The Web Of Wyrd Novels & Stories

Feeling encouraged that I am doing it right, I take him deeper, fighting the need to gag. I am desperate for another compliment. "Damn it, girl!" He groans, placing his hand on the door to support himself. "You are killing me." I wish that is true. We can continue this in hell if we both die. But it's not true. I'm going to be the one to die while he will likely get married and have another woman sucking him as I am doing. Damn, he could even be married. I am too far gone to care about morals and neither do I want to brood on what I can't control.

We were in the space between heartbeats. ​The Web was a forest of silver and gold, a cathedral of light that stretched in every direction. But it was not the beautiful place I remembered. It was choked with black weeds—the Dissonance—that climbed up the threads like ivy. The ghosts of the Sister Weavers flickered in the distance, their faces veiled in shadow, their hands busy with looms that produced nothing but silence. ​“It is beautiful,” Cassian whispered, his voice sounding thin and distant. “And terrifying.”

From my vantage point among the treetops, I surveyed the battlefield below, searching for any weakness in the creature's defenses. But my hopes were dashed as I watched Lycidas struggle against the overwhelming tide of webbing, his movements growing sluggish under its oppressive weight. With a surge of determination, I leaped from tree to tree, seeking to flank the creature and strike at its vulnerable points. But with each bound, the webbing seemed to stretch and contort, forming a barrier that blocked my path and sent me tumbling back to the forest floor.

She read the legend of the Ucrie, Werod's damned daughters, who have been plotting for thousands of years waiting to awaken their father with the help of the Deorgh. She also managed to read about the latter. Beings created by the very essence of Werod. Part of that monster left in the hands of his daughters so that one day, starting from that essence, they could manage to bring him back to life again and help him destroy the human kingdom. Pages and pages on premonitions, prophecies about the great future war. Huge tomes with drawings of monstrous and deformed beings, surrounded by an aura of darkness, as if it were a shield ready to protect them or a weapon to be sent to the kingdom of men

For everyone else, it was a spark on a powder keg. Even as an alpha, I’m another rogue here, lost among loners. DesWillow has no wolf rulers, so I go unnoticed. This city is neutral ground. In Duskreach, alphas never trespass. I broke that rule for one reason: the witch exchange. I still don’t know what was in that bag. The thought of the witch brings her face to my mind. The wolf inside me bristled, senses sharpening, restless and hungry for answers. Mate.

I try to cling to her, but she’s gone—her cloak vanishing into the dark, her footsteps swallowed by the night. I stumble forward, sobbing, not understanding, terrified but propelled by the last echo of her power. The dream shatters— —wolves with eyes like hammered gold, their claws slick with magic— —Fyre, chained and bleeding, still defiant, singing curses in a language older than the wind— —the Knotweed women’s faces, sharp and unfamiliar, peering down at me as I huddle in the undergrowth, their hands gentle as they lift me up, wrap me in their cloaks, carry me away—

"Yes. Long ago, I saw a battle. I saw the fall of the Moonveil line as it stands. Tormund will fall, and I saw you and Kyla ruling the Lykoudis kingdom together. That is why I made sure you were the one I sent to rescue her from that dungeon. But something must have interfered with the order of the vision. Only one thing can disrupt the threads of fate so violently." "Dark magic," I finished for her. "Yes," Wynona spat, her face twisting in disgust. "Dark magic is prevalent in this pack. It's like a rot in the floorboards. I can smell it.” “You’re right. Vivica is in league with Clarence, a witch who trades in blood and shadows." “No!” Wynona gasped. "You know the name?” I asked. Wynona grun

Only the stillness of an open grave. Ellie’s signet ring didn't just glow; it shrieked. A jagged, pulsing crimson light radiated from the stone, casting long, distorted shadows across the grey dust. She reached out with her inner sight, trying to find the golden threads of the Alliance, but what she found made her stumble. The threads weren't just frayed; they were being knotted into intricate, suffocating patterns—the **Legion of Bone** was literally weaving the life force of the sleeping wolves into a shroud.

It was the first time, in all my years in the werewolf world, that I completely broke. But the Witch's eyes held nothing but helplessness. She gently pried my hands away and led me into a small, dim room. In the center sat a grimoire. Its pages recorded the coming fall of my pack. "I can't help you." The light in my eyes died. "Why?" "Even if I save you now, the next crisis will be worse. More death. More destruction. This isn't fate — it's a curse." I didn't understand. We had won. We had beaten fate. Why was this happening?

“A supporting role is yours to play, The threads of fate shall guide your way. Two women rise, a royal line, A bloodstone calls thought lost in time. A war approaches, shadows creep, Betrayal waits where secrets sleep. The darker path will test your soul, Choose your side, or lose control. Your wit, your charm, your cunning flame, Will seal your place within this game. If the heir is born, then doom shall fall, The wolf of Berlin will lose it all.” I just stood there, blinking. War? A bloodstone? What was this? I thought she’d say something simple, like I’d marry a girl and die out of old age. Walda opened her eyes, her expression returning to normal, and then she began to chant. Her words f