Nobela ni Tyson Roy

The train ride from Cornwall to London felt like it was trying to shake Isabella loose as if the rhythmic clatter beneath her seat might rid her of the weight of everything she had just left behind. She clutched the stolen drive in her coat pocket, fingers running over her mother’s locket like a talisman. Her mind was a blur of encrypted messages, new alliances, and whispered threats. She wasn’t sure if she was running away or merely searching for a moment of respite—somewhere to breathe without the suffocating weight of what had just unfolded.The streets of London greeted her like a harsh, unwelcoming canvas. The city’s lights were sharp, unnervingly bright, and her sense of familiarity was lost among the rain-soaked streets. It was almost as if the city were asking her a question she didn’t have an answer to: Can you still survive here, Isabella? Can you still find yourself in this world? The familiar buzz of taxis and pedestrians felt foreign now, after the damp, shadow-filled iso

The forest at the edge of the Blackwood Estate had always felt ancient, like a boundary between the ordered cruelty of the Society and a wildness that no amount of control could tame. Isabella stood just beyond the last stone lantern, where the path narrowed and the moss grew thick and cold beneath her feet. The sky above was a bruised shade of grey, the air heavy with the promise of rain. All around her, the wind teased at her hair, tugging at the edges of her coat, as if the world itself was urging her to move forward—or turn back.Her hands were unsteady as she opened her laptop, her breath clouding in the chilly morning air. She could still feel the weight of the encrypted drive in her pocket—the kill switch, the patient records, the voice logs, every line of code and confession the Society had desperately tried to bury. For the first time, she was completely alone with her decision. No Adrian to guide her, no ghosts to haunt her, no desperate faces to steer her. The silence press

The corridors leading to the Society’s IT server room felt different from the rest of the estate. While the upper floors echoed with the quiet hum of old money and carefully cultivated lies, the basement had a pulse all its own—alive and dangerous. The air was thick with the metallic scent of recycled air, the faint crackling of static from the fluorescent lights above, and the distant hum of machines that never truly rested. Isabella moved through the hallways quickly, but there was a wariness in her step. Her stolen badge was still warm in her palm, and her mind raced with exhaustion, grief, and the weight of everything that had come before.Adrian’s face haunted her thoughts—his pleas, his confessions, his unbearable honesty. She forced herself to push him out of her mind, focusing instead on the mission that had to be done: find proof, find leverage, find a way to make the Society answer for its crimes. The memory of Leah’s terror, the haunting words of her mother, and the spectre

The door to Adrian’s chambers stood ajar when Isabella arrived, her pulse hammering, thoughts tangled between fury and heartbreak. The walk from the underground therapy chamber was a blur—blinding lights, the echo of Leah’s screams, the deadened expressions of the orderlies as they dragged Isabella away. She didn’t stop. She didn’t flinch. She moved like a storm, and the house—wise enough—parted in silence as she passed.Inside the room, Adrian stood by his desk, yesterday’s clothes rumpled, his sleeves rolled past his elbows. A lamp glowed beside a stack of unread reports, throwing harsh shadows across the room. The fireplace was cold. The rain was just starting, tapping lightly against the open window. Adrian didn’t speak as she entered. He looked like a man waiting for judgment.Isabella shut the door behind her and locked it. Her steps were quick, hard, almost surgical. When she reached him, she didn’t hesitate.“You lied to me,” she said, her voice cutting the quiet like a blade.

The estate was quieter than usual, cloaked in a silence that felt unnatural. Even the wind outside seemed to tiptoe past the windows, as though the world itself had grown wary. Isabella moved through the hallways with deliberate calm, though each step thrummed with tension. The bugs she had planted, the board’s threats, the whispered warnings—none of it would leave her alone. Something gnawed at her, a missing piece she couldn’t yet name.She kept thinking of what Vance had said: “We move the files tonight.” That line wouldn’t let her go. There was something deeper, more damning, buried beneath the foundation of this place, and she wouldn’t rest until she found it.Timing her movement between staff shifts, Isabella made her way to the estate’s restricted lower level. She wore the borrowed staff badge like armour, her mind focused, her face unreadable. The elevator didn’t go this deep; she followed service stairs, their metal grates groaning underfoot. Finally, she reached an unmarked

Morning bled pale and uncertain across the Blackwood Estate, its stately windows catching the chill light and scattering it across manicured lawns still wet with dew. Inside, the retreat’s corridors felt changed—brighter in places, but heavy with tension. The air carried the memory of last night’s confessions, as if even the walls had absorbed the pain and hunger shared in Isabella’s room.Isabella woke before Adrian. She stayed still for a while, watching the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, memorising how his brow relaxed in sleep, how the worry lines faded when his eyes were closed. She brushed her fingers down his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin. It felt like a moment suspended outside time, but she knew it couldn’t last.Reality waited.She eased out of bed, careful not to wake him. The cold tile underfoot sobered her. She dressed quickly, the adrenaline of purpose winding its way through her chest. There was no time to waste. Today, she would stop waiting for the Societ

The final battlefield had long been avoided.No banner had ever flown there.No monument was raised.It was sacred not by declaration, but by absence.By silence.It had no name on the maps—just a wide hollow nestled between the cliffs of Old Virelith and the River Olanth. A place most passed in quiet, eyes averted, breath held.Here, Elara had once stood beneath a blackened sky, her body bleeding, her hands wrapped around the fading warmth of her sister. Flames had licked her shoulders. Ash had choked the stars. And when the last cry of war echoed across the hollow—it had left a scar too deep to name.Nothing had grown there since.Until now.It began with a single vine.Soft. Silver-veined.Delicate and defiant.It curled out from a crack in the scorched stone like hope unburied.Its petals shimmered in the shades of dusk—violet, rose, ash, and deep ember.Then came a tree—tall and bone-pale. Its bark looked like pressed moonlight, its branches wide, reaching not up, but outward. It

Some flames are not meant to burn brightly.They are meant to endure, smoldering at the heart of memory, refusing to be extinguished.Lucien Drake’s final breath did not fade into darkness.It waited.Patient.Loyal.Unclaimed.It lingered not in shadow, but in promise. Like a candle sealed in a vault, knowing the world would one day need its light again.He had died long before the world was ready to understand him.Long before the Last Pact.Long before the Circle of Flame.Long before the statue of the two queens stood beneath stars that had once watched kingdoms fall.He had fallen in the final days of chaos, at the jagged edge between the last scream of war and the first breath of unity. His death had not been drenched in vengeance or rage. It had been quiet. A single step forward when others faltered. A choice made not out of glory, but of love.Of belief.He had taken the burden meant for Kael.And in doing so, Lucien Drake had become more than a vampire prince, more than a riv

Some goodbyes are not spoken aloud.They are whispered in stillness, wrapped in silence, and carried by the moon.Kael Thorne was never meant to die in battle.He was not forged for final stands, nor sculpted for heroic deaths sung across taverns and temple halls. He was meant to rest—not as a reward, but as a return. A return to the quiet. To the earth. To the dream of peace, he had once called impossible.The night was quiet.Not in mourning.But in peace.The kind Kael had never known in his youth—the kind he had fought beside, bled beside, watched others die to protect.And now, for the first time, it came to him.Not as a battlefield won.But as a bed beneath the stars.He slept alone beneath the limbs of the Gathering Tree, curled in a patch of earth warmed by roots that had once embraced Elara’s fire. The bark above him was etched with runes and memory, every knot a name, every branch a vow.Above him, the moon waxed silver and slow, its light bathing him in serenity.Around hi

Laws can be broken.Promises, forgotten.But when peace is planted in the land’s soul, it blooms, even in shadow.This was not a treaty of parchment.This was no inked decree, sealed in wax and witnessed in halls of stone.This was the root of the root.Of breath.Of fire.The roots of the Gathering Tree had always stretched deep—some said to the very bones of the earth, where the old magics slumbered. For centuries, the druids had guarded it, the Ash Circle tending its bark like holy scripture. It had survived tempests and bloodshed, silence and siege. But only now, after all the wars had ceased and memory had begun to speak in new tongues, did the roots reveal their true shape.A spiral. Woven, intentional.Symbols threaded into the living wood, not grown at random but carved by purpose. The sigil of flame, fierce and untamed. The mark of the moon, soft and eternal. The arc of mercy, curving back upon itself.It was no accident.Elara had planted more than memory.She had planted th

Not all stories end in stone.But some must be carved, not to glorify, but to remind.For unity cannot be inherited.It must be built, side by side, even in sorrow.They gathered beneath the Gathering Tree, not for judgment, not to bind themselves to a single fate, but to witness something that had taken decades to become possible.The day was a page between seasons, spring’s new green cresting into summer’s gold. Sunlight pooled like honey through the thick canopy, catching in the veins of each great leaf overhead. The ancient branches arched and sighed, whispering secrets to the wind, pulsing softly with the memory of every vow and every wound spoken here since the Circle of Flame was born.There were no war drums. No council oaths. No banners fluttered over the grass, and no single song rose above the others. The only constant was the pedestal, waiting. It had waited for years, through peace and grief, through feasts and funerals. Some said it was made from skyglass layered over du

Not all legacies are carved in stone.Some are whispered in laughter, carried in lullabies, or shared beside a flame.And when the last sword is broken, what remains is story.They gathered on the seventh night of the Peace Bloom.From the far snow-misted villages beyond the Wolfwilds, from the salt-tinged harbors of the west, from the moss-lit courts of the Hollow Wards and the cloud-kissed windows of Sanctum itself, the people of Eldoria came. Not as armies, not as exiles, but as neighbours, kin, and wanderers. They came not to argue, not to plot, but simply to sit.No law demanded it. No leader summoned them. But word had spread, and so they followed memory to the Gathering Tree, whose roots now pulsed softly with a silver glow, nourished by the buried heart of Virelance, and, some said, by the dreams of those who had come before.Lanterns swayed like stars shaken from their moorings. Shadow Blooms, thick as midnight and rimmed in faint light, opened with each shiver of the wind. I

The courier had been on the road for hours. The path from Dawn Veil’s medical outpost was narrow, winding through trees and open fields, shrouded in the mist that seemed to hang around everything in the morning. The sun had just started to rise, the light soft and pale, barely pushing through the thick foliage.She arrived exhausted, her horse tired, the bags strapped to the saddle heavy with sealed messages. The small outpost had always been a place of peace, but today it hummed with curiosity. A few children peeked out from behind fences, and the older wolves watched her closely, their eyes full of questions.Without hesitation, she asked for Aria Hartfield, the healer who had earned a reputation among them. She was quickly shown to the garden, where Aria worked, hands deep in the earth, tending to chamomile.Aria straightened when she heard the approach. Her dress was simple, linen, and worn, and the shawl draped across her shoulders loosely hid the swelling of her belly. It had be

The council estate felt heavier than usual. The grand hall, filled with ancient portraits and heavy tapestries, bore the weight of every decision made within its walls. The air itself seemed thick with power, but also tension. The Alpha council wasn’t just about strategy and alliances—it was about control, and today, Xander could feel that control slipping through his fingers.Xander entered the chamber, every step purposeful, a reflection of the Alpha he was. His black wool cloak, stitched with the insignia of his rank, swirled around him, but his mind was far from the meeting at hand. Since Aria’s departure, the estate felt colder, emptier. Her absence gnawed at him in a way he didn’t fully understand, and today, it was impossible to ignore.Taking his seat at the council table, Xander exchanged brief, practiced greetings with the others. They were the usual suspects—leaders who had earned their place through power and experience. They didn’t waste words, and neither did he.As the

The new healing centre stood at the edge of a quiet valley, surrounded by pine trees that seemed to stretch endlessly into the mist. Built by the neighbouring Dawn Veil Pack, it was small but crucial, offering care and healing to those who had nowhere else to turn. It wasn’t as large as the infirmary Aria had left behind, but its warmth and purpose were undeniable. This was a place for renewal, not just of bodies, but of hope.Aria arrived before the sun had fully risen, the air still cool with the remnants of night. She wore a simple gray dress, her hair pulled back in a neat braid, and her healer’s satchel hung securely across her shoulder. The journey here had been long and exhausting—days of travel, nights spent tossing and turning with thoughts of all she had left behind. Yet as she stepped into the valley, there was a quiet resolve in her movements. This was her fresh start.At the gate, she was greeted by Head Healer Elric, a tall man with kind eyes that spoke of wisdom earned

Xander wasn’t used to silence. Not this kind. The kind that settled into the floorboards and slipped into the corners of the hallways. The kind that followed him like a question he didn’t know how to answer.He entered his study, expecting the usual rhythm of his day—meetings, reports, decisions. But instead, there was a single envelope waiting on the desk. Plain. No seal. Just his name, written in handwriting he would know anywhere.Aria’s.He stared at it for a second longer than he should have, as if not touching it would change what was inside. His fingers moved anyway, breaking it open. No hesitation. But everything in him stilled the moment he read the first line.Please accept my resignation…The words were short. Cold, even. Professional. No warmth. No softness. No room to respond.He read the letter twice, then again, as if meaning would shift between readings. But it didn’t. She was gone. Not thinking about it. Not planning it. Gone.His hand dropped to his side. The letter

The Howl He MissedThe full moon was cruel in its beauty—too bright, too still, casting everything in silver that felt more like silence than light. The forest held its breath. Somewhere in the distance, the pack howled, their voices rising in waves that crashed and swirled above the treetops.Aria stood alone near the edge of the clearing, one hand braced against the rough bark of a pine, the other curled into a trembling fist by her side. She had no plans to join them tonight. Not after everything.They wouldn’t notice she was missing. Not really.A week ago, she might’ve stood among them, her pulse in sync with theirs, her place beside the fire, even if always a little to the side. Now, she was just a name they didn’t speak aloud. A vacancy they’d quietly let happen.Her resignation had been handed in at dawn. It hadn’t felt like a rebellion. It had felt like an exhale.She tilted her head toward the sky. The moon glared down, heavy and expectant.The run had already started. The s

A low wind stirred outside, slipping through the cracks of the cottage like it belonged there. The wooden shutters trembled. Aria stood in the centre of her living room, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. She hadn’t turned on the heater. The chill matched her mood.Boxes lined the floor.Not many. She didn’t own much.A few medical journals, her mother’s shawl, a half-filled jar of thyme she never used but couldn’t throw away. She wrapped everything slowly, her movements careful, like she was packing memories, not things.Each item she touched brought a quiet ache. Not grief—she’d already grieved. This was something softer. A final sorting of what she could take and what she had to leave behind. A decision with every fold, every tie of string.She moved through the house as if the walls were watching.In the kitchen, she ran her fingertips over the empty windowsill where sage and mint once grew. In the living room, her eyes caught the frayed cushion