Wraith Folklore Novels & Stories

Together, they built a family, a legacy of warriors who dedicated their lives to banishing demons from this world. In an epic battle, the pack succeeded in killing a demon, but victory came at a terrible cost. The pack was decimated. Only a small group survived. Among them was Freya, Kheimon’s daughter—a hybrid of goddess, wolf, and human. She was the first of her kind, a demigod, and the first Priestess of Winter. From her, a line of High Priestesses was born, each possessing abilities tied to winter’s might. The other surviving wolves became priests and priestesses, their descendants carrying on the sacred duty. But only one High Priestess was born in each generation.

Twelve monoliths arched upward like the ribs of a dead god, each etched with sigils that burned white-hot as Astra’s blood soaked into the grooves. She did not cry out. She had learned long ago that pain fed the wrong things. Behind her, the wind howled—no, screamed—as something massive strained against chains of light at the edge of the circle. The Winter Wraith. It was not a wolf. Not anymore. Once, perhaps. Long before corruption twisted it into something that wore shadow like flesh. Now it was hunger given shape, a vast silhouette of ice and night, eyes like dying stars, breath that froze the air into shards.

Danté asked. "Not sure, nothing much is elaborated about it, so far its only talks and tales, it's originating from Cherokee folklore and a name here of an ancient Shaman named Blair" "Blair?" "Cherokee Indian" Liam said looking at him. Danté sat back thinking, they all knew of Vlad Dracul, the supposed first vampire, but it was never spoken of any first wolf, or great wolf, maybe only a werewolf will know the full story. "What if we ask a werewolf?" Danté asked "An old one?"

My study becomes a war room, papers and books scattered across every surface, notes scrawled in margins as I piece together everything I can find about the creature we're facing. The wraith is old. Ancient. One of the few remaining creatures from an era when magic ran wild and unchecked through the world. It feeds on emotional memories—the bonds between mates, between parents and children, between friends. The stronger the emotion, the more powerful the memory, the more sustenance it provides. Which means it will sense me coming from miles away. My shields are strong, yes. But they're also a beacon. A challenge. The creature will know someone with power is near, and it will come for me.

“And The Saint.” “Wraith? That’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time. He was a special wolf, you know. They say he was the first wolf spirit.” Ace plays with the button on his white coat. “The story goes, Selene was enamored by a human, Endymion. She asked Zeus’s permission to have a relationship with him. Zeus agreed. He did not know that Selene was in cahoots with Hecate to create an animal spirit to merge with the human. That was Wraith. Wraith’s spirit was… or so I thought… immortal. In theory, if one of the merged spirits is immortal and someone kills the mortal spirit, the mortal spirit would keep being reunited with the immortal spirit and become reincarnated.” “What happened?”

She drew a new sigil from her own vein. She slit her wrist and let the dark river flow, chanting in the Tongue of Broken Thrones. The walls wept. The floor cracked open. And the powers answered her, not just one, but there were many. The first was the Ash-Wraiths,spirits of oath-breakers, bound to serve the one who speaks their true name. Morwen whispered it, and they bowed. The second was the Bone Speakers,elders of the dead, their voices like grinding stones. They offered her their breath, and she inhaled it like wine.

“What do you mean?” “There’s a… shadow,” he said, his voice dropping low, intimate. “Something ancient, older than the Red Fang. My scouts caught glimpses… they call it a wraith. It moves with the forest, but it’s not part of it. It hunts, and it knows we are aware.” A shiver ran down her spine. The Heartwood pulsed beneath her feet, a subtle, warning tremor. “Then we face two threats,” she whispered. “And one is beyond anything we’ve confronted.”

“Whatever this is, it’s linked to the Heartstone’s corruption. I must confront it.” A shape emerged at the edge of the fog — a twisted, wolf-like figure dragging itself across the ground. Its fur was patchy, its ribs visible, and its eyes glowed an eerie, cold blue. Luna’s breath caught. “Moon-wraiths…” Kai froze. “Impossible. Those haven’t existed since the First War.” “They exist now,” she said softly. More shapes stepped into view, their bodies flickering like half-formed spirits. Rowan unsheathed his sword. “They’re approaching.”

She understood that, but it didn’t have her eager to line up to meet the broadside of an angry Highlander’s sword. The darkness seemed to be growing, and it had a malevolent tinge to it. She shivered as she wondered if it were her imagination, or if there was witchcraft involved in the darkening fog. She wasn’t the only witch Walstone kept as a prisoner, but she didn’t think they had caught up with her yet.

Just as how humans react strongly to mythical beings, the Mythical beings also didn't want to intrude humans live and lived in their perspective lands. In Runalia, there was a place where all humans would love to visit and that was Afgard. Other than its beauty and for being the main city of the Runalia, Afgard was best known for its slave and the black market. The patrons to the market weren't only sorcerers who searched for sacrifice, but also lustful nobles with the frightening hobby.