Yellowfang Warriors Mga Nobela at Kwento

Freki's POV. We drove to the land at the terrain border. Tyler had brought along five skilled warriors with him. The lands had been taken over by the warriors of ShadowFang and they were celebrating, drinking wine on the land where they had just spilled the blood of hundreds of people. There was no plan, no strategy and we charged in right through the front gate of the lands. The warriors who were laughing suddenly went silent, their laughs coming to an abrupt stop. They looked up at us while seated, their faces twisted in confusion.

I was dumbfounded, and I didn't understand why the Warriors didn't support each other against Rogues but slaughter each other. Elias clenched his fist. "Because they want to compete for the top spot. As I said, this is no longer a contest; it's more like a real war, and only the winner is the last one standing. Moreover, in the process of fighting with Rogues, warriors will kill them and steal the silver fangs that are worn around their necks. By the end of the third day, whoever is alive and has the most gamblers becomes the winner. So the warriors would hide in the forest to save their strength, usually until the last day they showed up and slaughtered each other."

There was purpose in our steps, something close to certainty blended in hope. I had crafted a team of twelve SilverFang warriors—including myself, Oscar, and three members of Rya's Duskborn blood. Each man carried with him a sense of perceptiveness and vigilance, especially given the notoriety handed down to us by the Lycans. I was seated at the backseat with Rya. There was this defeaning silence between us—almost intentional, but it wasn't. We didn't speak, neither did we exchange a single glance.

Jarek’s voice crackled through Kael’s comms device, sharp with adrenaline: “Movement on the western pass. They’re coming.” Kael’s heart thundered in his chest. “Hold your positions. Wait for my mark.” From the western edge of the ridge, dark shapes emerged through the morning haze. The Crimson Fang’s warband appeared like shadows cast in steel and blood. Their leader, a towering Alpha with jagged scars crisscrossing his face, rode at the front atop a massive wolf, his eyes blazing with cruelty. His pack’s banners—a tattered red fang against black—fluttered menacingly in the wind.

The second the footsteps broke into a run, my wolf surged forward like a living storm inside me, bones snapping and shifting, claws tearing through my fingertips before I could even think about keeping it “subtle.” The door burst open, rain slicing through the air, and there they were—Black Fang warriors, all steel and snarls, their red-marked armor gleaming under the flashes of lightning. Marigold? She was in Margaux's mood. She was leaning against the table, inspecting her nails like we weren’t seconds away from becoming very messy corpses.

“Yeah, almost everyone here is.” “That is so cool! Do you have fangs?! Can I see them? Do you ha-” He smiled. “You’re cute.” I blushed, immediately stopping my rambling. That's when I realized that the men sitting beside me were staring at me weirdly. “Sor-” Before I could get another word out, chaos knocked on the door. A group of about ten to fifteen men burst through the doors. They drew everyone’s attention. Their eyes were glowing red. Their fangs were on show. Their sharp overgrown nails were out on display.

It didn’t just vibrate in the air; it shook the souls of every creature in the valley. "Kill her!" Fenris screamed, his face twisting into a mask of frantic rage. "Kill the abomination!" The Silver Fang warriors charged. These weren't the undisciplined cowards of the Crescent Moon Pack. These were monsters of war, moving in a lethal, coordinated phalanx. The battle began not with a whimper, but with the bone-chilling sound of steel meeting Lycan flesh.

Clara paused for a moment before turning to Mason, her voice clear and cruel. "You like to play games, don't you, Mr. Sanders? You think it's fun to watch people struggle in cages, don't you?" Mason shuddered and shook his head frantically. "No, no! Rebecca made me do all of that! She forced me! I never wanted to!" "Hush." Clara raised a finger to her lips and cut him off. "Mr. White spent five years in the underground fighting ring. He broke seven ribs, lost four teeth, was injected with drugs, and was displayed like a zoo animal while people bet on him."

Adonis Back at the mainland, I drove past the guard station entry point revealing the familiar sight of the warrior base. The Lycan pack and tribe flags fluttered proudly from poles, their red and green colors vibrant in this late afternoon. A group of warriors practiced combat maneuvers with wooden swords. It was hard not to be impressed, considering these dudes worked extra hard to protect the civilians.

My chest tightened. Kael noticed. His hand moved behind him until it found mine. His fingers closed around my wrist, steadying me even as he stared at the tree line ahead. The warriors of the Bloodfang Pack stepped out first. One. Two. Three. More. All dressed in black, marked with red patterns on their sleeves, eyes sharp and brutal. They spread out across the open ground like soldiers ready for war. The air grew tense. Nightfall wolves growled low, shaking the earth.