Warden Ingo Novels & Stories

"I see…well, then I'm sure he'll be happy to pay you what is due. Mr. Ward is a good man after all." "Sir." I bowed, as was the custom in our city, but it felt like bowing before a manticore. A dangerously reckless pursuit to leave your neck exposed to a predator. "Have a wonderful rest of your day." "And to you as well, Mr. Ward. And to you as well." *** "You aren't to go back there under any circumstances, are we clear, Jévon?" Lord Ingálvur dropped the glamour the moment we'd teleported back to my apartment uptown. He sat on my bed, in full regalia, gone was the carefreeness he usually carried about him, replaced by an air of brutal efficiency one would expect from noble stock.

The first time we heard footsteps, I barely a bit back a gasp. Ingrid reacted instantly, her hand curling around my wrist in a bruising grip as she yanked me backward, shoving me into the shadows beneath a crumbling archway. The stone was damp where my palms met it, the scent of old rain and moss thick in my nose as I forced myself to go still. Ingrid pressed against the wall beside me, her breath warm against my ear. Neither of us moved. The footsteps grew louder, slower and methodical, A warden. My stomach twisted. Ingrid’s grip on my wrist tightened, her fingers like iron bands, silent warning and reassurance all at once.

A cascade of memories that were not my own. *I saw a she-wolf with silver hair, her face as weathered as the mountains, standing on a cliff under a sky torn by green lightning. She held a complete, glowing medallion in her hands, not as a weapon, but as a seal. "The Veil is thin here," her thought-voice echoed in my mind. "We must guard the rift. We are the Wardens of the Threshold."* The title hit me like a physical blow. *Wardens*. The entity had called itself the Warden. It wasn't a random title. It was a perversion of this sacred duty.

Bella murmurs. “Define okay,” Lilah says. “But yes. Keep moving. Before I start crying and can’t stop.” We keep moving. Morwen meets us near the inner gate, staff in hand, two wolves from the neutral‑ground outpost at her back with a small cart and a horse that looks like it’s judging us. “The wards are primed,” she says without preamble. “You pass this gate with my blessing; the land will not treat you as enemies.” “Appreciate the non‑enemy status,” I say. “Very trendy this season.”

She's in class now, which means I have about two hours with Kendrick, undisturbed. The gates groan open, tall and imposing as ever. The guards on duty give their usual stiff nods, eyes unreadable behind dark glasses. No questions, no hesitation. Just silent acceptance, like I've become part of the routine. A privilege, really, considering how guarded the Harrolds are with their home. Whatever influence Keisha holds around here, I'm grateful she's used some of it on me. I return a nod, barely slowing my pace as I cut across the driveway and toward the guest wing. The air is heavy with the scent of trimmed hedges and sun-warmed stone.

Ren muttered, his finger tightening on the trigger. Suddenly, a heavy, metallic footstep echoed through the chamber. From the shadows behind the crystal, a figure stepped forward. It wasn't a faceless golden knight. It was a Warden. The Warden was twice the size of a normal avatar, clad in heavy, blocky armor that looked like server towers bolted together. Its head was a blank monitor screen, glowing with a menacing red eye. It held a massive, two-handed energy hammer. BOSS DETECTED: BASTION WARDEN (FIREWALL PROTOCOL).

“That’s what I thought.” Before Aaron could ask what he had against the British, he saw Ward come out of the meeting house, along with the other twenty or so leaders. Seeing Aaron, he waved and began to make his way over. “Ward is only half English,” he whispered to Christian, who nodded, and Aaron thought he might back away to avoid half of Ward, but he didn’t. “I have our instructions,” Ward said, a small scrap of paper in his hand. “We have two other Guardians and three Hunters on our team that we need to locate.” He was looking around, as if he might know what they looked like.

Its elongated head dipped once, like a bow. “They’re responding,” Caleb breathed. Then, from the far side of the circle, another guardian stepped forward — larger than the rest, its runes blood-red instead of blue. The tone changed to a harsh vibration. The others froze. “What’s happening?” Rowan whispered. Lyra’s jaw clenched. “That’s a Warden. Leader of the ring. If it rejects her—” Ava swallowed hard. The Warden advanced, every step ringing like iron on stone. Its spear was twice her height, carved with clawed spirals. It stopped an arm’s length away. The red runes pulsed.

The early light of dawn struck the Spire’s obsidian towers like a blade. Bain and his brothers gathered at the shattered western wall, where Petrov and Sokolov had already carved an entry with the Cinder Dagger’s fire. Now, a jagged breach yawned before them—leading down into the Spire’s core chamber. “Keep your wards up,” Bain ordered, voice low and hard. “She’ll retaliate.” Vulture sealed the breach’s edges with a ward line drawn in quicksilver ink. “Done. No more unwanted guests.”

No territory by that name existed on any of my maps. She seemed to notice the thought crossing my mind. “We are an independent territory,” she added calmly. Then her gaze settled on me. “And you are?” I cleared my throat slightly and leaned back in my chair. “Marcus Wardcrest,” I responded. “Alpha of Warden’s Pass.” I watched them carefully as the words settled. Their expressions shifted slightly. But whether it was surprise… or complete indifference… I could not yet tell. *** Lyra The walk through the corridors of Warden’s Pass had felt far longer than it actually was.