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The Trial

Auteur: S.A Akinola
last update Dernière mise à jour: 2025-09-21 00:48:08

The morning air was sharp, the sky gray with storm clouds. The fortress buzzed with tension, whispers chasing each other through the halls. I knew why. Everyone had heard the roars last night. Everyone had seen the blood on the courtyard dirt.

But no one dared speak Cain’s name.

When the guards came for me, I already knew this wasn’t another round in the training yard. Something heavier hung in the air, something that smelled like blood and endings.

They dragged me to the main hall, where the Alpha’s throne loomed high against the stone wall. Torches burned low, casting jagged shadows across the floor. Warriors lined the chamber, their eyes sharp and hungry.

Cain sat on the throne like a king carved from obsidian. His face was unreadable, his posture relaxed but the air around him pulsed with danger. His eyes found me instantly, burning into me until I felt stripped bare.

The bond tugged hard, my scar throbbing in rhythm with his pulse.

I forced my chin up. If he wanted to see fear, h
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  • Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me   The Council Remembers Too Late

    LYRAThe council chamber was never meant to remember.Stone walls. High ceilings. Seats carved to elevate voices that expected never to be contradicted. The kind of architecture that assumes permanence simply because it has not yet been challenged.The Hollow disagrees.I feel it before we cross the threshold—roots threading beneath polished floors, listening. Waiting. The Forgotten Kin are already here. Not seated. Not standing in defiance.Present.That alone fractures the room.Conversation dies mid-breath. Elders stiffen. A few councilors rise instinctively, as if dominance alone might erase what has surfaced.It doesn’t.Because the Forgotten Kin do not bow.And Cain does not take the Alpha’s seat.That—that—lands harder than any accusation.CAINI feel every eye on me the moment I stop short of the dais.Habit screams at me to ascend. To claim height. Authority. Control.I don’t.I remain on the floor.Level.Human.Murmurs ripple through the chamber—confusion first, then irrita

  • Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me   The Ones Who Remember

    LYRAThey don’t arrive like enemies.That’s the first mistake the world makes.There is no tearing of sky, no violent announcement, no predatory heat crawling up my spine the way it does when the Devourer leans too close. The forest simply… yields.Space loosens.Roots withdraw.Ash stirs where no fire burns.And they step out of the Hollow like something long expected.The Forgotten Kin are not monstrous.They are scarred.Some wear their age openly, bodies bent by time, eyes clouded with memory too heavy to hold alone. Others look young in the way immortality sometimes lies, faces smooth but expressions ancient, mouths shaped by silence rather than speech.All of them carry the same mark.Not the Bloodveil crest.The older one beneath it.The name that was never meant to surface.The land recognizes them instantly.So do I.Cain stiffens beside me.The bond doesn’t flare.It tightens—controlled, alert, braced.“They’re real,” he murmurs.“Yes,” I say. “And they didn’t come to be for

  • Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me   The Name Beneath the Curse

    LYRAThe Hollow does not ask.That’s how I know this isn’t the Devourer.There’s no pressure in the bond. No probing curiosity. No calculated patience waiting for permission to be granted or refused.The ground simply remembers.It happens while I’m awake.Standing.Breathing.Cain’s hand still warm around mine.The world tilts, not violently, not disorienting, but inward, as if the land beneath my feet has decided depth matters more than surface.My vision doesn’t blur.It layers.The forest remains, but beneath it, another image presses forward, insistent and sharp.Stone.Ash.A child kneeling.I gasp.Cain turns instantly. “Lyra?”I don’t answer.Because the child looks up—And he has Cain’s eyes.CAINI feel it the moment Lyra leaves me.Not physically.Internally.The bond doesn’t stretch or strain—it empties, like a held breath released somewhere I can’t follow.“Lyra,” I say again, sharper now.Her grip tightens reflexively, knuckles white, but her gaze isn’t on me anymore. It

  • Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me   The Memory It Can’t Touch

    LYRAIt goes for the space between us next.Not my memories.Not Cain’s.Ours.The Devourer presses gently at first, testing the seam where our histories overlap. The moments shaped by proximity. By repetition. By choice.The first time Cain laughed with me.The night we almost didn’t survive.The quiet understanding that formed before either of us named it.The pressure is subtle, invasive in the way only intimacy can be. It doesn’t try to pull the memories free. It tries to inhabit them. To stand inside them like a room and see how they were built.I stiffen.This is worse than before.Because these aren’t just recollections.They’re agreements.I feel Cain register it the same instant I do. The bond hums, alert but not panicked.“This is different,” I whisper.“Yes,” he says softly. “It’s not asking.”The Devourer speaks, measured and careful.Shared history stabilizes bonds.Understanding it would improve efficiency.My hands curl into fists.“You don’t get to audit our past,” I s

  • Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me   Consent Is a Weapon

    LYRAThe Devourer learns quickly what refusal feels like.Not denial—refusal.Denial is passive. A door left closed.Refusal is active. A hand on the frame. A voice saying no with intent behind it.The first time it tests memory, it’s almost polite.A pressure brushes the back of my thoughts, not pulling, not forcing. Just… requesting. An offer shaped like curiosity.A moment surfaces unbidden: my mother’s voice, low and steady, humming while she worked. A memory so old it still smells like smoke and warm earth.My breath catches.Cain feels it instantly. His grip tightens, not panicked. Alert.“Lyra,” he murmurs. “That’s not yours right now.”“I know,” I whisper.The Devourer speaks softly, as if adjusting its tone to match the intimacy of the offering.You are defined by what formed you.Understanding requires access.I feel the temptation, not to give it, but to let it look. To share without surrender.That’s the trick.“No,” I say clearly.The word lands like a blade.The memory

  • Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me   The Shape of a Line

    LYRAThe line doesn’t vanish when the threat does.That’s the lie I catch myself almost believing, that because the construct is gone, because Cain’s breathing evens and the forest stops holding itself taut, we can return to what we were before.But lines don’t dissolve.They persist.They shape how everything after must move.I feel it in the bond first, not as pain, not even as distance, but as resistance. Where emotion once flowed smoothly between us, there’s now a slight drag. Like running a hand over wood and catching on a grain that wasn’t there before.Cain feels it too. I don’t need to ask.He’s too careful now.“Are you—” he starts, then stops himself. Rephrases. “Do you feel… intact?”The question costs him something.I answer honestly. “I feel… defined.”That seems to hurt him more.The heart between us beats steady, neutral. Watching.Learning.I close my eyes, not to rest, not to dream, but to check the inside of myself the way one checks a wound after the bleeding stops.

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