The Poet Warrior Youth 소설 & 이야기

“To honor eight warriors who gave the last full measure of their devotion so that we might stand here, free. They faced the darkness not with blind hate but with courageous hearts. They are not gone, for as long as we remember them, they walk beside us.” One by one, I named them. I spoke of Thomas Reed’s selfless shield, of Jennifer Moss’s unwavering stand on the crumbling eastern wall. I gave them back their stories, their acts of valor, making them more than just names on a casualty list. “Sarah Winters.” My breath hitched. The young warrior with fiery eyes and a defiant grin had slipped away peacefully just before midnight, her body too ravaged to hold on. Nineteen years old. Kael’s hand

She didn't understand why this guy was being so disrespectful. She stopped again by Catherine. "I was examining him to see if he have the capability to be a warrior or not. A warrior is not that one who can just play well with swords. A warrior's blood should be always protesting for the right thing, for the right words. He should have enough brave to say the right things. My father in law chose the right for the first time. Let's go." She explained to Yeji. She felt thankful toward Wonhae for selecting a worthy warrior like him.Thanks for this best chance. A chance that I never imagined before.

Well, at least he did not sound like a whore. He took a look around him. Yes, he deserved this, he thought, but he wasn’t going down like a weak damsel in distress. Alarick wanted him, then he’d have him. All of him. But not without a fight. “The gods have answered the Warlord’s prayer. Bards will make songs about this,” Avinash whispered to him, smiling. Erriene felt like screaming.

Kate's P.O.V. As I pressed my hand on that warrior’s skin, darkness swallowed me whole. The cold hospital room vanished, replaced by a battlefield drenched in blood. The injured warrior staggered across the ruined courtyard, every breath sounding like broken glass scraping his lungs. His wolf growled fiercely as three rogues surrounded him, attacking at once. Despite his injuries, the warrior refused to retreat. He fought like a man protecting something far more valuable than his own life. Claws collided, and growls shook the air as he managed to throw one rogue into a wall before another ripped across his shoulder.

My chest was still bleeding, the silver poisoning my wolf, but my heart hurt far worse. #

He was taller than Elaina and glared down at her as if she was a disobedient child. “What?” Elaina demanded feeling slightly self-conscious. “Shouldn’t you be at home sleeping where it is safe for children?” The man asked now crossing his arms. “I’m not a child.” Elaina said through gritted teeth. “You’re what sixteen, seventeen maybe?” The man continued to push causing Elaina’s temper to reach its boiling point. “I’m twenty two.” Elaina snapped, “Legal age of a warrior of the brethren.” This caught the man off guard; he stared at Elaina in a new way as if noticing her for the first time.

Where its waters ran red from the blood, now churned and raged as a deathly torrent; heavy in iron and decay, playing an eternal macabre symphony inside my head. I remember, as distinctly as if it happened yesterday, how the young warrior-no more than twenty years of age- laid beside me, his scared yet valiant face locked eyes with mine as he took his final breath. His memory clung about me. He had died entreating his last solicitation, hoping against hope—a cry for something that he could never have now. I found myself on my knees by him, murmuring under my breath some prayer to the old gods that his soul be at peace, happy in whatever afterworld there might be.

Thankfully, bodies had been removed, as the warriors that were with us from the Midnight Forest Pack, now all bandaged up, told us there had been a fair few of Crimson Night Pack Warriors on the floor, bloodied and injured, some even dead. I don’t even want to think about that. That is one element to my family being warriors I hate. The fact that a big part of that is the fighting, and the killing it can involve. And the way they seem to be so free in forgetting about it, and letting it go like it is literally nothing. Like it is part of their day job, which I guess it is really. But it just doesn’t sit right with me and puts me on edge. Yet most of the men in my family are warriors; my Dad,

Like a warrior forged upon countless battlefields. For a brief moment... Even Raymond forgot to breathe.

We don’t wait to be chosen. We choose ourselves. I rise from the fire and look around the circle—at warriors who were once invisible. And I feel something solid settle into my bones. This is my army. Not bred in war rooms. Built in the dirt. In the cold. In the quiet mornings no one else saw. And they’ll follow me into the storm without looking back.