Snow Sword Stride Novels & Stories

The hard impact kicked up a thick cloud of white dust. Sniffing the freezing air, I instantly locked onto her scent. Underneath the heavy smell of pine needles, charcoal ash, and bitter snow, her sweet vanilla scent burned like a bright torch in the dark. She was moving fast, but her steps were uneven. She was struggling against the deep snowdrifts. I burst into a dead sprint.

Six blinding halogen beams sliced through the swirling alpine blizzard, pinning us in their high-intensity glare like targets on a firing range. The guttural roar of high-displacement snowmobile engines vibrated through the frozen bedrock beneath our boots. The Board’s strike team wasn't approaching in a slow tactical sweep. They were barreling up the steep incline in a tight wedge formation, intent on crushing us against the jagged rock face before we could even draw a weapon.

Both, perhaps. On the fourth evening the wind rose. Branches scraped the roof. Snow pulled a blanket around her shoulders and stared into the flames, listening to the forest. That was when she heard the footsteps. They were heavy and measured footsteps. Not the light tread of a deer or the quick steps of a rabbit. Someone was approaching the cabin. Snow stood. Her heart beat once, hard. She had no weapon except a small kitchen knife. She held it loosely at her side and waited. The door opened without a knock.

She could feel the frozen snow and undergrowth on the soles of her feet and yet her steps were fleeting and light as if she were floating. Only it wasn't her feet. She had paws. Four giant paws that danced across the snow. Her nose picked up the scent of freezing air, wet earth and a bobcat that had passed this way hours before. Her maw opened to drag air into her heaving lungs as her canines peeked out from her jaw.

He wrapped the sword in four layers of thermal insulation, securing it tightly to the wood. "I'll pull," Ashren said, looping the drag rope over his massive shoulder. "The wood will act as an insulator. But we have to move fast. The Peaks are a three-day climb on foot. I don't know if the wrapping will hold the cold back that long." I stood up, testing my weight on my right leg. It tingled fiercely, but the joint held. I walked over to Valen, who was sitting on a snow-dusted stump, tracing glowing blue shapes in the air with his finger.

She stares up at the dark sky and snow covered trees above her, to avoid looking at the lifeless body beside her. She wishes that he could lay there until the darkness closes in on her, but she know that she can't. Rolling over, she puts her hands on the ground to push herself up. The frozen snow stings her hands, the sharp coldness of it pricking her skin like a thousand painful little needles peircing her flesh. She pushes to her feet carefully and braces herself against the tree until she gets her bearings. Her legs feel like overcooked spaghetti noodles. When she finally wills her legs to support her, she trudges back through the snow on the path of which she made.

a male voice whispered hesitantly, his tone trembling with uncertainty. A cold chuckle followed from a female. “Scared? Aren’t you here because of your mate?” she scoffed. “Be a man for once.” The male fell silent, but his breath hitched again. That voice… Why did it sound so familiar? So... familiar and yet twisted. Like someone she once knew. Snow tried to open her eyes fully, but they felt like lead. Her body was drenched in sweat, completely drained. She heard footsteps—heels—clicking against the cracked marble. A woman approached. Through Snow’s blurry gaze, she saw the red bottom of designer heels-Christian Louboutins-paired with a sleek, expensive jumpsuit.

The wind howled through the narrow, snow-choked streets of Snowridge, as if warning anyone who dared to venture out into the deadly storm. Asha Frostheart, her face partially hidden beneath a fur-lined cloak, moved swiftly through the thick snowfall, her white wolf companion, Ghost, at her side. The blizzard's icy bite pierced through her layers of clothing, but her focus remained unbroken.

He needed strategy. He danced around the scorpion, his movements agile and unpredictable, dodging each attack while studying its patterns. He saw it, a small gap between the shell segments near the leg joints. When the scorpion lunged again, Rayden didn’t retreat. He surged forward instead, lowering his body. “Ice Art, Frozen Crescent Slash.” His sword swept in a beautiful silver arc, striking precisely at the joint of the creature’s front leg. The shell there was thinner. His ice blade pierced through easily.