Sealed Sword Novels & Stories

“How much?” Deacon put his hands up. “Celestial weaponry is not sold, Theo. The weapon is fated to a specific owner and that sword was destined to be yours.” Theo nodded, pretending he understood the meaning of it. Deacon pointed to the scabbard with a holster fit for a dagger in the chest. The moment Theo touched the scabbard, the sword shrunk to its original size. Convenient, he thought, as he sheathed the dagger into the scabbard.

As the second became aware of what was happening, they roared in response and are ready to onslaught. “Kill her! Don’t let her get away!” I spin my sword gracefully in my fingers, admiring how the light from the setting fire reflects off the shiny steel before finally pointing the tip of it towards them. I can feel a heavy burst of energy emanating from me as I hold my blade firmly in front of me with determined confidence. It feels like a powerful symbol of strength and courage, one that I am proud to bear as a shield against any obstacles that may come my way. This sword has seen plenty of battles before.

She took a deep breath and opened it gently. Inside the box laid an ornate weapon, no longer than five feet. From a quick look, Cassana could tell the handle was made of obsidian. A fine carving of wreathe with the shape of willow leaves twisted around the handle up to its arms. The upper and lower limbs, made of either holly or cedar, extended out from the handle to form an exquisite symmetrical arc that curved on its ends. A string made of sinew fiber stretched from one groove to the other, pulling the wood into shape, while seemingly emanating an ineffable hum.

I need my sword. Reaching behind my back, I feel the cool, smooth texture of my marking shift beneath my fingers. There’s a brief moment where the ink pulses, almost as if it’s alive, before it solidifies into the hilt of my sword. I draw it out, feeling the familiar weight settle into my hand. The blade hums with energy, a glowing blue that pulses in time with my heartbeat. This sword is mine, a part of me, born of my blood and soul. Athena’s gift, forged from my very essence.

He stuttered. "Huh?" I asked dumbfounded. "The sword....i- it's not a knife, it's a katana sword. They are very sharp and can be quite lethal. If you don't know how to hold it, you can get seriously hurt. I'm sorry miss, but if you don't hold a permit for it, I can not allow you to keep it."

A longsword from a weapon rack not far away unsheathed and flew into his hand. The movement was so smooth, he looked very cool. There was a coldness on the sword as he held it. Everyone who could sense the chill from the sword subconsciously shuddered. "A good sword," Harvey praised. "Unfortunately, it had a bad user." Shingen almost couldn't control his breathing after hearing Harvey's words. He pointed the sword at Harvey. "This sword is 50 inches long, forged from Arctic Steel. It has poison… Anyone it slashes will die! Take this!"

It smelled of truth. Kaelen moved with a grim, determined purpose, stripping off his fine tunic and replacing it with a simple leather jerkin. He chose his sparring blade, not the ornate, weighted sword of ceremony, but a plain, well-worn steel longsword that felt like an extension of his own arm. Its balance was perfect, its grip familiar, a solid, unyielding reality in a world that had become a nightmare of whispers and silence.

With a sudden surge of power, Sable lunged forward, swinging the sword with all her might. The blade sliced through the air, cutting through the evil with a resounding clash. The clash reverberated throughout the cathedral, sending shards of malevolence scattering across the floor. The evil entity recoiled, shocked by Sable's defiance. Its form faltered, momentarily disrupted by the light emanating from the sword. Weakened and vulnerable, it pressed back against the encroaching evil, desperately attempting to regain its strength.

“Alright, I hope you remember what I said.” Both climbed onto the duel arena, standing a few meters apart. Danial gripped his sword—the one Elysia had given him. It was unassuming, simple in design, without any grand embellishments. In contrast, Egbert’s longsword gleamed under the hall’s lights, its meteoric steel forging an undeniable air of dominance. One and a half meters of finely crafted destruction, built to slice through opponents with precision and overwhelming force. The murmurs of the crowd grew louder.

He still had a scar over his left eye where the wineglass she hurled at him shattered too close for safety. Rhychard glanced down at the Guardian Sword in his numb hand. The blade had returned to cold bronze. The broadsword, his inheritance from a dying elf, had an intricate design of vines engraved around the edges. Faeries cross, a stone resembling the bark of an ancient pine, encased the pommel. The stone supposedly helped him to draw upon the elemental magic around him, protecting him against the Void and its denizens. The Guardian Sword held the memories and skills of a dozen previous Warriors who wielded the blade before him. He wondered if the Seelie knew the number thirteen was bad l