The Crow Eric Draven Novels & Stories

Lira (POV) From my altar of chains and rot, I can see him. Draven looks like a king carved from the pages of some fever-dream fairytale—a black leather jacket wrapped tight over a crimson silk shirt and silver buckles gleaming under torchlight. His honey-brown hair is still damp, slicked back from either snow or bathwater. Clean. Impossibly clean. The kind of clean that makes the blood dried under my nails feel louder. He looks almost innocent—like he didn’t order the flaying on me last week.

Aiden asked in a gentle way, his voice a bit hoarse as he couldn't take his eyes off Draven. Draven lifted his head to look at Erina as if he were asking for her consent. Erina was also contemplating it, but she didn't want to rain on someone's parade, knowing how Draven looked so curious too. So she slowly nodded, letting Draven introduce himself to Aiden. She doesn't want to think that Aiden is getting curious about her son—not because he is Arden, but because Draven coincidentally looks like Aiden. "Hello, sir. I am Draven Sanders," Draven said in his little voice, introducing himself formally.

Large black claws appeared first. Then another while the earth cracked apart further as a massive figure slowly rose from beneath the rubble. Everyone stared in absolute horror. Even the captured elders collapsed to their knees immediately. “…Impossible…” one of them whispered. The creature’s glowing crimson eyes slowly opened in the darkness. Ancient, monstrous and terrifying. Then—Another figure stepped out behind it. Tall, covered in blood and dust. Draven... He is Alive. But something about him had changed completely. His crimson eyes glowed unnaturally bright now while dark energy curled around his body like living smoke.

And I swear there’s nothing human left in his eyes — only a burning ember ready to ignite. The flames of Lucifer. His father. Cael and Azrion… brothers. Then a blow lands on Draven’s face, sending him flying several meters away. His back crashes into a massive trash bin, and the sound of shattering glass — and breaking bones — fills the air. The strike comes from Eryon, who immediately launches himself at the ex-priest’s body. — Let him go! — I scream, but at that moment, Cael blocks my path.

"Is that you, Brandur?" It was Erik. The man was even braver than he had given him credit for. To approach an enormous wolf, especially one who you thought might be a magickal creature was on a different level. Brand tipped his snout, then shifted. Erik's eyes shot wide, but he didn't waver. Brand held out a blood-soaked arm. He didn't think any of it was his. The warrior gripped it without hesitation. "Thank you, my friend," Brand said. "You saved my mate and myself today. I will always be in your debt." "You are not saved yet," Erik answered, glancing over Brand's shoulder. "Magnus and the last of his men are on the move."

The council chamber was cavernous, its stone walls adorned with banners bearing the crest of Arindale—a golden falcon soaring against a crimson backdrop. Emilia’s footsteps echoed as she entered, the heavy wooden doors closing behind her. The chamber was already alive with voices, nobles and advisors engaged in animated conversation.

Domenik moved first. He shoved Eirwen behind a pillar of burnished obsidian just as the breach cracked wide and the first of them came through. Várgr. Not masked. Not stealth. Armored in matte black, faces painted with bone-white streaks, eyes wild behind mirrored lenses. Two in front, three behind, formation precise—until the leader spotted Domenik. Then precision bled into rage. “LAEV!” the wolf snarled, raising his weapon. But Eirwen was faster.

The dungeon had been a useful testing ground. Wolves always snapped and snarled when caged, and Becca and Ayden had proved no different—so easy to bait, so eager for revenge. Tools, nothing more. The cloaked figure drifted through the forest now, their steps soundless, the air bending strangely around them. Power clung to their form like smoke, seeping into the ground, making the roots twist uneasily beneath their boots. They paused at the cliff’s edge, where the sea clawed at

I had heard of his stories numerous times, but I had never been opportune to see what he looks like in person, not until this very moment. This was the saying of Elder Malachi: if you ever thought for a single second that Eldric Thorne was a deceiver, a conniving serpent that moved in human flesh, then you haven't met a man like Malachi who was a physical representation of the seven deadly sins in human form. This man was just a step away from taking that title of evil from the devil himself.

The first challenger stepped into the ring, a massive wolf with silver fur and eyes like ice. Draven’s jaw clenched. “Silverclaw’s heir.” I glanced at him. “Can you beat him?” He looked down at me, gold eyes burning. “Watch.” He shifted in one smooth motion, fire and smoke consuming him until the dragon-wolf hybrid stood where the man had been. Black scales shimmered across his flanks, and wings unfurled like blades of flame. The crowd fell silent. The Silverclaw heir lunged first, but he never stood a chance. Draven met him midair, claws striking, fire roaring. It was over in seconds, the heir flung across the pit, unconscious before he hit the ground.