The Harvester Novels & Stories

“Any luck getting information out of him?” “He says he stole nothing and refused to cooperate.” “Very well. Thank you, General Nerine. Will you be heading back to Norway?” he asked, his eyes shimmering to amber. “If you have no need for us, my team and I will report back to Valhalla Bridge. The Berserker team will be here to interrogate the target for you tomorrow.” “We are capable of doing that ourselves.” He replied, annoyed. “The order is aware of that and means no insult, but as you hired us for locating and finding the stolen item, the interrogation is part of the deal, if you don’t find the stolen item then we haven’t done our jobs and Valhalla Bridge is very thorough.”

Rayden pressed, sensing something much deeper behind Harwin's reaction. Harwin didn't answer. He stumbled over to an old, dusty filing cabinet in the corner of his workshop, a cabinet he rarely opened. He took out a rusted key and unlocked it. From within, he pulled out a worn, leather-bound journal—his personal log from when he faithfully served Rayden’s father. With shaking hands, he opened it to a marked page. "Young Master… that name," Harwin said, his voice hoarse and choked with emotion. "Before the great betrayal, before that horrific night of the massacre."

CULL POV "The time has finally come. Commander Garlof as the winner of the Harvest, you can select your mate first. Will the fifty-five females from all over the Galaxy, please come forward," the announcer says, and I grow eager to see Zuri in a different dress.

“Hi, Natasha. My name is Harold. I believe I can answer your questions.” I narrowed my eyes on him as I shook his hand. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, go on.” Timothy stepped in between us. “There is a pack of rogue wolves running in our woods. They are after you. The wolf that attacked you was one of them. We have put traps in the woods to keep them out.” “And how do you know this?” “Harold is one of them. He has been helping us and giving us valuable information.” “If you don’t want to tell me the truth, just say that. You don’t have to lie to me.”

Hey Guys The Homewrecker finally came to an end. I hope you all smiled for them, felt sad for them, rejoiced with them and most importantly learnt lessons from them. Life isn't balance and you don't always get what you want. So when the opportunity comes, grab it and make a good use of it.

It is seeking to erase the planet to prevent the rebellion from spreading. I looked up. The sky was no longer black. It was a swirling, angry vortex of gold and violet. A massive, central "Harvester"—a structure the size of a moon—was emerging from a rift in the ionosphere. It was preparing to fire a beam of pure entropy at the planet’s core. "Mama, I can help," Leo said, his hand glowing so brightly I could see the bones through his skin. "Leo, it’s too much," I whispered, the feedback from the "Will-Net" beginning to make my nose bleed. "If you touch the Source directly, you might not come back."

The last hunter that went after the nest took five men with him, and only he limped out of there a few pints of blood short but alive. And like the idiot he is, Blaine was right on my tail. They’ve already managed to shoot out my tail lights. At least I’ve managed to prevent them from taking out a tire. I could see the lights of El Delirio up ahead. It looks like luck is on my side as the sun is setting. Perfect, that means the nest will be waking up. I took the chance and rammed my SUV into the side of a barn at the edge of town driving straight through. My risk at least paid off as it was where the nest was squatting. And like shaking a hornet’s nest, I just pissed them off.

It doesn’t tear. It simply… parts. Like curtains drawn aside. There is no sound. No grand entrance. It is just there. The Harvester. It has no shape I can understand. My eyes slide off it, my brain refusing to parse its form. It is a suggestion of angles, a confluence of shadows that shouldn’t touch. It doesn’t feel malevolent. It doesn’t feel anything. Its gaze—because it is looking at us—is a physical pressure. A cold, curious scrutiny that’s worse than any hunger. It’s the feeling of being a rare insect pinned to a board.

The three remaining harvesters did not falter. Driven by the primal instinct of their engineered design, they lunged in a coordinated, silent strike. The first came from the left, its jointed stilts launching it over the central workbench, ivory finger-needles extended toward Cattleya”s throat. The second swept low across the stone floor, aiming to sever her tendons, while the third dropped directly from above, its split jaws fully expanded to engulf her head.

The ravine fell into a deadly, tense silence. I stood up, my knees trembling, my eyes locked on the standoff. We were still trapped, still surrounded, but the tables had turned. And then, a sound came from the depths of the Harvester—a low, rhythmic, deep-space thrumming that made the ground beneath us vibrate. It wasn't Vanguard tech. It sounded like something much, much older. The Stalkers didn't look at Vance. They looked at the Harvester. Their leader, a man who had been calm and professional moments ago, suddenly looked terrified.