Spell Knuckles Novels & Stories

Allan walks leaving the tundra with the chest plate on my chest torso and full arm gauntlet. Allan walks out of the king of seal only to find a horrible sight and the stench of death. Twenty-five knights trapped and only seven remain with lots of giant spiders on the floor. The remaining seven barely stood as they were exhausted. Prince Screven had joined the fighting with a piper sword. A slim sword in the form of a needle and he was cover green liquid over his body. “Where have you being Allan? A helping hand would have being nice", Bumi collapse to the ground. it has being several hours of fighting, Allan place his hands on the barrier.

Knox is on the floor. Shirtless, soaked in sweat, and something about his body is WRONG in a way that my brain tries to reject before my eyes finish processing it. The muscles under his skin are moving – MOVING, shifting and rippling like something underneath is trying to rearrange itself, and his hands are pressed flat against the hardwood and his fingers are tipped with something that isn’t fingernails. They’re longer and curved and dark and they’ve gouged lines into the floor like trenches, and the word my brain supplies is CLAWS even though that word doesn’t belong in a sentence about a human being.

The palm was broad, the fingers long and powerful. But it was the knuckles that told the story. They were thick, calloused, and bore the faint, white jagged lines of old scar tissue, the kind of scarring earned not from kitchen work, but from the repeated, violent impact of bone against bone. "Look at the radial bone," Julian whispered, pointing at the screen. "Look at the grip strength required to hold those shears at that specific angle. That is a masculine hand. More specifically, it is a hand that has been trained to kill."

Then Knuckles lunged. “No—!”

She was comforted when she saw that the other sword was undamaged. *Clank* *Clank* *Clank* *Clank* *Clank* *Clank* Mane continued with the relentless assault, and the small chip his left blade was now as wide as a finger. It was so wide that even the man could see it and was reassured.

Zachary rolled up his sleeves, showing his strong forearms, and clenched his fists as his metacarpals and phalanges gave off a cracking sound. It seemed that a fierce battle was about to take place. All of a sudden, a deep baritone suddenly sounded out of nowhere.

The colors of House Dreadmourne. Kael sat up slowly, which told him two things. First, the body he was in was alive. Second, it hurt. A deep ache across the ribs and shoulders that suggested whoever this body had belonged to had not been sleeping comfortably. He looked down at his hands. Broad palms. Calluses on the right hand, none on the left. Young, maybe nineteen or twenty at most. The knuckles were scarred in the specific way that came from years of training rather than brawling. He knew these hands. He had read about them, briefly, in a paragraph and a half before they stopped mattering to the plot.

Not surface pain — deep pain, the specific ache of things rearranging themselves into configurations they weren't in before. By Body Tempering Level 3, my knuckles had stopped splitting. Not because they toughened — because the skin itself had changed, the underlying structure denser, less breakable. By Level 4, achieved on the morning of day eight against the stone pillar at the market's northern entrance before Madam Gu's vegetable supplier arrived, my fists hit stone and the stone felt the impact more than I did. I looked at my hands afterward. The knuckles were smooth. No scarring. Just a faint, almost imperceptible luminescence under the skin — the Ki pathways of the Iron River Scriptur

He cracked his knuckles and lunged at me. I was expecting it, I know, but when he lunged at me with that super Vampire speed of his, I cringed. Still, it was kill or be killed so I threw up my fist and opened my hand with the crucifix hidden in my palm. He took my hand to be little more than a child trying to stop a speeding train as he continued to move forward. But when his chest made contact with my palm, he stopped cold as if he had run into the side of a concrete building! There was a cracking and a bright streak of fire.

And then he’d crossed his skinny-ass arms across his fuckin’ Metallica tee like he was ready to throw down or something. Punk ass poser. His knuckles hurt. He opened his eyes and held his hand in front of his face. Yeah, he’d punched something. Fingers scraped. Knuckles swollen. Black and blue and sorta yellow and, fuck me, red? Broken? He flexed his fingers. Nah, this was a wood punch, not concrete. Not flesh or bone. Wood. “It’s shit,” he’d screamed at Spike, his fists clenched. Fuck counting back from ten. “It’s fucking shit, man. I just want it fixed. It’ll take two fuckin’ seconds!”