Tyche Novels & Stories

The name Tyche- goddess of wealth- Smith was a name well known in the business industry. As far as Rodrigo had heard, she was a self made billionaire who had single handedly risen her fortunate to the top, yet till this day, she remained anonymous, only contacting those that she dimmed fit to be business partners. Which was why when Rodrigo got a call from a person claiming to be her, he was beyond excited, not caring that the time was a little bit too late for a business call.

The fire of his anger still burned brightly within him, and it would not be extinguished until he had dealt with the threat that Ace posed. A sleek black car was waiting for him at the curb, and the driver immediately stepped out to open the door for him. Richard slid into the backseat, the leather cool against his skin. The door closed with a quiet thud, sealing him inside the luxurious cocoon. The car pulled away from the hospital, merging seamlessly into the flow of traffic.

I will never forget them. In the late afternoon, the rumble of an engine filled the air as Alpha Tyler's car pulled into the territory of the Silver Claw pack. The vehicle came to a stop and I stepped out of the car. My gaze swept across the surroundings, taking in the familiar sights and scents of the pack.

He opened them—and I stepped into something unreal. It was a garage, technically. But it looked more like an automotive cathedral. Rows of gleaming vehicles were parked beneath vaulted ceilings: Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Bentleys. A wall-mounted rack held a dozen motorcycles like trophies. But one car stood out—a sleek, sculpted monster in matte silver and obsidian black. Marcus nodded toward it. “The Aston Martin Valkyrie,” he said with reverence. “A hybrid hypercar. Top speed over two hundred miles an hour.”

We turned back toward the car, and battled the the snow that was quickly piling up. Tyce’s head tilted upward and his eyes glazed over as he connected to his warriors through mindlink, his breaths coming out in wisps of white vapor. Heavy flakes came down around us, but he stood rigid, unmoving. He was doing exactly what he’d promised Sophia’s mother he would do. Commanding his soldiers to venture out into the terrible conditions and track Sophia down. Moments later, he exhaled sharply and his shoulders sagged under the weight of both defeat and guilt. Without a word, he slid back into the car and started the engine.

Henry*** The night air was electric as the growl of engines shattered the silence. A fleet of sleek, armored vehicles snaked through the dense forest, their headlights cutting through the shadows like blades. At the center of it all was a black Rolls-Royce, its polished exterior gleaming ominously under the pale moonlight. The vehicle was a statement—a declaration of power, wealth, and unshakable authority.

Layla and Brayon's child ran to hug Tycelyn when he saw her. Brayon and Layla had their daughter, Lola, they had a small boy named, Psalm and Layla was having a bump. “I can't believe you are at it again,” Tycelyn rolled herself playfully. "I wonder how many children you plan on having," Tycelyn muttered under her breath. “It's your brother,” Layla blushed, Tycelyn not wanting to hear the rest pretend to gag and Left to greet Summer. “Summer,” Tycelyn hugged Summer lightly.

He’s ruthless, relentless, tearing through her defenses like they’re nothing more than paper. Seraphine’s lips tremble, but she stays silent. Creed’s claws dig deeper, and then his eyes start to glow, a deep, menacing gold that sends a chill through the room. This is the Alpha Sight of a hybrid; the Sight of the son of a Wolf God. After what feels like an eternity, Creed finally let go, pulling his claws free from her neck. Seraphine collapses to the floor, gasping for breath, her body trembling with the aftershocks of the Alpha Sight. She looks up at Creed, her eyes wide with terror.

The needle on the speedometer flickered past eighty as Tyler’s high-performance vehicle tore through the winding, tree lined mountain passes of upstate New York. His knuckles were stark white, his grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel so intense that his hands throbbed. He checked the digital clock on the dashboard. 4:22 PM.

Not falling. Descending. A shape resolves within the tear: vast, geometric, impossibly precise. Wings of fractured light unfold, each segment rotating independently, covered in sigils that rewrite themselves faster than my eyes can track. The Reverent recoils violently within me. Directive presence detected. Arbiter-class. Blake swears. “That’s… bad, right?” “Yes,” I breathe. “That’s catastrophic.” The Arbiter lowers itself until its feet—if they can be called that—hover inches above the ground. Midnight screams beneath it, ley lines flaring bright red before dimming under the suppression field radiating from the being.