Voice Of Gold Novels & Stories

Fallon sounded as if he were chewing gravel. “Prismatic silver is not an easy currency to convert, let alone explain,” she said tersely.

"Why didn't you tell me about your problem on day one? I would have spoken louder. I wou-" She shook her head. "That's not n-necessary." "Why isn't it?" "T-t-there's something in y-your voice," she stammered nervously as she gently tugged at her fingers. "In my voice?" She nodded again. "It's h-hard to ignore." "I don't understand where you're going with this." "Your voice," she looked down as a light blush stained her cheeks, "is the only voice that I can hear perfectly."

He screams out of his lung, his face is full of tears and snots. [Host has no system point to spend…] The mechanical voice from the system answered emotionlessly. Suddenly, A thick black fog formed out of nowhere near the battleground. Zhu Wushang who’s sat in a wheelchair appears out of the black fog along with Gold who disappears because she has gone to call Zhu Wushang who’s in the middle of the negotiation to help.

“Haven’t you noticed? I’m quite charming.” I threw my head back and laughed. “I made her realize how much I loved her daughter. I won’t trade you for anything.” “Not even gold?” I asked. He nudged his nose against mine. “Not even that.” --The End

I just protect. Golden energy erupts outward in a violent shockwave. Three guards fly back like ragdolls, crashing into the control panels. Another agent lunges toward Callum’s carrier—I lash out with my bare hand, telekinetic golden threads wrapping around his throat until he drops, gasping for air. “Get away from him!” My voice doesn’t sound like my own anymore. It is deeper. Older. The voice of an apex predator. Elias doesn’t flinch. Instead, he claps once. Slow. Delighted.

"Show him." Valen looked up at me. "The trick?" "The trick." Valen turned to the King of the West. He didn't raise his hand. He just opened his mouth and screamed. It wasn't a sound. It was a pulse. A wave of pure, golden force exploded from his small body. It didn't hit the people. It hit the gold. Every piece of gold on the platform, Solas’s crown, his rings, the hilt of his sword, and the embroidery on the Elite’s uniforms, suddenly grew hot. White hot.

Silas was left on the platform, his broken arm shielding his eyes as the Heart of the Mold ignited. ​Outside, on the surface of the West, the gray beams of the Harvesters hit the iron plate of the Scrapyard. But before they could drink the resonance of the core, a wave of diamond gold energy erupted from the earth. It wasn’t a pulse; it was a voice. A single, unified note that shattered the silence of the void and told the Harvesters that the world was no longer for the taking.

The world tilted the wrong direction and I almost tipped forward into the locker door. “Take it easy, Miss Clumsy,” Carter said, that smirk in place like it was permanently screwed into his face. He had the kind of voice that sounded devilish (yunno Lucifer the Angel with the nice voice hehe) ,Green eyes like knives (idk how on earth someone as evil as him could posses such eyes) I pulled my shoulders back and tried for a normal tone. “Last time I checked I don’t need your opinion.” Well it didn't sound as intended ( I sounded like a duck and a Chihuahua had a baby, and that baby was having a panic attack.)

Marcus grabs my waist and pushes me behind him, “Your highness.” He did a bow-like gesture. “What are you doing?” Marcus opens his mouth to say something but doesn’t. “ And do not even think about lying. Your job was to stay hidden and to keep your eyes on her.” The purple eyes slowly faded to gold and Marcus sighed.

Eleanor felt, in the space before she spoke, the complicated geography of the moment: the genuine happiness for him, the something else that complicated the happiness, and underneath both of those, a question she hadn’t known she’d been sitting on. “That’s extraordinary,” she said. “Yes,” he said, in the tone of someone for whom extraordinary and difficult are the same word. “Why do you look like something terrible has happened?” He looked at her then — directly, the full weight of the grey eyes. “Because the gallery is run by a woman named Petra Voss,” he said. “And I used to know her. And she’s the one who saw the work. And I need you to know that before you hear it from somewhere else, be