Novelas y relatos de Wraiths

A chill ran through me. "Wraiths were created through forbidden Lunae rituals centuries ago. Souls fused with corrupted magic. They were destroyed long ago." The creature nodded "Excellent history lesson." My wolf growled. The Wraith's smile vanished instantly, then its gaze returned to me. "The heir belongs to us." The moment it said those words, every brother moved. Percy stepped forward. Darren moved beside him. Ken shifted slightly in front of me. the wraith smiled again. "You love her."

“They’re echoes.” The first wraith lunged. I moved without thought, the rune-blade singing through the air. It met the creature mid-leap, slicing it cleanly in two. The shadow dissolved into dust but more followed. Dozens. Lucian fought beside me, his strikes slower but no less fierce. The wraiths didn’t bleed they screamed, their bodies bursting into shards of light and ash. But every one we killed reformed behind us, drawn by his pulse, his power. “They’re coming for you!” I shouted.

The pack gasped, their weapons raised, but fear flickered in their eyes, even the Ironclaw allies, who’d seen my power break their curse. ‎ ‎“What are they?” I whispered, my voice trembling but steady, my wolf ready, the warmth blazing hot. ‎ ‎Rex’s growl was fierce, his body tensing. “Wraiths,” he said, his voice low, grim. “The curse’s final defenders. Your blood woke them, Talia. They’re here for you.” ‎

They flooded. A screaming, snarling, clawing tide of darkness and steel, sprinting over the cracked plains like a living nightmare. Wraiths glided above the ground like smoke on a hunt. Orcs pounded forward, the earth shuddering beneath their massive footfalls. Behind them came beasts I didn’t even have names for—winged things with too many teeth, serpents made of bone and rage, horrors from a dimension we were never meant to see. And all of them were coming for us.

At the center of the treeline, a figure stepped forward, black cloak billowing around him, the air thickening as he moved, darkness clinging to him like smoke. Tall, broad-shouldered, silver eyes glowing in the darkness, the cruel curve of his mouth sharp as a blade. The Wraith. He lifted his hand, and the wolves fell still, their growls dying into silence. His gaze swept over Shadowstorm’s defenses, the barricades, the warriors standing ready, the archers on the roofs, Thorne’s wolves standing shoulder to shoulder with Raven’s. Then his eyes found Raven. “You’ve built yourself quite the little kingdom,” The Wraith called, his voice carrying across the cold air, smooth and poisonous, too cal

Ken gasped, blinking rapidly. Cris stepped out, the silver fire already dancing across his fingertips. The air was thick. Tainted. “We’re not alone,” he muttered. From the trees, they came. Not like before— This was worse. Figures emerged from the forest like nightmares. Some slithered. Others stalked upright on too-thin limbs. Wraith-born. Distorted souls wrapped in black mist, half-dead, eyes glowing with feral hunger. Their movements were jerky, wrong—like puppets dragged by invisible strings.

“Did you hear that?” Torren’s daggers were already in his hands, his eyes darting to the shadows. “Yeah. And it’s not the wind.” The whispers grew louder, a chorus of voices speaking in a tongue long forgotten. From the cavern’s depths, shapes began to emerge—ethereal, translucent figures, their forms flickering like dying flames. Their eyes were hollow sockets, their mouths open in silent screams. “Wraiths,” Elara breathed, her voice trembling. “Spirits bound to the prophecy. They’re drawn to the fragments.”

He took a step forward— And the ground beneath them trembled. A deafening howl split the air, primal and enraged. Shadows shifted in the ruins below, moving unnaturally fast. Then, from the darkness, they emerged. Wraiths. Not quite werewolf, not quite human—twisted beings caught between forms, their bodies flickering as if reality struggled to contain them. Their eyes burned with unnatural fire, and their snarls carried the weight of the damned. Bram drew his blade. “I hate this place.” Freya’s daggers gleamed as she fell into a ready stance. “We hold our ground.”

The air was still cold, the temperature having dropped significantly due to the Echo Wraith. The Echo Wraith is a haunting presence within the Cavern of Eternal Echoes, a place known for its labyrinthine complexity and the disturbing resonance of every sound. It glides silently through the caverns, leaving behind a trail of maddening echoes. These echoes are warped, amplified distortions that play on the deepest insecurities and fears of those who hear them. They take on the voices of the damned, whispering hidden regrets and unconfessed sins, often blending them with a cacophony of falsehoods to disorient and unsettle their victims.

Lola her blood went cold when she thought about helpless babies being burnt alive. Tristan gritted his teeth and spoke to the flames, “Since then we have been entrapped by the Grey Oak clan to follow their ruthless regime. Founded by Noah his grandfather, passed to his father, and 6 years ago to Noah. Poisoning all wolves with cruelty and a hunger for power. But we keep remembering the Fire Wolves because we know this is not the path the moon goddess intended for werewolves. I can feel in my bones that one day they will return. We just have to be worthy of them again.”