Sorcerer Table Novels & Stories

"I do hold the title of a wizard but I'm a sorcerer in truth. Wizards become warlocks after years of practising. Not all become one in their lifetime. But I’m a sorcerer, a rank higher than both and sorcerers isn’t something a wizard achieves. They are born. A warlock has to bow before a low-ranked sorcerer even.” “So you’re a high-ranked sorcerer. Your family knows right?” “ Only the Wiz king knows. Besides, the fewer people know, the better. Sorcerers are as rare as perfect hybrids. According to the records, the last sorcerer appeared in the 14th century." "That's..." "We have a lot to talk about each other. We at least know that we have the same enemies. We are perfect hybrids and had a b

he roared. His voice echoed off the stone walls. Vortigern was a tall, middle-aged man with sharp features and a neatly trimmed beard streaked with gray. His eyes were gray and cold as steel blades. He wore a black doublet embroidered with golden serpents — the symbol of his house. Around the table sat his closest advisors: General Draven, Chancellor Aldric, and, seated slightly apart in the shadows, Malachar himself. The sorcerer wore a dark purple robe. His skin was excessively pale, almost translucent, and black veins ran across his neck and hands. His eyes were completely black, with no visible white.

His face was a mask of horror as he realized the Necromancer had taken control of his body. The Necromancer edged himself forward in his chair. He stretched his thick arms out over the table, fleshy palms facing down, and began to chant softly. In response to his spell, the black surface of the table began to change, becoming opaque. Hundreds of tiny white ovals began to appear, seemingly floating within the dark depths of the table. As the Necromancer continued his summoning, the shapes grew brighter and clearer, until they became recognizable as pairs of eyes, imprisoned within the magical table.

I grinned from chin to Chin. I skimmed the incantation until my eyes fell on one line. “To sever the power of the divine, a powerful sorcerer must perform the binding with intent unbroken.” A sorcerer. Not just any. A powerful one. Who would I possibly meet, I thought. My eyes, still fixed on those lines. Only one name came to mind. Zephyr! He was our pack sorcerer, a dangerous choice. Unpredictable. But desperate times called for risky allies.

Tamir stood over a wide table, on which lay the carcass of the converted werewolf. The beast stank of dog and sewage, and its hind legs with long black claws hung lifelessly almost to the floor. Krrrr... The knife cut through the cartilage with a juicy crunch. The sorcerer put his blade aside and took hold of the bulbous sternum with both hands. He pressed, distributing in opposite directions, jerked sharply. Hr-r-lynx! A juicy crack, and the ribs turned outward, revealing a black shiny inside.

Sable's eyes narrowed with determination as she recognized the source of this sinister presence: Zephyr, the ancient sorcerer who had long been rumored to be behind the encroaching darkness. With a fierce yell, Sable rallied her warriors, their spirits reignited by the sight of their leader's unwavering resolve. They fought with renewed vigor, pushing back against the darkness with every ounce of their strength. The clash of weapons and the crackling of magic filled the air as they surged forward, determined to break through. Jericho's blades moved in a blur, slicing through shadowy figures with precision. Torin's magic intensified, creating fierce gusts of wind that ripped through the darkn

*** Inside the bedroom, it was just the three of us. The sorcerer moved in complete silence. He set up a small table and began laying out strange artifacts—a silver dagger, a black candle, and several vials of thick liquid that smelled like death. He muttered under his breath, pacing in slow, steady circles, while Damon stood nearby, watching every movement. “Hmm…” the sorcerer muttered, causing Damon to raise a brow. “This is the weakest the spell has ever been. Something’s interfering.” I watched as Damon’s grip tightened.

"Your mastery over elemental magic and your unwavering loyalty make you an ideal candidate. Will you join this quest?" Felicity, standing tall and resolute, stepped forward. "I will, Supreme Sorcerer. I shall serve our coven with all my power." Constantine nodded, then turned her gaze to Freya, a witch known for her unparalleled knowledge of ancient spells. "Freya, your expertise in ancient magic is unmatched. Will you lend your talents to this mission?" Freya, her expression one of fierce determination, stepped forward to join Felicity. "I pledge my abilities to our cause, Supreme Sorcerer."

"The Matriarch has breached the inner rings." High on the palace terrace above the plaza, a contingent of elite Eastern sorcerers—purebloods who had spent their entire lives mastering the art of manipulating the elemental frequency of silver—gathered in a tight defensive circle. They held long, silver-tipped staves that thrummed with a volatile, glowing purple energy, their eyes completely black as they prepared to release a concentrated wave of suppression magic directly into the courtyard. "Focus the frequency on the girl!" the lead sorcerer commanded, his voice shaking with a mix of fury and raw panic. "She is the anchor! If we crush her mind, their entire army will scatter!"

His voice was low, calm, a whisper that scratched against my bones. “Don’t bother,” the man said. His eyes were sharp, his smile thin. “Your strength is bound. Your Alpha blood, your wolf… all of it is held down.” I froze. A sorcerer. I hadn’t seen one before, but I knew what they were. Dangerous. Ruthless. Men who twisted power into chains invisible and unbreakable.