Shadow Slave Light Novel Pub Novels & Stories

​The transition into the Dark Fantasy Rebirth wasn’t a clean cut; it was a jagged, visceral overhaul. The obsidian tower didn’t just stand—it inhaled the light of the shattered moon, pulsing like a black heart at the center of the world. Nora felt the weight of the "Public Domain" settling over her shoulders like a suit of leaden mail. Her scrubs had hardened into a flexible, midnight-weave leather, and the wooden flute in her hand had lengthened, its grain flowing with a liquid, crimson light.

"W-What's your story?" She froze at this, the light in her eyes slowly draining. I frowned, watching her expression, "You don't have to—" "It is alright to ask. We're all slaves here. I have nothing to hide," she replied. Her eyes flashed to mine, offering me a small smile. "Slaves, yes." I confirmed, "I am a slave because my parents were rogues. Shade is a slave because she was born without a wolf despite our blood running through her veins. Half of the slaves here were either rejected, rogues or like me- but-"

Xander's pov “They become shadow slaves.” “Shadow slaves?” I asked. “Yes.” Seraphina answered. “Creatures consumed by Zerathos's dark powers. There to do his bidding no matter how messy. His personal foot soldiers.” “What in the world?” Kael muttered. “But there's a cure, right?” Ava's voice became quiet at the end of her question as she was as uncertain as the rest of us. Seraphina's gaze softened. “There is a cure. But it is not easily made.”

"I have nothing to lose, and everything to gain." A slow smile spread across Ghost's face, the blue light momentarily illuminating a glint of admiration in his eyes. A flicker of a plan seemed to spark in his gaze. Anya, a new recruit in the fight for freedom, knew this was just the beginning. The rebellion had a new weapon, a former slave with a thirst for vengeance and a stolen blade at her side. The fight for New Shanghai had just begun. Author: Gideon Fiadzomor Copyright protected

WEREWOLF IN THE SHADOW (A VEAWOLF AND A WEREWOLF STORY) Chapter 1️⃣ *The Family Slave* "Ouch"A little voice can be heard as she tries to lift herself up from the ground. She stands up slowly, holding her waist. She looked dirty and pale. Her face could show the result of poor nutrition. Her long an unkept hair laid on her back. She was trying to clean the kitchen when she slipped and fell.

####### Author's Note: I have some stories already written on the platform that you can check out; 1. Moonchild; The Rise of the Lycans. 2. All shades of Passion (erotica) kindly read and them to your library. Love you all.

“Did the Shade escape?" Man made light couldn’t kill a shade, not like the UV rays of the sun, but it still produced an impenetrable barrier, so fending them off was as simple as keeping your lights turned on and avoiding dark corners. But a Shadow Man, someone who’d been taken by a shade? Sure, you could kill their human host as easily as the next human but that just forced the unharmed shade out of its dead flesh and into the next closes body. Yours. If you were lucky enough to to be too far away or surrounded by light the shade would disappear into the shadows, lurking there until the next poor soul ventured within reach. It was a pathetic and undeniable craven existence but it was how th

she nodded gently, her face so intently focused on him now, as he sighed again, struggling to answer her without saying too much. Lukas stepped forward, pulling up one of the chairs from the small dining table, and sitting facing her. "Very few know about us," he said softly, "but the ones that do, they call us 'Shadowsouled'." Jason could feel her apprehension growing, as she likely sensed his nervousness, her eyes drifting between the two of them now.

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CLAIMED BY MY SAVIOUR SERAPHINA & REID The safe house smelled of rust, motor oil, and the faint copper tang of old blood. Nineteen-year-old Seraphina Laurent knelt on the cold concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse outside Juárez, her wrists zip-tied behind her back, silk blindfold soaked with tears and mascara. She’d been here three days, or maybe four. Time blurred when they kept the lights off most hours and fed her only enough to keep her conscious. Her cream-colored dress—once Chanel, now torn at the hem and stained, it was hiked up around her thighs from struggling. Bruises bloomed on her knees and the insides of her arms where rough hands had gripped too hard.