The Poet Warrior Youth Novels & Stories

She had moments of courage, but she felt like they were only moments. “A warrior is defined by moments,” Aiden said. “A single moment can make you a warrior. A warrior is also defined by decisions. By courage. But a warrior, otherwise, is normal. A warrior cannot be a warrior every moment of the day. But, a warrior’s spirit is always there.” Caitlin thought about that. She felt flattered by the term, and the more she pondered it, the more she liked the label, the identity. But she also felt it came with a responsibility.

A tribute: Lady Bana’s Poem: “Life is a thread we weave in storms, Stitching dreams through quiet forms. We rise, we fall, we burn, we freeze, We beg for time, but Time won't cease. Death is not the end, my friend, Just a bend where echoes blend. You go where silence drinks the light, Beyond our reach, beyond our sight. But I, who stay, must wear the pain, A sword of loss, a crown of rain. Farewell, my sword, my foolish warrior, The game is now on, and I must fight to avenge.”

“Oh, trust me, we’ll get there. But first, you need to learn to fight with your mind and your heart. A true warrior doesn’t just win battles—they protect what matters most. And that means knowing when not to fight.” Her words seemed to sink in, some brows furrowing thoughtfully, others nodding. You sound like me now, Koa teased gently, pride radiating in her tone. Maybe I should start charging you for wisdom. Cheyenne smirked inwardly. You’d bankrupt me. As the teens settled into their stances, ready for instruction, she felt the air shift around them—not just from nerves or energy, but something deeper. The future was here, standing in this field, wide-eyed and waiting. And for the first ti

Ye who is chosen has crossed the divide, To a land not hers, where the dead gods hide. The world has shifted, the seals undone, From ash and flame, let Hell be born. Seek the Father, the soil, the thread, What binds the living to what is dead? For evil stirs where the sun won’t rise, And shadow sharpens behind your eyes. The weight of ages bends your spine, This war is yours, but not by design. You will not stand, nor fall, alone, Blood will answer blood unknown. This battle grants what your heart demands, Yet takes far more than it ever plans.

He looked at the minister who nodded. There will be an interim council and the prince will be coronated after his 17 th birthday. _____________ The war front smelled of blood. They had been fighting for three days and the fight stops at sunset. . Mithraos watched as his head warrior sped through the enemies like a wrathful god. The man was covered in blood, but that was a usual thing. He watched as the sword pierced through a soldier's body. Mithraos swung his sword and resumed his fight.

But for Yara she dragged herself to them. When they approached, Zaviar made place for them beside himself. Minahil sat down and began enjoying the warmth of the fire and Saad's lovely voice. "Yeh Jo halka halka saroor hai, Ye teri nazar ka kasoor hai, Ke sharaab peena, Sikha diya, Ke sharaab peena, Sikha diya," (This light-sweet intoxication Is the crime of your eyes That has taught me drinking wine

The girl whispered, “To make such impractical merriment in the face of war and such horrors, how can this be right?” Weaver gave a soft chuckle, but a great Pict war chief, his facial hair so thick his mouth couldn’t be discerned, laughed loud. All fell silent as the birds sang overhead. “We walk side by side with death, every day, girl,” the Pict war chief thundered, slapping his grimy right fist against his heart. “Death is a part of life.” One of his soldiers, another thuggish man sporting a shock of orange hair, said, “Yeah, it is, the last part!”

AUTHOR'S POV: "Ohhhhh our little prince will lose Again," the warrior taunts the 15-year-old Noah. Your mind is a battlefield, be it COMMANDER, not SOLDIER! Noah thwarted the warrior's attack and slash the sword against his chest in a quick zigzag and with a loud swoosh, the armor fell into pieces. The warrior looked at him with fear and shock written on his face. Noah gave him one last look and took off from the training ground.

Try to summon silver light. Nothing. Try harder. Focusing. Pulling. Flickering. Weak. Like matches in windstorm. Then gone. "I can barely light a candle." For hours. Maybe days. While warriors die around me. Weight pressing down. Crushing my chest. Can't breathe. Movement. Elder warrior approaching. Carrying something wrapped in cloth. The young warrior's body. "My queen, may I speak?" "Of course." "My nephew." His voice steady despite pain in his eyes. "He fought beside me. Died saving me."

He falls back, shielded only by instinct. I move in. I don’t strike him down. I kneel and touch the ground. The fire listens. It rises around me in a circle of golden flame, not to destroy but to witness. “I don’t want to be Queen,” I whisper, voice hoarse. “I just want peace. If that makes me unworthy, so be it.” The fire answers me. It bows and so does he. The young warrior kneels, sword across his chest. “You win.”