Shortsword Of First Blood Novels & Stories

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.

he snarled. I rolled, let him miss my kidney with his heel by a breath, found my feet by swearing at them, and got steel in my hand. The first boarder that reached me had eyes like chipped slate and a hook where his manners should’ve been; I drove my sword up under his arm where armor forgets to exist, and his breath left him surprised and red.

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.

Magically, my body floated to an upright position, and my eyes fluttered open. Nagama. The sword of justice. It glowed bright green, beautiful to behold. The hilt was made of pure gold, which made the blade heavy to lift. Shannon, the first Daughter of Eve used the same sword in her conquest against the Lycans. After her death, many werewolves broke into a haze, seeking the sword, but couldn't find it. it was rumored that any werewolf who wields the sword would rule the realm for eternity.

No tactical shields. Dominic walked at the lead, clad in simple black leather breeches and a dark tunic, a plain, unadorned steel broadsword resting in his right hand. Beside him walked Zane and Tristan, their dark daggers and trench blades unpowered, stripped of all runic enhancements. And walking between them was me. I wore a simple, dark velvet tunic, my long hair braided tightly back, my boots crunching softly against the blue ice. In my right hand, I carried a light, double-edged steel longsword. In my left, wrapped in leather, was the Eclipse Siphon.

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.

Justice would be served. Alexei's hand moved at lightning speed as he rolled a star-shaped weapon between his fingers. The shuriken must have been made of silver because the bloodsucker was wearing leather gloves, protecting himself from direct physical contact with the dangerous metal. With a fierce determination, he flung it at me. I dodged the attack with ease, my body bending and twisting like a serpent. Undeterred, Alexei hurled another shuriken at me, the sharp edges glinting in the sunlight. This time, my reactions were not fast enough, and I could not evade it completely. The shuriken grazed my bicep, drawing a line of blood that trickled down my arm. I hissed due to the burning pain