Watchmen Graphic Novels & Stories

The light washed over Julian, and Clara’s throat tightened in pure horror. The master architect of The Vanguard looked like a ruin. His face was a hollow mask of pale grey, his high cheekbones standing out sharply against skin that looked almost translucent under the beam. His dark hair was wild, plastered to his forehead by sweat and condensation. But it was his right arm that made her breath catch.

‘Today’s attack was clumsy, uncalculated, like they were throwing bodies at us just to see how we would react, there was nothing strategic about it at all and that worries me,’ Aiden’s best friend Griffon, who was sitting suspiciously close to her cousin, Jayden, who had not looked in her direction since entering the room, spoke up, attempting to draw the tension away from one another and back to the problem at hand. Griffon wore a white tank top, the tribal tattoo visible on his left shoulder. It was a symbol that every member of the pack sported, something to symbolize their bond as pack members and something she was constantly fascinated to see. She studied the image, how the images of th

Even if the Walkers had resources beyond imagining, wasting food felt like a sin against the pack's history of survival. I checked my phone once more. Grant had sent a photo three minutes prior—a candid shot from the back of his transport. He looked genuinely exhausted. His usual crisp, black tactical shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, and he was leaning back against the leather seat. I could see the edge of the dark ink on his collarbone, the numbers of his rank and lineage. He wasn't a man who took selfies, and the slight, awkward smile on his face was almost boyish.

Witch-marked. Nyma tensed. "Is that a guardian?" "No," Sophie murmured. "That's the Warden." The wolf shifted in one fluid, bone-popping motion. A tall man emerged, bare-chested despite the rain, runes inked down his ribs like tally marks. His long, damp hair clung to his shoulders. His gaze locked on Nyma—not suspicious, not hostile. Just… observant. Like he was cataloging the exact moment the storm had arrived.

“You should be grateful she is standing here instead of letting me punish you.” The guardian looked at me. “I did not come for forgiveness.” “Then why are you here?” “To warn you.” Damien suddenly grabbed the guardian’s wrist. “Wait.” Everyone turned. Damien stared at the man’s arm. “What is that?” The guardian pulled away. But Damien caught him again. There was a dark mark beneath the guardian’s sleeve. The same symbol that had appeared on the hunters. My stomach dropped. “You have their mark.” The guardian looked at Damien. “It is not what you think.”

I looked from Victor to Seth curiously as they avoided my gaze before I looked at the screen. The moment I clicked on play, an image of what looked like a basement filled the screen. But I could hardly see, it was dark in there and quiet until a ray of light filled the room. The basement was big, I could tell and there was a chair seated right under the lights. Footsteps sounded through the speakers and five men stood in front of the camera and behind the chair. They looked like bodyguards, stern looking men and I didn’t miss the white wolf head and bloody rose that sat on the left side of their neck. The White Moon Pack tattoo. A surge of anger ran through me as I heard more footsteps and s

The Warden doesn’t attack. They approach. Their sorrow is a mantle, but their eyes are clear, focused. They hold out a hand, and in their palm, a constellation of light forms. Not a weapon. An equation. It is the most beautiful, terrible thing I have ever seen.

Each of their bodies has been painted with color, the way I used to paint myself with mud while Mama washed the clothes when I was younger, before I took over the washing duties. Ethan has an image of a winged woman on his chest, cradling three wolf pups. Maybe that’s his Mama. Warrick has a bleeding heart with a knife through it concealing his chest. Both men sport the same unruly dark hair as their brother, Callan, only Warrick’s hair is the shortest, curling around his ears and sticking out in every direction. The fact that he doesn’t know about combs, either, makes me like him a little better. I didn’t know until a few days ago. “Why do you paint your bodies like that?” I say, lifting my

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).

Not even a single try. “What does it say?” I asked, brows furrowing as I rubbed both of my palms to create warmth. The cold had been much cruel today ever since we arrived at the healer’s cabin. I encouraged myself to look at the drawings instead; the art style is pretty much gothic, if not ancient. It wasn’t inked. Hues of black and white were embedded on the golden brown pages of the material. I saw the graphics of a human and a werewolf. They were doing something strange… some sort of a ritual. Elliot did not flip the pages further so I ended up guessing that that was it.