Novel & Cerita Robert Silverberg Novels

Kaelen grabbed the nearest thing to hand—a rusted iron poker from the hearth—and flung open the door. The night was chaos. Villagers ran in every direction, clutching children or stumbling under the weight of what belongings they could snatch. A fire roared where a thatched roof had collapsed, sparks carried into the night sky. And among the running shapes, Kaelen saw them—taller than men, their bodies rippling with muscle, their fangs gleaming wet in the firelight. Their eyes burned silver, unnatural and cold. Werewolves. Kaelen’s stomach dropped. These were creatures from stories told in hushed voices around the tavern fire, monsters that belonged to the old wars, not to the quiet borderla

A ghost who was guiding my hand from beyond the grave. I picked up the book. It was an old copy of The Master and Margarita. My favorite. Our favorite. Of course. I ran my thumb over the embossed cover. This was it. The weapon. The key. I tucked the book and the letter into my jacket and walked out of the vault, my head high. I was halfway across the marble floor of the bank lobby when I saw him.

Immediately I dropped Carmen gently on the bed and wiped her lips, I turned to Silver for answers. Silver started, pulling out his favorite collection of books. I always wondered why Silver had such a book since it had no particular aura to it. It was not even fortified, just a random notebook that looked scribbled by a child. “I always loved nature,” Silver touched the pages of the book with so much yearning and melancholy. “When I was eighteen, I got obsessed with nature, not just love. I would go out of my way and make a trip to forests, climb mountains, go cave diving and just document it.”

"I don't know." "You're a Silver Blood." He said it like it should mean something. When I just stared at him blankly, he sighed. "Your grandmother never told you the old stories?" My grandmother. A flash of memory, sitting by the fire while she told tales of ancient wolves with silver eyes who could challenge the Moon Goddess herself. I'd thought they were just fairy tales. "Those are legends," I whispered.

Then, softly: “I’d stand by you while you choose.” That’s worse. And somehow, it’s better too. The healer’s room smells sharp—herbs, cold stone, something old. Aron barely moves under the thin blankets. His chest rises, just a little. His wolf—nothing. Gone, or so far down I can’t touch it. I sit at his side, hands shaking. Mira stands behind me, voice gentle but firm. “Don’t reach. Listen.” I close my eyes. The silver inside me stirs right away. It’s drawn to the emptiness in Aron, like gravity finds a void. It doesn’t rush in—it hangs back, wary.