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Chapter sixty-seven
Last Updated:
2025-12-21 17:30:19
Latest chapter
Craving the alpha soldier Chapter seventy
Tyla’s POVThe end of the world does not arrive.That is the strangest thing of all.No final test. No silver blaze across the sky. No moment where the Veil demands a last answer or reveals a hidden price we failed to read in the margins.The world simply… keeps going.I realize this on an ordinary morning, standing barefoot in the kitchen while the kettle screams because Arthur forgot it on the fire again. He’s leaning against the counter, half-dressed, hair still sleep-tangled, staring out the window like the city might confess something if he watches long enough.“You’re burning the water,” I tell him.He blinks. “Is that possible?”“No,” I say. “But you’re trying very hard.”He grins sheepishly and lifts the kettle, steam curling like a reprimand. “Old habits.”“Letting things scream until they explode?”“Being needed,” he corrects softly.I cross the room and rest my forehead against his shoulder. “You’re allowed to make tea without saving anyone.”“I don’t know how,” he admits.
Craving the alpha soldier Chapter sixty-nine
Arthur’s POVThe first crisis they don’t tell me about almost makes me laugh.Almost.I find out by accident, passing through the south quarter at dusk, when the air carries a faint metallic tang that shouldn’t be there. It’s subtle—old instincts catch it before conscious thought does. A strain along the Veil’s edge, localized, contained.Handled.I stop walking.The Mark does nothing.That’s how I know.I climb the narrow steps to a lookout balcony overlooking the quarter and see the aftermath below: scorched stone along a warehouse wall, three anchor circles dispersing in coordinated patterns, healers already moving among a small cluster of shaken but standing citizens.No alarms.No crowd.No call for me.The sight lands somewhere between relief and something sharper.Obsolescence.Tyla would tell me that’s a victory.I watch until the last anchor leaves, then turn away without announcing myself.—Later that night, curiosity gets the better of me.I find Joren—the same anchor who
Craving the alpha soldier Chapter sixty-eight
Tyla’s POVThe first time the city chooses without asking, I don’t hear about it from a council or a report.I hear about it from a child.She can’t be more than seven, hair in uneven braids, shoes two sizes too big. She collides with me in the lower terrace market and nearly bounces off my hip.“Sorry!” she blurts, then freezes, eyes wide.Not in awe.In recognition.“You’re the lady who listens,” she says.I blink. “I will try.”She nods gravely, as if I’ve confirmed something important. “They fixed the bridge.”“That’s good,” I say. “Which bridge?”“The broken one by the river. The one everyone argued about.”I smile. “How did they decide?”She shrugs, already halfway turned away. “They stopped arguing.”And then she’s gone, swallowed by the noise and color of the market.I stand there a long moment, heart thudding.They fixed the bridge.Not because someone commanded it.Because they were tired of not crossing.—Arthur finds me later with my shoes off, sitting on the palace steps
Craving the alpha soldier Chapter sixty-seven
Arthur’s POVThe city wakes up wrong.Not quiet. Not loud.Off-tempo.I feel it before I see it—an unevenness in the air, like a song everyone knows suddenly missing a beat. People move with purpose but no rhythm. Conversations start and stop without finding shape. The Mark rests, unprovoked, yet something beneath it hums with watchful tension.Not fear.Expectation.I step onto the balcony and scan the streets below. No panic. No crowds. Just a density of attention turned inward, like the city is holding something in its mouth, waiting to decide whether to swallow or spit it out.“Tyla?” I call softly.She joins me moments later, hair loose, eyes already awake.“They’re waiting,” she says.“For what?”She tilts her head, listening. “For us to do something.”I exhale through my nose. “Of course they are.”—It starts in the east quarter.A group gathers—not large, but deliberate. No banners. No chants. Just people standing in a loose semicircle around an anchor who has stepped forward
Craving the alpha soldier Chapter sixty-six
Tyla’s POVThe first real fracture comes without spectacle.No silver light. No alarms. No sudden hush like the world drawing breath before a scream.Just a rumor.It reaches me in fragments—whispers threaded through the west quarter, a healer’s hesitation, an anchor who avoids my eyes. By the time it reaches the palace, it has already hardened into something heavier than doubt.People are saying the Veil is weakening again.Not surging. Not failing.Slipping.I stand at the window overlooking the lower terraces, hands wrapped around a cup that’s long gone cold, and listen to the city breathe. It sounds the same as it always has. Uneven. Alive. Stubborn.Arthur finds me there.He doesn’t speak at first. He never does when I’m quiet like this. He just steps close enough that I can feel his warmth at my back, a steady presence that doesn’t crowd.“You heard,” he says eventually.“Yes.”“What do you think?”I take a breath. “I think fear is louder when it doesn’t have a shape.”He exhale
Craving the alpha soldier Chapter sixty-five
Arthur’s POVThe summons comes without urgency.That alone tells me something is wrong.No alarms. No flare through the Mark. No sharp ripple in the Veil. Just a runner at dawn, breathless from climbing the palace steps too fast, holding out a sealed packet with hands that shake from effort, not fear.“From the north districts,” he says. “They asked for… perspective.”Not judgment.Not intervention.Perspective.I take the packet and dismiss him. The seal breaks easily. Inside are reports written in three different hands—contradictory, incomplete, honest.A slow failure.Anchor rotations missing shifts. Supplies arriving late. A council deadlocked over whether to draw from emergency reserves or wait another cycle. No surge yet. No catastrophe.Just erosion.This is the kind of problem I used to despise. Too quiet to fight. Too slow to conquer.I find Tyla in the small kitchen we claimed months ago, barefoot, sleeves rolled, arguing with a kettle that refuses to boil faster out of resp
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