The Poet Warrior Youth Novels & Stories

The Old Her. The memory feed splintered, a hundred viewpoints shattering at once. A young warrior’s fury as he charged the silver cloaked figure, met not with a weapon, but with a dismissive sweep of a hand. A psychic blow that crumpled his mind before he hit the ground. She felt his confusion, his bright pain, then nothing. An elder’s resignation, pulling a young one behind a cart, his prayer to the moon cut short as a wave of foreign warriors, her warriors, poured into the clearing. Orders barked in her voice: “Leave none. The Alpha’s line is mine.”

THE WAR HAS BEGUN Juju I stand in front of my entire pack willing and waiting for Cristina’s arrival. “I will now give you all words of encouragement before we go to war. Be strong in the eyes of the moon goddess and her mighty power. Put on the full armor of the wolf, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world, and the spiritual forces of evil from other realms. We are warriors. The Goddess has equipped us to lead a Warrior’s life. I do not have to cower in fear or be anxious about the future. The Goddess is my queen, my commanding light,

Adharva was almost thankful for the war at that moment and stepped out and closed the curtain and forbade anyone from making noise in the area and waking them up before it's time. Adharva decided to tour the forest as it was still early. He walked besides the pond and then he saw it, the person. Their long hair was flowing down their shoulder. They were wavy and the man looked ethereal as he sat there in the water playing with the swans. The moon light, gave them an otherworldly glow. He saw the man leave. Their body was that of a warrior's. There was no doubt that he was from the other side of the war.

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!”

he whispered. And then turned back to fight again. My brave, broken warrior. Bleeding for me. Fighting a war I should have ended long ago.

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."

When he finished, he bit his lower lip the way he always did when he was proud but didn’t want me to see it. I ruffled his hair, and he laughed, that small, careless sound that always managed to break through my defenses. “Not bad for a boy who thought poems were for dreamers,” I said. “They still are,” he replied, grinning. “You just make them sound like they belong to warriors.” Luna really thought him stuffs at such a young age. That made me laugh, and I sat down beside him on the floor. “Warriors need words too. Steel doesn’t always win. Sometimes it’s the tongue that keeps the blade sheathed.”

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.”