The men laughed on the flight deck—until the wind died. Azrathion raised his hand, and their shadows peeled away from their bodies like living things. Blood ran from their eyes as armor grew from bone and darkness swallowed their screams. They knelt not by choice, but by command. Dakota watched, frozen, cigar trembling between his fingers. This was no ally. This was what the world sent when death itself had failed—and it had come for Jakari.

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Join the twin Witches, Yeta and Yater, as they venture out to find a demon to seed their perfect child. Part of a series of short stories that make up the Anataya Chronicles. Story contains mature subject matter. With that, enjoy.

The airport was a graveyard frozen between fire and ash. Smoke twisted into the sky, planes lay melted on the tarmac, bodies scorched and lifeless. No sirens, no help—just silence. I felt them—faint whispers of trapped souls—but I shoved the voices away, hiding my gift. Jakari’s eyes never left me as I sketched shadows and chained figures, symbols I barely understood. “Who are these?” he asked. I swallowed. “I don’t know… I just see them.” Something was coming. Something close. And we weren’t ready.

In this note we dive into the wonder and world of the Stygianus Tribe. The galactic travelers of Mythrendar™️

She was forged to silence the cracks. Now she listens to them. In a desert where petals fall upward and roads ripple with memory, a rogue demon knight kneels beside a forbidden fracture — not to seal it, but to hear what it remembers. The Bloomless Order calls her a traitor. The cracks call her back. When the Blooming Hour begins again, she won’t fight to contain it. She’ll fight to understand it.

She was forged in ritual, armored in silence, and trained to kill what blooms. > > But now she picks flowers. > > The demon knight walks again.

A crack in the wall widens overnight, exhaling petals and memories that aren’t yours. When something small and hungry slips through, you realize the wall isn’t just breaking — it’s waking up.

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This note offers an exclusive glimpse into the birth of the Celestine Dragons of Mythrendar™️and the darkness from which they were born.

In this note you will find what you can expect from Mythrendar™️and from its creator, Nefarious J.R. Bane

A young man finds himself being chased by a beast. After falling and fearing for what remained of his life, a hunter appears to save the day...or night.

A singed dwarf emerges from the catacombs with news of widening cracks that breathe smoke and flame. Valdis’ cursed sword pulses with hunger. Persephone’s roots twitch with underworld winds. And Medusa’s snakes recoil as the sky darkens unnaturally fast. Something ancient is waking beneath them—older than gods, hungrier than death, and no longer content to stay buried.

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This is the first chapter of my book. I hope you enjoy. In this chapter, Leir finds himself entangled in a destiny beyond his awareness.

Well, the Elders Council found out about his little.... problem... but things will be alright. Won't they?

Deep beneath the earth, a restless dwarf counts cracks in the catacomb ceiling, unaware that something ancient is waking below her. Far above, Persephone destroys flowers out of sheer frustration while Medusa scolds her for sulking, and a demon knight sharpens her cursed blade to the rhythm of dungeon screams. Their worlds collide when the dwarf suddenly emerges from the depths—singed, eyebrow‑less, and carrying news of widening fissures that breathe sulfur and flame. As the ground trembles and a distant cliff collapses, the unlikely quartet realizes they’re standing on the edge of something older, hungrier, and far more dangerous than any of them expected. ---

But there was only one sigil that she recognized from the artifact, a line with a squiggle that ran down it to make it look almost like a spring or a screw. In its description it claimed this sigil was used commonly for teleportation, but the costs of the materials to inscribe the sigil were rather hard to acquire. Apparently it had to be written in fresh blood, but not just any blood. It had to be the blood of a very powerful undead creature.

“Hello there!” The blonde one said cheerily with a wave. “You must be Lady Marabelle.” The redhead said smartly. “Welcome to Witches Club” The brunette said sullenly. “We’ve been expecting you” The black haired one said curtly. “I'm Hama!” The blonde said, even more bubbly than before. Which Dimidel didn’t think possible. “Siobhan.” The redhead said with a polite salute. Dimidel couldn't help but feel a bit disarmed by her presence. “My name is Greta.” The brunette said, edges of gloom piercing every word. “And I am Vera” The raven haired one said

Lucky thing she had hidden, she thought as she heard the woman's footsteps leaving the opposite way. As she stood there hearing the pair depart, their footsteps creating a strange unison, she began to feel angry. How could this be? Should she tell Alarae about this? What if this was normal for Franmia? She had most certainly heard of the political game in Franmia being quite intense, but she feared for what they were planning. What's more, she thought, is that they made it sound like there were more of them. She crept back to her room, no longer in the mood for food. In the place the young girl had been standing were a set of footprints scorched into the stone floor.