Shadow And Bone Aleksander Novels & Stories

I heard the door slam open and the object of my thoughts came in leaving it open behind him. "Ah, you're finally awake,” he said mockingly, his ruddy face giving me a sinister smile, "Okay, so I can tell you about my plans. In an hour, I will meet your faithful dog. He will give me what I want, I will give him what he wants. I’ll go very far and very fast and thus we will all come out winning, don’t you think?” Faithful dog? Alex. My heart beat wildly. Alex was alive and fighting for me.

I hated how her cheerful face turned gloomy because-- Oh, wow. She is smiling again. I guess she was not bothered by those bitches, huh. I smiled as I felt more intrigued by my mate, craving to know her more. Okay. Time to check her shadow now. Move forward, mate. Expose yourself to the sun, let me see your soul. I’m an Alpha of the Shadow pack, second strongest pack of the North Region. Our pack’s name is not made without meaning, it has a secret behind it.

she asked, and Alex gave a soft laugh. She sensed humour from him, and annoyance from Lukas, but both were almost drowned out by their wariness, and no small amount of fear. Lukas sighed softly, "Shadows can merge with other shadows, becoming part of them," he said, his voice still near a whisper, "And can move through them, from one to another, with little resistance."

He looked at me directly. "How do we know you will not lose control? How do we know you are not just waiting for the right moment to turn on us?" Fair questions. Terrifying questions. But fair. "You do not," I said simply. "You do not know. Just like I do not know if one day my power will overwhelm me and I will become the monster everyone fears." Gasps throughout the hall. Draven's hand tightened on mine in warning, but I continued. "I am Shadowborn. That means I carry destruction in my blood. The potential for catastrophic violence. That will never change.

But if there was one thing I was good at — one thing I’d learned to be good at in this hellhole — it was insurrection. He gritted his teeth. “A rebellious one, alright.” Before I could brace myself, his boot slammed into my chest. I lost my balance and fell backward. The sting from the earlier slap was nothing compared to the fire spreading through my ribs. I felt my veins pulse. He crouched down slowly. “Cole Prescott,” he said, grinding out each syllable. “You dare disobey me?” He laughed. The sound echoed through the quiet office. “How dare you. You’re nothing but a piece of filth in here. And even if you ever get out there…” His lips curled. “You’re still nothing.”

The rogues in the ring adjusted their grips on spears not because they expected us to run but because ritual asks for clean hands that pretend they’re not stained. “Old Law,” the shard heir said, more priest now than page. He had painted new lines on his chest in ash—fresh script over older scars. The bone knife lay across his palm like a sleeping fish. When he lifted it, the bone caught the red light and pretended to be metal. “Old Law: the blood is a bridge, the word a road, the house a river with banks. The bound comes home. The home is the bound.” He looked at me, not unkind. He had learned unkindness as technique, not nature. It made him worse, because practiced cruelty believes itself

“Try boneblossom instead of shadowroot.” Why did he know that? She didn’t even hear him approach until his voice was beside her—low, casual, like he hadn’t been watching her the entire time. “You going to stare at it until it evaporates?” Sierra looked up—and there he was. Malick. Leaning just close enough to be noticed, not enough to be obvious. His shirt was a little wrinkled from leaning over the cauldron, the cuffs faintly scorched. Shadows curled lazily beneath his sleeves, like smoke stretching toward warmth.

He looked at him the way Maren's people had learned to look at him: as a variable they had underestimated. "You could just let me go," Sorn said. "I could," Aldric agreed. "I'm not going to." "This doesn't end with him in custody," Sorn said, meaning Maren. "Men like him don't end in courtrooms. This is all performance." "Maybe," Aldric said. "But the names in the lower archive aren't performance. The eleven pages aren't performance. The woman in the eastern market whose son was killed twelve years ago and was told it was vampires — she's not performance." He looked at Sorn steadily. "You're going back. And the record is going to say your name correctly."

Their horses stood calm and immovable, their eyes reflecting the pale moonlight breaking through the clouds. ​At the center of the road stood a single figure on foot, leaning casually against a thick oak trunk. He held a brass lantern in one hand, casting a warm, flickering glow over his tailored navy coat. ​It was Victor. ​He stepped into the middle of the road, brushing rain droplets from his velvet cuffs with a faint, amused smile. ​"Heading somewhere so early in the morning,Alvaro?" Victor asked softly, his voice cutting clearly through the howling wind. "I must say, I am disappointed. I expected a much more sophisticated strategy from a university scholar." ​Alvaro jumped down from the

Not just unlit—a thick, velvety black that seemed to swallow the light from the hallway. A voice came from within, flat and disembodied. “Say what you’re here for and stop wasting my time.” I blinked, trying to peer inside. “Can I, uh, come in? Or do you want to come out?” “No.” Alright then. “Fine. I just wanted to talk. We’re teammates. Figured we should know each other. I’m Bryan. I like fire, bad music, and eating. Your turn.” A beat of silence. Then, from the darkness, “I’m the Shadowalker. I tolerate existence. Your turn is over.”