Silver Crows Novels & Stories

The light faltered. The gold thinned, then thickened, then thinned again, as if two hands pulled it from opposite sides. A thread of white ran through the flame. Not gold. Not red. A pale silver white like moonlight on ice. A murmur grew into voices. A child cried once and was hushed. Outside, bells that should have fallen silent kept ringing, as if they had forgotten how to stop. The silver grew brighter. It folded through the gold and softened it until the two colors lay side by side. The bowl sang a high note that set the candle flames trembling.

Just settled into himself, like he’d decided the exact amount of space he would occupy, and that was final. His eyes were silver. They moved across the room in a sweep that didn’t look like a sweep. They didn’t stop on me. I turned back to the front. The High Elder called the ceremony to order. The lights dropped except for the column of moonlight through the open ceiling—Blood Moon light, redder than ordinary and thick in a way that made the air feel different. Heavier. Like it was waiting. It moved slowly at first. I watched it find a pair across the room, a Delta male and a north-pack female, both going rigid before the gold thread pulled taut between them. The crowd made a soft sound. Th

“Did you see the silver light, boy?” “Everyone saw it.” The memory hurt. Sera kneeling there, her power pouring out of her like a broken dam. Her eyes had been pure silver. Not the primal wolf-gold she used to have, not human. Something ancient, terrifying, and beautiful. Too weak. I had called her too weak. The Moon Goddess must have been laughing. “Do you know what it means?” Corvus asked. “You said something during the ceremony about bloodlines. About things that should have stayed hidden.”

One raised its head to the dawn and howled, the sound tearing through Kaelen’s bones. Werewolves. The pack fanned out, circling. There were at least six, maybe more in the shadows. Kaelen gripped the useless remains of his poker before realizing it had melted to slag. He had no weapon. Only the fire inside him, and that was as likely to kill Elira as their hunters. The largest of the wolves padded forward, towering over the others. Its silver eyes locked on Kaelen. “The blood stirs,” it growled, its voice a gravelly rumble that no beast should possess. “He belongs to the Moon.”

"You are one of the rare species of silver wolves, one of the last in the world. It comes from a lineage that is known for its strength, agility, and connection to forces beyond our comprehension. My eyes widened with incredulity. "Silver wolf? But... what does that mean?" Lucas leant back in his chair; his expression was thoughtful. "The silver wolves are a legendary breed, known for their unique abilities and the rarity of their existence. Many believe they hold a connection to ancient forces, a power that goes beyond the realm of ordinary wolves. And you are one of them."

I turned the word over in my mind. “A what?” I’d never heard of that word before. “A Silvery,” she repeated. “It’s a special silver weapon made by witches. They designed it to deal specifically with shifters. It’s full of dark magic and witchcraft.” “Witches?” I asked, cocking my head to the side. “Yes,” Dagny nodded. “It’s not a common weapon, but it’s highly effective. Witches use SIlverys themselves to defend against shifters, like werewolves. But they’ll sell Silverys, too, for the right price.”

No vampire has dared to come near; they are even scared of Archie. “I will keep my pace,” she said. “Okay, let’s shift and run around the woods,” Silver said. I nod my head and watch them shift. Octavia is a white wolf, and Silver is a black wolf. Their fur is so cute and sparkling, and Silver is bigger than her. They are both huge, and just one paw will cause a deadly injury. They both purred at themselves, moving closer to each other, but I stayed in their middle, my hand on their snout.

Nyra – First Person They bound me in silver as though I were something unholy. Perhaps I am. The chains were ceremonial—ancient links forged from purified moon-silver, etched with runes that glowed faintly as they brushed my skin. They wrapped around my wrists, my throat, my waist. Heavy. Cold. Final. Silver is meant to silence wolves. It burns. It poisons. It drags us to our knees and reminds us we are creatures of flesh and weakness.

I had to struggle to suppress a laugh. The Silver Myst was an urban legend, a pure silver wolf who showed up when things looked at their worst. He first appeared near four years ago, shortly after the war began, and has, supposedly, been seen numerous times since. It was always out of the corner of someone’s eye, or seen by a friend of a friend. Chris and the others were too old to believe in fairy tales.