Obsidian Fragments Novels & Stories

Then I considered the dangers I was unable to defend her against and the danger that hung over us. This, I reminded myself, was for her. There was no other way to protect her. "Do you possess the artifact?" Veyron questioned, interrupting my train of thinking. I paused, reaching for the sack beside me. The relic he had requested, a fragment of obsidian with ancient inscriptions inscribed on it, was found within. It was believed to have the ability to dissolve ties, to sever ties that the Moon Goddess herself had created. But there was a price for it. a cost I wasn't certain I could afford.

The ancestors of the Nymph Tribe - Owner and guardian of this place. She enters the side of the cave without doubting what might possible is in there. When she finally gets in, Hana feels different; something like a very cold air that hugs her, her skin hair arises, like it is attracting you to step more in, yet it is scary to proceed. So, she steps back away from that side of the cave and turn back leaving it. She walks back to her friends when she heard a rock being thrown on the ground and roll towards her. Hana was full contained surprisingly confused about the noise she’d heard. Then, she decided to turn back herself to see what is that thing, when she saw the small rock potentially on

“And when closer together, shine just a little brighter. I thought this matched you two so I wanted to get it for you both. “The store took a while to get the correct sizes and also pack it up. I apologise for being late.” “It’s all fine,” Eden said grinning as he looked at the ring, imagining it in Noel’s slender fingers. Though they did not look as good as those slender fingers around his co- Not the time, Eden. The man thought, shaking his head in annoyance. “Black obsidian is made from cooling volcano rocks,” Fern said, looking at the items in Eden’s hands. “It is also often used to help with grounding, protection, healing. “As much as I am sceptical about this, I can see just how happy

Elias sat on his bed, back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. His phone screen glowed in the dim room as he scrolled through old competition footage, figure skaters who had won qualifiers in previous years, their flawless programs, the way they owned the ice like it belonged to them alone. Every clean triple axel, every centered spin, every confident landing felt like a knife twisting in his chest. His casted arm rested heavily on a pillow beside him, a constant, ugly reminder of how quickly everything could break.

It was the sound of a billion tiny fractures, the music of a world being turned into glass. ​We continued our descent for what felt like days, though time had little meaning in the dark. The obsidian tunnels eventually gave way to a strange, translucent grit. The floor was no longer solid stone but a deep bed of violet sand that shifted and groaned under our weight. It was pulverized glass, the remains of the Eastern mountain ranges that had been ground down by centuries of magical storms.

It is not noticeable from a distance, maybe because of the higher flowers and it is covered from sight because it is too far from where we were standing earlier. I approached the stone hedge and walked toward the middle of it. They are surrounded as if forming a gazebo. The floor was made of an obsidian stone, it was black and shiny but it had many cracks from age. There are still purple flowers there. In the middle, there is what appears to be a shallow basin also made of stone. Its flesh is like rainbow-like mercury. Which reflects whatever hits it but it moves because of the wind.

He was becoming less of a little boy and more of a force of nature, one that was deeply, personally connected to every living thing. After two days of hard travel, they saw it. The Obsidian Spire. It was a mountain, but unlike any other. It was a single, jagged shard of pure black stone that stabbed into the sky, so high its peak was lost in the clouds. It didn't reflect the light; it seemed to absorb it, creating a pocket of twilight at its base. The air around it hummed with a low, powerful frequency that made Liora’s teeth ache. “The stories say it is a piece of the first night,” Ashiel said, his voice hushed. “A fragment of the darkness that existed before the gods made the stars. It rej

It was a small thing, a tiny spark of defiance in a mountain of greed. I carefully slid the shard through the narrow slats of the grate. “Don't blink, Jess,” I prayed. Just look down. The obsidian fell. It was a silent, dark streak in the silver light. It hit the stone floor with a tiny clink that sounded like a thunderclap in the oppressive silence of the room. My heart stopped.

Elara breathed, staring at the pendant resting on the stone. The piece of iron had changed. It was no longer the dull, rough cast-iron I had forged in the palace smithy. The violent influx of raw tectonic voltage had physically altered its atomic structure. It was now smooth, completely black, and possessed a faint, iridescent sheen—like polished obsidian. "You didn't fight the fire," Cord said, walking over and looking down at me. "You drank it." The seventy-two-year-old master knelt and picked up the obsidian pendant with his bare, calloused hand. He turned it over, feeling the density.

The root beneath the flower. She stood, slowly, her legs trembling. The obsidian floor was cold, and it reflected her image back at her—not clearly, but distorted, as if the surface was water rather than stone. She looked down at the broken compass fragments in her hand. They were no longer sharp, no longer glass. They had become something else. Smooth stones, warm, five of them, each one a different color. One red, one blue, one green, one yellow, one white. The white stone was the largest, and it pulsed with a faint light.