadows if any were. They can fool one so easily in those robes but out of it, they are beastly wolves who are honed for combat. They are known for the

Lightning crackled in the sky, and a silvery-blue mist appeared. The silvery-blue mist thickened around the battlefield, swirling like a storm and drawing every pair of eyes while lightning crackled above. A strange stillness fell over the chaos, while time itself was holding its breath. Then, out of the mist, two figures stepped forward, Jordyn and Dan. Their faces set with steely determination. Behind them, a massive army of hybrids and witches emerged, their presence crackling with power that pulsed in the air.

The creature howled, its body shattering into smoke and shards of light that scattered through the trees. The others followed, dissolving into mist and silence. And then there was only her, kneeling in the wreckage of the storm, surrounded by swaying, broken trees. Her breath came in gasps. The wind calmed around her, slow and reverent, as if bowing to its master. The mark of her strain burned faintly onto her wrist, a sigil of Wyverndale, glowing silver-blue, the color of stormlight. Somewhere, distant voices echoed through the fog, Nyx Thorneveil’s, faint but clear:

Ash still drifted in the air like black snow, settling over ruins that had once been Dawnspire’s proud walls. Serenya’s lungs burned with smoke and power as she struggled to hold herself aloft. Her new wings—woven of starlight and fire—shivered with exhaustion, dimming at the edges. Below, Thalric’s broken crown lay in shards, but the man himself rose from the ashes, alive, his form cloaked in a new and terrible shadow.

She was blissfully unaware of Mira’s watchful gaze or the two junior designers who paused nearby to sneak a peek. She had completely forgotten the world around her. She was simply… Drawing. ....Just like she did as a child, when her mother would smile softly and say, “You have a gift, Jane.”.... When she eventually stepped back, her breath hitched in her throat. An elegant silhouette gazed back at her,simple yet breathtaking. A deep midnight gradient with a subtle shimmer and delicate sleeves. Not perfect, but so full of life. Mira exhaled in awe. “…Wow.”

The floor is shallow water, and at the center sits a throne made from coral and bone. On the throne sits the Mist Queen. She's stunning and terrible all at once. Her features shift constantly—one moment young and beautiful, the next old and weathered, then something in between. Her hair flows like water, and her eyes are mirrors that reflect not images but emotions. Looking at her, I feel seen in a way that's deeply uncomfortable. "Welcome," she says, and her voice is everywhere and nowhere. "Sevia of Eclipsehaven. Kael of the shattered line. You come seeking something that does not belong to you."

Her red eyes looked at Myra, who trembled her fingers and quickly turned away from Aaron. "Myra?" Her Mate whispered in shock when the concerned's eyes turned red in turn Really.. what is happening???? Has the curse become stronger, or has someone developed it? “I want to give up, but it’s not exactly giving up people, habits, or things that keep haunting me, I think it’s a different kind of abandonment, it’s me, who wants to let go of myself, to jump from a very high place into the air Like an eternal hug, to fall and fall, to feel the threads of the world intertwine with my body, for life to drive me crazy until I lose my mind, to sleep so much that I do not differentiate between my dream

The forest opens into a clearing, the stars shimmering silver along the path, and I pray this time it will be different. The wind grows colder as we delve deeper into the woods. Leaves rustle overhead, carrying wisps of smoke from the burning palace. The air is thick with ash and sorrow. I can still see the faint orange glow far behind us, lingering like the dying eyes of a creature that won't close. Martha stays silent, her arms clasped tight around me, each breath trembling against my back. I sense her heartbeat—steady yet strained—as she carefully leads the horse across a narrow stone bridge; the stream beneath glimmers like liquid glass.

But the end of what was unclear. I searched the abyss and found nothing. Fear overwhelmed me; images started to appear one by one. Cleo, Prue, work, mum, and the last was Damian. Each disappeared as if they were smoke. Whisps filled the air and dissipated one at a time until there was only one left. The whisp from Damian floated across to me. It morphed into a guiding light as the ticking became faster. Something deep inside felt the pull; I needed to follow it. Step by step, one foot in front of another, I followed his light. It led me to a door in the middle of the abyss. The door stood solid in front of me as the whisp passed through it and disappeared.

She laid the two materials, let them float in front of her chest and ran her hand into it as it shine with magical energy. Tristan could not see a thing besides the light that covers them, and not a minute took for it to fade and show the product of her creation. "Not bad for a short term use," she commented as she held into the simple wooden bow in her hands. For a regular person who is new to the thing they called 'Mystic Arts', or magecraft or witchcraft, Tristan cannot decide on a proper way to convey his response, rather — he could not respond at all. He just stood near, speechless and bewildered.