Novel & Cerita Terrisman Mistborn

"Marcus is waiting with the car. I have some urgent pack business to handle before the banquet, but I'll meet you there." "What if—" He silences my fears with another soft kiss. "You're stronger than you know, little mate. And they can't hurt you anymore. Not with me backing you." The drive to Silver Crest Pack territory is surreal. I watch familiar landmarks pass by the window—the old oak tree where I used to climb as a child, the stream where I learned to shift, the border markers that once meant home. Now they just mark the edges of my personal hell.

And after my death, you had me—the dignified daughter of the Chapman family—wrapped in a straw mat and thrown into a mass grave. I cocked my eyebrow at him. "I heard you did the same to Camilla after her death. You really have a thing for throwing dead bodies into mass graves, don't you? It's something you haven't changed even after two lifetimes!" "Gigi, you… you've been reborn, too?" he asked shakily. "I should've seen you for what you were in my past life, Maurice—a worthless piece of trash," I snarled. Maurice's strength left him when he learned I'd also been reborn. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor.

A whisper that came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The Moon Goddess. "The Mistborn has awakened," the voice said.

As if in response to the revelation, the page ignited, flickering to life before crumbling into ash, leaving nothing but soot in its wake. In the glassy surface of the window, Autumn caught a glimpse of a figure—her reflection twisted by the shimmering light behind her. A smile crept across Mara’s face, dark and unnerving, as if she held secrets that would unravel the very fabric of Autumn’s being. Tristan lay entwined in the depths of his dreams, a heavy fog surrounding him, when he found himself face-to-face with his ancestor. Bastian Thorne, a figure hauntingly familiar yet steeped in the shadows of history, walked the precarious edge of the Hollow. His presence was a blend of strength an

I’d found my edge—for now. It was nearly 1845. Time to head back. ______________________________________________________________________ Ares's POV “Are we going to talk about last night?” Jasmine asked. “I... I can’t. Not now,” I said. Coward. “Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll check the restricted section.” I watched her go, feeling like trash. I couldn’t afford distraction. I was Beta. And this—this was bigger than us. I turned back to the stacks. That’s when I saw it: The History of the Moon Goddess.

Tyr Snow swirls around Hawthorn Academy as I close my car door and step onto the street. The place looks abandoned, some of its stones blackened from fire and the windows dark, but I know better than to believe what I see. The Silver Hunters might hate anyone else who uses magic, but that's only because they're salty that they aren't innately good at it. They have no problem using spells to get what they want. Which makes them annoying but also useful to me.

says Merlos saccharinely before disappearing into thin air. Zarseti sighs as she glances upon the Temple of Morrtemis that resides on Invictus Pack lands. Her eyes shine bright as millions of potential future events play out in her mind. As her eyes dim, and the images stop, she kneels on the forest floor, placing her hand on the earth, an anxious expression coating her features. “I hope you were right, Fretez. For all our sakes.” . . . . [Learn More About These Characters and the Epilogue by reading the main series]

As it wafted over the opening of his nostrils like a vixen faintly playing, tempting, he found it refreshing, compared to Elis' intoxicating perfume that he defined as desire's smell that would always make him catch his breath. "You've got a soft-smelling perfume," he complimented, wanting for the tender fragrance to last for a while as she sat comfortably on the shotgun seat and putting her bag on her lap. "Oh," she gasped as her cheeks slightly rose its temperature. "It's a body mist." "Oh, I see. I apologize for not recognizing that," he said with the same smile earlier as he stepped on the gas pedal at the same time, swerve the steering wheel, beginning to drive to their destination.

Resolved. This was the real end of it.

ASARAIAH KAINE The fortress wasn’t gothic; it was glass and silence. Eryss called it The Sanctum—a house built into the cliffside where sea met city. Every wall reflected something: steel, tide, moonlight, truth. For three days I didn’t sleep. She said it was part of the cleansing—no drugs, no wine, no distractions. Only mirrors. Dozens of them. Some old and cracked, others sleek like interrogation glass. “You see monsters because you expect them,” she said on the first morning, walking barefoot across marble. “Stop expecting them.”