Wolf's Blood Swordgrass Novels & Stories

Michael Whitlock POV; Spirit walkers are powerful among other wolf packs. This is one of the first things that they learn at a young age, and as they grow older it becomes more common. They could destroy entire armies in the blink of an eye and still stand proudly, as if they were never even in the field to begin with. They are not only strong but also smart; they are very well trained and have excellent senses. They can sense a person' location from miles away. There is something else they can do which is much more dangerous to humanoids.

I looked at my chest and saw that I was pieced my a sword. Not just a normal sword but the warrior sword. This sword wasn’t made by a normal wolf. It was made by a very powerful wolf. It was made by the blood of the Luna, all the blood on her body will be drain until she dies and she will come back. The spell on the sword was sealed by her death, that makes the sword indestructible. An indestructible sword that can destroy anyone. What an irony. I don’t think I’ll be able to survive the poison of this sword.

He asked. I nodded, hoping it wasn't too private of knowledge. He didn't hesitate to continue, "There's this rare herb that grows down here, more south of the Crowalt Pack's territory. It helps the circulation of blood for the she-wolf blood providers so that they can produce more, and not be injured by the letting of their blood. It's so valuable to them, they will pay a fortune for it. It's a lucrative trade, and I want to get some of the proceeds."

A FOX. I changed direction and trailed after the fox. “What is Nyxora doing out here so late?” was the only question on my mind as I followed the silver trail. The fox was out of sight, but its trail remained, and a smell reached my senses …blood. I paused and leaned my nose downward and sniffed the blood. A wolf’s blood? My eyes turned dark, and I took off. How dare Nyxora shed wolf blood in my land!?

"Your brother said you knew plants. Said you could tell the difference between them." "I... I can't remember everything," she admits, her voice barely above a breath. "Not properly." I rub a hand over my jaw. "Blood of Wolfsbane is wolfsbane fed with our blood. The leaves turn red. It's rare and dangerous. Packs don't grow it openly because of what it can do." I pause, watching her reaction.

The air wrapped around us, each gust whispering secrets from centuries before. Among the soft shrubs, we found several valuable herbs: Nightspine root—used for pain relief and sleep, though dangerous in high doses. Moonleaf clover—extremely rare, glowing faintly under shade, known to boost a Wolf's recovery speed after shifting. Then, there was crimson tendril, a curling plant with deep red veins that only grew after rainfall—potent in healing, but toxic if harvested before its bloom. Each discovery brought a jolt of excitement. Neva was thrilled. She pawed at the ground gently when she sensed something rare, careful not to damage the roots. We made a good team.

Blood remained. "What did she look like?" Wolfblood blinked. Apparently expecting a different question. "Dark hair." The vampire nodded. "Pretty." Interesting. "Black wings." That caught his attention. His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Black?" "Yes." Wolfblood hesitated. "There was also blood magic." The room went still. Completely still. The vampire's gaze snapped toward him. "Explain." Wolfblood described the encounter. The knife. The fight. The wounds. The blood rising from his own injuries and striking him.

I looked up. The burly warrior smirked down at me and “helpfully” kicked the sword a few paces away—straight into a low patch of pale green weeds growing by the yard’s edge. I knew that smell before my lungs even dragged it in. Wolfsbane. “Don’t—” I started, but my hand was already reaching. My fingers closed around the hilt. My knuckles brushed the delicate, deceptive leaves. Fire flared across the back of my hand. I hissed, jerking back on instinct. The wooden blade came with me, trailing a few crushed stems.

I repeated, the word flat as steel. When she was gone, I turned back to the charred remains on the desk. Kneeling, I brushed my fingers through the ashes. A faint shimmer of blue still lingered at the edges, flickering out like a dying ember. It was the rare and dangerous Fire-wolf grass. It reacted only to the scent of mixed-blood wolves and to royal blood when provoked. Someone had known exactly what they were doing.

She was searching for more, something stronger, something that could help the wounded wolf she and the healers had found at the border last night. He still hadn’t woken, his wounds deep and strange, too clean to be made by claws, too vicious to be human. She couldn’t shake the image of his blood on spilling to the floor or the eerie calm that had settled over him before they carried him back. Her boots crunched softly on the undergrowth as she crouched by a cluster of pale blue flowers. “Moonwort,” she murmured, brushing her fingers gently over the petals. “You’ll do.” She began plucking them carefully, placing each one into her pouch. The forest around her seemed to hum faintly, the trees w