Powder Crying Arcane Novels & Stories

Larger stones followed, fist-sized chunks of granite and smooth river rocks, hovering in a slow, chaotic orbit around her. Elara’s magic—wild, forbidden, surged in response to her anguish. The stones spun faster, glinting in the fading light, forming a jagged halo that pulsed with her grief. A breeze stirred, carrying the faint hum of her power, a sound like distant thunder trapped in a bottle.

Deemed lights, scented candles, and the sweet scent of lavender dancing around the room. She seats in front of her large makeup mirror, brushing her light golden hair, painting her lips devil red and anything to make her more appealing. Her blue eyes become flooded with water and tears start to overflow ruining her massacre. She lifted her eyelids to stare at her reflection. What she was; a middle-aged woman, with wrinkles under her eyes, and black tears flowing under her cheeks. No wonder he didn't love her.

I won’t be able to be the mom Grace needs me to be. “Why are you crying, Almara?” Roman asks. “I said I got it.” He exclaims with the joy of a child. He seems to have no doubt that it might be too late. Then I remember it’s because he’s never been told ‘no’ before. All the ingredients are gathered. Spit from the councilmen, garlic cloves, quartz dust, even blood from Noah sits in a small glass jar that must’ve been delivered during the time we we’re gone.

an elder asked. I stepped forward. "Step by step. First, I’ve begun training programs. You’ve all started. But it’s not enough. I will prepare a sacred concoction. No witch has ever made it before—only I can. Once you drink it, your powers will heighten. Your senses will sharpen. But it will test you. It won’t be easy." "What’s in the concoction?" someone asked. I smiled faintly. "Power drawn from the very roots of the Forge Kingdom. Mixed with soul flame, the breath of frost serpents, and tears of the moon. It will not harm you. But it will reveal your deepest fears before giving you strength."

“Now fear. Fear of losing him.” The fire flared brighter, my pulse spiking as if my very blood was on fire. The air shimmered with heat. “Now anger. Anger that he doubts you.” The room trembled. The obsidian walls groaned as cracks split through them, glowing with embers. A roar built in my ears—my roar, my power, desperate to break free. “Control it, Amara!” Thalia’s voice rose above the storm. “Do not drown in it—bend it!”

He could feel Gwyn's life source slipping away. Inside the quiet chamber, Alaric poured his entire being into the thin, fragile connection. The process was agonizingly delicate. He was not just sending power; he was filtering his immense mental force—a force constantly battling his own degradation and his beast’s madness. He had to ensure the vital energy reached Gwyn pure and uncontaminated, or risk his own chaos harming her.

My knees were scraped and bleeding beneath the expensive ivory coat. “Great, just great,” I muttered, limping toward the door. “You better not leave a scar.” I followed him into the silent mansion. Then tears started getting to my eyes. “No.. This is nothing compared to the past” I will not cry.

The crack in the platform widened. Jasmina felt it immediately. Power rising from below. Ancient. Terrible. Hungry. "The vault," Meredith whispered. "She's actually opening it." Arlene stood at the crack's edge, magic pouring from her hands into the darkness below. "Lycan Kings, I claim your power. By blood of the Alpha. By death of the worthy. By right of the strong." The ground shook. Stone split apart. The platform tilted.

The same whispers moving through the pack. I leaned forward slightly, my eyes locking onto his. “I want to know exactly who she is,” I said, my voice firm as I pushed the gold closer to him. His fingers brushed over the bag, but he did not open it yet. Instead, he watched me for a moment, like he was measuring my patience. “The only way to know,” he said slowly, “is when she uses that power again.” My brows pulled together slightly. He reached beside him and picked up a small pouch, dark in color, tied tightly with a thin string. “This,” he said, holding it up, “is a dark magic powder.”

Without ceremony, he dropped the tea bags into the cauldron. The moment they touched the metal, the air shifted violently. Orun lifted his staff and began chanting, a language only known to shamans like him, old and sharp, the kind of language that cut through time instead of bending to it. His voice rose and fell in a rhythm that made my wolf stir uneasily beneath my skin. “Exuro maleficium… revelare veritatem…” He reached into a leather pouch and scattered a fine silvery powder into the cauldron. Smoke rose instantly, thin at first, pale white, curling upward like a living thing. Then came another powder, deep crimson. The smoke darkened, streaks of red twisting through it.