Sorcerer Bloodlines Novels & Stories

The sorcerer’s voice is raspy, hollow, as if spoken from a grave. Marco nods without hesitation. He gently raises the infant, holding him as though presenting him to the gods. “The blood of a Lycan prince. As pure as it gets.” The sorcerer extends his hand. Long, skeletal fingers brush against the child’s forehead. The little boy sobs louder now, his tiny body wriggling in distress. Stephen feels bile rise in his throat. “Perfect,” the sorcerer whispers, almost reverent. “The blood that will rewrite destiny.”

>The Zeryth, whose mouths split too wide and whose laughter bled into sobbing, the cruelest tricksters among the clans. And the youngest, >The Dayborn acolytes, fragile still, their blood unripe but their ambition fierce. They wore masks heavier than their bodies, desperate to belong among ancients who barely noticed them. And above them all, whispers still carried of a line that no longer existed. La Sanguinae Vera. The True Blood. The First Line. The one from whom all others had descended, and the one thought lost forever in the Ashen Sundering. Some still spoke their name with reverence. Others spat it like a curse. But all agreed: their extinction was a wound, and their absence left powe

Their eyes glinted in deranged neon ruby-blooded tone while they conjured the powers from within and whispered enchantment. “Tu, sanguis sacer, qui per venas mortalium fluit, da mentis et actionis suae potestatem. Sanguis sanguinem poscit, sanguis eorum manus imperet ut pares occidunt.” When they uttered the last words of their enchantment, the sigil of same red neon tone as their eyes projected in the air above us. Direful, vexed charcoal clouds which were bestrewn above us were speckled heavily with bloodied mottles which would occasionally spit few ominous bolts of ruby thunder they absorbed. Blood witches manipulate the blood of the victim to compel them to do whatever they command them.

He waved a hand over it, summoning an ethereal image: Maika and Carl flying across the treetops, Caveen between them, unconscious but breathing. “He is a convergence of our three lines,” Morviel said, voice now almost reverent. “Vampire. Lycan. Witch. And yet he is only the beginning.” “What do you mean?” Halric asked, his eyes narrowing. Morviel looked up, his pale eyes burning. “The seers have long spoken of a coming storm—a child born of darkness and light, whose aura would not only balance but surpass all three ancient bloodlines. The male child would be a key, yes… but it is the daughter who will unlock the gate.”

"This requires specific blood. Not just any sorcerer’s blood." ​I stared at the indentation, something in my chest knowing the answer before my mind caught up. ​"Blood of Malakor’s line," I muttered. ​"Your blood," Thalia confirmed, looking at me. ​For the first time since this journey began, I was the one who had to give a part of myself, not her. ​I stepped forward, slicing my own palm with the tip of my blade without hesitation, letting the blood drip into the stone basin. ​For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Their magic was a testament to their commitment to nature's survival, and it flowed through them as an extension of their very souls. As Isolde unraveled the threads of this revelation, a particular bloodline caught her attention – the Vorel bloodline. Known for their unique attributes of rainbow-colored eyes and raven hair, they possessed a magic that connected them to the very essence of existence. Among them, some possessed the power to heal with a mere touch, unintentionally mending wounds and ailments as an extension of their innate abilities.

“I just need a drop of your blood. Give it to me The power of blood, the power that goes through the ages, the ancient power that can drag you into the pool of the unknown .... What is your own strength? What will she bring to this world? He remembered the tentacles of terror that had engulfed the entire space around him when Matzher gave him his blood. He remembered the soulless emptiness of darkness, when space was torn apart…. Yarsi silently shook his head. The sorcerer grinned and looked at Mida.

"My family was tied to the faction who created the werewolves so long ago." "Sorcerers?" I looked at Sunny then back at the vampire girl. "Are you saying you were a sorcerer before you were turned?" "My father was," Isabelle said. "But my mother was normal. My brothers had power, but my sisters and I were latent. It is often this way with sorcery. The magic falls to one gender or the other in the bloodline." Another thing I didn't know. Educate me, no kidding. "So your family was-or is-Brotherhood." I tried not to judge her, but damn it, I'd almost had it up to my aching eyeballs with Liander Belaisle and his crew.

He had been building an alternative for two years, the same way a man built a second road before he needed it. The manual ritual required three things. A sight-worker of sufficient ability to perceive and navigate the Convergence Point's magical structure -- that was Vel himself. A source of old bloodline magic from the Dravhen line. And a third component that Sable described in careful technical language that Aldric translated for me as: a blood offering from a living Bloodanchor. I heard the third component and did not react outwardly. I had practiced not reacting outwardly until it was nearly as automatic as breathing.

“The Silver Rock is not under Fire River’s control. “You’re right. But they did surrender that day. And we were overrun. And my family, was forced on the run. The Alpha of Fire River had us chased. He wanted all the living ranked members gone, so that they could start a new. The strongest bloodlines needed to be gone. We ran for years. And we were alright, until we had a close call when Nov was 6. And then we were forced to change tactics, for our family’s future.” “How did Silver Rock not end up under Fire River’s control then?”