Remnant Chronicles Novels & Stories

"We’re stranded on the mainland, Papa. For the first time in eighty years, we’re on the wrong side of the water." ​The Scavenger's remnant ​From the ruins of a collapsed observation tower behind them, a rhythmic tapping emerged. ​Clack. Clack. Clack. ​Kael spun around, his hand moving to the hilt of his weathered blade. Out of the dust stepped a group of figures that looked neither like Salt-Bloods nor Bloom-Kin. They were thin, their bodies covered in grey rags and patches of rusted lead-foil. ​They were the Remnant—the descendants of the Sunderers who had refused to join the Synthesis, living in the deep cracks of the city for generations.

No matter how long, someday he was going to talk or confide in someone who may later spill the beans. In every battle, casualties were inevitable as sanctioned by the Geneva Convention. There were always holy and unholy troops that gave directions to the winning platoon. Solo was on the left side of the equilibrium. His presence in Subi’s life was more redemptive than it was corporative. Consequently, the young beauty accepted the consequences of her wrongdoing and promised to brave it through to the end. She planned it well and exactly as she expected, results became visible five days later.

Lana’s POV The council room smelled of ink and damp parchment. Maps covered the table; cups of untouched tea cooled beside them. Warren stood at the head, the strip of charcoal in his hand tapping the edge of the northern pass. “The Remnant isn’t an army,” he said. “Not yet. They’re scattered cells using old routes, feeding on fear. We cut the roads, we cut the voice.” Grayson leaned forward. “Scouts confirmed movement near the river bend last night. Small fires, maybe twenty men.”

"Thorne is going to activate the Rift, Silas. If he does, there won't be a Board or a Council left to vote. There will just be him and his hive." ​Silas looked at Leo’s scarred arm, her eyes narrowing. "I know. That’s why I’m here. I’m not the only one who didn't get 'Activated.' There’s a pocket of us, wolves who were out on the perimeter when the signal hit. We’re calling ourselves the Remnant." ​"How many?" Leo asked.

She touched his forehead, and the silver lines on his skin faded, his eyes returning to a normal, tear-filled blue. “He is a Remnant,” Elara said, turning to Ellie and Roman. “A scrap of soul caught in the wake of the Magister’s fall. But he is a warning. The void didn't close when the sky did. It just found a new way to breathe.” “What do you mean?” Roman asked, pushing himself to his feet and immediately moving to Ellie’s side, his eyes scanning her for injury.

Her husband exhales—or the ghost of one—against her spectral neck. "Look." A great-granddaughter now, midwife hands slick with afterbirth, lifting a newborn whose eyes open too soon. The infant grips her finger. Doesn't let go. Cities rise. Wars burn. Their blood spreads like floodwater, indistinguishable from the rest until it's too late to dam. A soldier walks away from shrapnel unharmed. A woman survives a fall from a fifth-story window. Sarah touches the scar that isn't there anymore. "We changed them."

The scenario turned awkward, and the tension built just watching it unfold. “Did I ask something wrong?” “No,” he answered. “I lead them like an alpha, but I'm not an alpha. In the early days when the curse began in families, some had crescent moons as their mark. The alphas get a full moon. That hasn't happened in over ten generations.” “But wolves still need a leader,” Orion chipped in. “That's why Mr Franklin, being the one with more experience, is doing that for us.” “Are we done lecturing the newbie so we can get back to business at hand?” Cameron spoke impatiently.

A year later, one morning, as I unfolded the newspaper, my eyes were drawn to the boldest headline: [Sicellia's once most notorious crime boss, Don Ricc, had a deadly fallout with his lover, was stabbed multiple times, and despite desperate attempts to save him, was pronounced dead.] [The killer, Rosa, received a life sentence behind bars.]

Full of jungle landscapes and great battles with demons were just as common as scenes showing them living alongside the monks peacefully. Only one piece of furniture stood in the room. A single, long stone table that reminded me of the Avery's Family Altar. He'd helped her and the other men in the Manser line move the giant relic last summer after Nathan had shown his true colors. And the table before him could have been the exact same one. "Come," Amna insisted, walking over the mosaic floor comprised of small stones and crystals set in concentric circles that wound tighter and tighter to disappeared under the table.

She carried a whip, and her thin pointed tail whipped curiously behind her. “Master? How may I help you?” He smiled at her and opened his hand in a welcoming gesture. “Come here, my pet.” He murmured. Excitedly, she walked up to him. He began to stroke her head as he would Flame’s. “I had some excellent news tonight, my dear.” She looked up at him with expectant and excited emerald green eyes. “What is it, my Lord?” He chuckled. “The relic and the pendant are coming home. I want you to have my men assemble the bones of my finest lost soldiers.”