Shortsword Of First Blood Novels & Stories

The long, narrow blade … the snake guard … the scale-carved hilt—she covered every detail of her sword. Listening to the flow of her blood, it was like a river. At times it runs peacefully, and at times it runs wildly … but all the same, it flows endlessly. She had to use it now ... to save herself and Estevan. Then, at last, her mind became in sync with her blood flow. The picture of her rapier was as clear as ice inside her head. Everything flashed … Her right hand grew colder and colder. When she opened her eyes, it glowed brightly in blue light, shining all eyes into blindness.

He lunged. He moved with the terrifying speed of a born predator, blurring through the shadows as his hunting blade arched downward, aiming directly for my throat. I didn’t try to match his speed—I couldn’t. Instead, I waited until the very last second, using the weight of the ceremonial broadsword to my advantage. I pivoted my weight, letting the heavy blade swing downward in a massive, desperate arc.

Protect them. The mantra echoed in my blood, louder than the creature's shrieks. I tasted blood in my mouth, hot and metallic, and forced myself to my feet. My Alpha instinct surged, a golden fire erupting from my core, coating my sword in a shimmering, blinding light that cut through the encroaching darkness. The creature recoiled, its lidless eyes, so many of them, blinking in erratic patterns, fixed on my blade. It seemed to recognize the goddess's blessing, but it didn't flee.

The first wave had arrived. Seraphina tightened her grip on her sword. “Then we end this now.” Her voice was steady, but inside, adrenaline surged, mingled with fear and exhilaration. Kai’s gaze softened for the briefest moment as he glanced at her. “Stay close. No mistakes,” he ordered, the low timbre of his voice leaving no room for argument. The first clash of steel rang out, a sharp, metallic note that echoed through the courtyard. Seraphina moved with precision, anticipating the strikes before they landed. Each swing, each block, was a dance of survival—a deadly ballet between life and death.

She pressed a folded cloth into my hands and knelt across from me without being asked, holding Ashford's shoulders down with a strength that belied her age. "The blade," I said. "I need to see the blade that did this." "Here." A young warrior, one of the eastern gate patrol, held out the weapon with shaking hands, the metal catching firelight in a way that confirmed what I already suspected. Silver, worked deliberately into the steel, forged specifically to poison a wolf's blood rather than simply cut it.

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.

Then I saw him. He stood where no path led, bronze skin gleaming as if hammered straight from ore, eyes faceted obsidian, hair pulled tight into a knot that never moved. Armour wrapped his body in shifting light—blades folded over each other, edges reforming every time my focus tried to hold. A sword the size of a man’s height rode his back, silent, patient. A weapon, not a man. Nyxara’s tone was ice: The First Blade. The name dragged dust from the rafters. Even Selene’s silver shivered.

Third Person's POV If his skills would improve, he could also help take some pressure off Adelaide. She picked up the last weapon. The sword had a dull, dark sheen. The hilt was made from a beast's skull, the guard was carved into a ferocious wolf's head, and the crossguard was embedded with a power-charged wolf-eye stone.

But I had a sword, and I had leverage. One of the glowing sleepers lunged at the carts, a feral, mindless hiss tearing from his throat as the bomb inside him reached critical mass. I slid across the cobblestones, placing myself directly between the monster and the children. I swung my broadsword with both hands in a brutal, upward arc. The mundane steel bit deeply into the sleeper’s legs, severing the tendons behind his knees. He collapsed forward, his momentum carrying him onto the flat of his stomach. He bled bright, mortal red, but the blood hissed and turned to ash the moment it hit the air.

I like sharp. He reached for my throat. I let him almost get it, then shoved the iron kettle from the hearth straight into his face. It burst scalding across his cheek; he howled and staggered, the wolf snapping to the front like a bad idea with teeth. Half his face went ridged, beautiful and terrible. The floor trembled. “Language,” Maeve said from the doorway, voice breathless with controlled fear. “We said no bleeding on the floor.” “Working on it,” I said.