Silk Touch Axe Novels & Stories

They didn't surrender, so it was very easy to take care of them with my special weapon. At the end of the narrow tunnel, a dull red glow pulsed like the heart of some sleeping beast. My pace quickened, boots scraping against brittle ground until the cavern opened into a massive chamber. There it was. The relic rested upon a pedestal of blackened obsidian, the surface engraved with old, looping runes I didn’t recognize. It was an axe—unlike any I had seen before. The metal was alive with fire, flames licking its edges yet leaving it untouched. Right above us, I could hear the cracking of thunder, a display of the ax’s powerful abilities.

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

I don't know what that means. "Ready?" Axe asked, brandishing the scissors in front of me. "Let go of me, Axe!" I tried to rebel even though it was futile, only to get blisters on my hands from rubbing against the rope. "Shut up, baby girl!" Axe crawled back up until our gazes met. "You only have to make a sound when I start. Do you understand?" Axe touched the tip of my nose, then moved down. The scissors he's holding are used to cut the cloth pants I'm wearing until they're ripped to the thighs.

Instead, the wood simply began to turn into ash, crumbling away as if it had been dead for a hundred years. One of the Silencers stepped through the empty doorway. His armor was carved with runes that pulsed with a dull, purple light. He carried a long staff made of the same obsidian as the King’s Void Blade. “Killian Nightshade,” the Silencer said. His voice didn't sound human. It sounded like two stones grinding together. “Hand over the Catalyst, and your pack lives another hour.” “You’re in the wrong house for demands,” Killian growled.

"The master commands the territory now! Give us the hollow shell of the prince, or burn inside this tomb!" I raised my right axe, my fingers tightening around the leather-wrapped hilt, and drove the heavy iron blade straight down through the broken timber panel, severing the creature's clawed fingers in one clean, brutal stroke. A thick spray of hissing, molten lava splattered across my leather pauldrons, but I didn't drop my stance.

At its center stood a pedestal, and upon it, the Spear of Thorne—its shaft made of silverwood, its blade obsidian and etched with lunar runes. Alex approached, but the second his hand touched the weapon, a shock tore through his arm, knocking him back. Brian caught him. “Are you okay?” “It’s… bound by something.” Rachel’s eyes widened. “It won’t yield to anyone who isn’t pure of heart—and soul.” Alex took a breath, then stepped forward again. This time, he closed his eyes and focused not on power, but on why he was fighting. Not for revenge. Not for dominance. But for love. For peace. For their future.

Honed her vision. The weapons had been set aside. She noticed that when she entered the cave. She caught the gleam of a giant battle axe, scrolled with ancient runes down the handle and twisted designs on the blade. She lunged for it, her adrenaline and need to fight overpowering the drugs that slowed her. The axe was heavy. It took all her strength to heft it, and when she turned, she stumbled. She flew blindly forward, yelling out as she did. “Alexander Phaethon!” He turned at the last second and dodged, the raised blade that he’d intended to sink into his alpha glistening above his head, ready for her instead.

The appearance of the "Draft One Silas" was a "Narrative Abomination" that turned the "Unmapped" North into a landscape of shifting chronologies. He stood in the center of the courtyard, a titan of pure, unadulterated "Alpha Arrogance." He wore the original Blackwood armor, polished to a mirror sheen, and his eyes were two solid pools of stormy grey that held no "Biological Remorse." He carried the "True Silver Dagger," and his scent was the overwhelming, suffocating smell of a pack that had never been "Purified."

They would heal, if they lived long enough. I turned my eyes to the weapons. Each one lay upon black cloth, meticulously polished, arranged like a lover’s gift. Scythes curved like crescent moons. Blades etched with blood-runes designed to cut deeper, burn longer. Axes heavier than a man’s torso. Spears tipped with obsidian fangs. I remembered the way my heart had thundered as a boy when I saw those same weapons gleam under torchlight. I had wanted nothing more than to touch them, to claim one as my own.

Even the leaf-shaped short blade was too heavy for her so we ended up screwing around instead. I picked up two Iron Age style axes. The blades were more of a thick wedge than the broad axe heads of medieval fame. They were less effective in delivering damage, compensating somewhat in their reduced weight. I've convinced a Jewish girl to have sex in a synagogue despite me not being Jewish yet this child was twirling me around her pinkie finger.