Tarnished Tyrant Novels & Stories

"So what exactly are you insinuating? He stepped closer to me, and the silhouette of his towering figure fell across me like a dark specter. "I'm not insinuating anything," he said, his voice cold and unbending as steel. "I'm stating a fact. Your bloodline is not only powerful, but it's also cursed. Tyrone didn't betray you because he was greedy; he did that out of fear of you. I glared hard at him, my mind racing over time. "Feared me?" I shook my head. "You're not making any sense. Tyrone used me, then discarded me. If he feared me, why didn't he just kill me?

You are just a rogue, remember? Ryker's smile faltered, and he frowned. "If I were you, I wouldn't tread on that path," he warned, his tone dripping with malice. "You'll lose it." Tunisha let out a cold, mirthless sound. "I'm not afraid of you, Ryker," she said. "You are just a desperate man clinging onto power. Ryker's eyes flashed with anger as he leaned forward, his face inches from Tunisha's. "You have no idea what I am capable of," he hissed. "I have been playing this game for years, and always come out on top."

But Verena didn't realise that, it was the day the Tyrant was born. And it was there that his obsession grew, grew, and grew some more.

A beat passed before I asked, “Can you tell me about Luciano?” “Tyrant Luciano Zarkov,” she answered immediately. A faint pause crossed me. “Are you correcting how I address my mate?” Her eyes snapped up, startled—then wary. I let the silence stretch just long enough to feel it. Then I laughed lightly. “I’m teasing you. Now… tell me.” She exhaled, tension loosening just slightly. “Of course. Tyrant Luciano was a rogue—said to be equal to gods in strength, intelligence, and brutality. Most importantly, he is believed to embody karma itself.”

“Yeah. He talked about making a move if someone tried to take his turf. Said it was better to be feared than forgotten.” Piece by piece, the map came together. Tyrant had the motive. He had the opportunity; he still had people inside who could pass a tip. He had pride, the sort of pride that would rather torch his own house than live with someone else in it. The idea of him intentionally setting himself up as a scapegoat and martyr to the Others was ugly and brilliant in the worst way.

"Oh, sister-selves, you have no idea what you're up against. I've tasted the Primordial's true power—not the scraps and fragments you've all been playing with, but the real thing. I've let it hollow me out and fill me up again, and it was *glorious*." The others shift, recognizing the threat, but the Tyrant-me just smiles. "Funny thing about power," she says, and suddenly the temperature drops twenty degrees, "I actually won our war. Completely. Utterly. The Primordial is nothing but ash in my timeline—along with everything else." The words hit like physical blows, and I feel my stomach drop. She continues, her voice soft as poisoned silk: "Seven billion corpses make an excellent foundation

It calmed me enough for the moment. I turned from them, cloak snapping behind me, and strode out as their whispers rose again in my wake. I didn’t need wolf-hearing to catch them this time. Tyrant. The word should have shamed me. Instead, fury coiled hot and certain in my chest. If they wanted a tyrant, then a tyrant I would be.

Jericho on the other hand managed to set a stance with his feet, but his right leg kept trembling under the immense pressure put on it by the mass of its body, regardless, it was prepared to fight to its death. “You two have proven yourselves as worthy opponents. Therefore, I shall no longer hold back!” The tyrant said, pulling his fingers inwards and forming a fist. The strings attached to his fingers were yanked and etches embedded onto the soul sleeve began disappearing one after the other. A Violet and black swarm of embers began covering Tyndale's body from head to toe. Temperatures of his surrounding atmosphere seemed to rise as steam could clearly be seen evaporating from the ground b

“Try.” I stop fighting, sag against him. Blood smears on my shirt. His blood. Viktor’s blood. Everything’s blood now. “I heard her,” I whisper. “She called me a child bride. A phase.” “You’re not.” “Then what am I?” “Mine.” I cry into his chest as he holds me. What sort of syndrome is this I think.

She made a weak, gurgling sound. ​"Let this serve as a lesson," he sneered, looking directly at the section where the girl had been sitting. "This right here? This is what happens when you don’t listen. Let it be a lesson to the rest of you sniveling sluts. Disobedience doesn’t get tolerated in the Ironfang pack. Not from the likes of you." The likes of us. This was a brand. A label meant to strip away the last of our humanity. To him, we were nothing more than property or perhaps just toys to be broken when the boredom set in.