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Chapter Fifty
Last Updated:
2025-08-30 00:43:00
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Chronicles Of Moonblood 1. The Wounded Heart Chaptet One
NyraA hajnal még csak árnyalat az égen – halvány, kékes derengés a fekete és a szürke határán. Az ablakon beszűrődő fény finoman rajzolja ki a fagerendák kontúrját, és ezüst szalagként simul végig a sötét, vastag függönyök redőin. A falak csöndben tartják magukban az éjszaka titkait, és az egész világ olyan mélyen hallgat, mintha még nem döntötte volna el, készen áll-e felébredni.Kinyitom a szemem.Pár pillanatig nem fókuszálok, csak a mennyezet repedéseit követem nesztelenül, gondolatok és érzelmek kusza rétegein át. A bőröm nyirkos, alattam még ott vibrál az álom emléke – mintha a sötétség is belém ivódott volna, míg aludtam.Ködben jártam. Árnyak között. Egyedül. A fájdalom nem volt fizikai, inkább valami ősi, belső rettegés, ami nem oszlott szét azzal, hogy felriadtam. Még most is ott lappang a bőröm alatt, az izmaim mélyén, a lelkemben. Nem tudom pontosan, mit láttam, vagy mi nézett vissza rám a ködből. Csak azt, hogy figyeltek. És amit láttak… az nemcsak én voltam, hanem ők is
Chronicles Of Moonblood 1. The Wounded Heart Book Part 2. Prologue
NyraCold. Bone-deep, merciless cold.The ground beneath my feet was wet, sticky—each step felt as if something living tried to drag me back down. Fog devoured the world around me; the trees leaned close, their trunks breathing, watching. The air was heavy, cloying with the sweet stench of rot that clogged my lungs. I didn’t know how I had come here. Only that I had to move. Forward. Something—or someone—was waiting for me.The silence was so absolute that even the sound of my heartbeat felt deafening.Then I heard it. A child’s voice. At first I thought it laughter, but quickly I realized: crying. Soft, muffled, the whimper of an infant far, far away. My stomach knotted. That sound… familiar, and yet strange. Too fragile. Too real.I followed it. The fog trembled, clung to me, reluctant to release me. With every step, the ground squelched—mud or blood, I couldn’t tell. The trees grew closer, their bark etched with strange markings. Not markings—faces.I stopped.Not faces—my face. Sh
Chronicles Of Moonblood 1. The Wounded Heart Chapter Fifty
Rowan’s point of viewThe cold stone beneath me had long since numbed my knees, but I did not move. I dared not. Darkness cloaked everything, and I knew: if I looked up, I would be unmade. And yet I felt him—the one who sat upon the throne. His presence pressed on my chest like a weight, each breath a labor of pain. I could see nothing, but I knew with absolute certainty that I was being watched.When he finally spoke, the sound did not reach me through my ears. It split me open from within, a voice striking straight through my skull.“Speak.”My tongue was dry, my throat raw, but I forced the words out.“The girl… she has been accepted. The lycans call her Luna. Aedan has marked her. And… she is with child.”The silence that followed was not empty. It was alive, a low rumble of shadows stirring around me. Something vast shifted, something ancient, something before which I was no more than dust.And then came the word that froze my blood.“Two.”My chest constricted. He knew. He alway
Chronicles Of Moonblood 1. The Wounded Heart Chapter Fourty Nine
AedanThe Moon had run through several cycles since the medallion came into Nyra’s hands, and yet instead of answers, only more questions were born. The Book of Aetherwyn remained stubbornly blank, silent even to healers and chroniclers, as though the past itself had locked its doors. The secrets did not speak.But I saw something else changing—not the book, not the magic, but Nyra herself. Small signs, the kind others might have missed: in the mornings she woke more weary, her appetite restless, sometimes rejecting her favorite foods, sometimes craving things she had never touched before. I didn’t ask, didn’t press. I simply watched. Our bond always told me when something was out of balance.One dawn, the tether pulsing in my chest woke me sharply. The bed was cool without her; the blankets shoved aside. And then I heard it: soft retching, muffled, from the direction of the bath. My body recognized the sound instantly—instinct, not fear. I leapt up, barefoot, and hurried toward her.
Chronicles Of Moonblood 1. The Wounded Heart Chapter Fourty Eight
he fire crackled in a slow, deep rhythm, as though each flame had become the pulsing heart of the room. Red-gold light washed over the walls, while shadows danced along Nyra’s figure as she stood before the couch, her back to me. The medallion still rested between her fingers, but I could see: it was no longer the past that held her thoughts. Her body shivered as though every part of her was awakening to the call of the present.And I could only watch. Spellbound. In the glow of the fire she seemed almost unearthly—her hair gleamed silver, her shoulders traced with the flicker of flames. Every instinct in me roared to go to her, but I didn’t rush. There was no need. I moved slowly, silently, like a hunter who revered the prey he would never harm. When I finally stopped behind her, close enough for my breath to graze the nape of her neck, I murmured, voice rough with the weight of desire coiled inside me:‘Do you know that when I look at you… I don’t see your past. Only you.’Nyra’s ey
Chronicles Of Moonblood 1. The Wounded Heart Chapter Fourty Seven
AedanThe silence of the Bloodline Archive seemed almost alive as it wrapped around us, swallowing the muffled echoes of our footsteps on stone. The cold, bluish flames of enchanted torches cast long shadows across the endless shelves, where centuries of secrets lay bound in dust and leather. I could feel the place watching, as if every scroll and seal held whispers of the past, patiently waiting for someone to speak them back into the world.Nyra walked beside me, her steps light, but every movement taut with tension. In her eyes flickered both fear and curiosity as her fingertips trailed over the bindings. The air itself seemed to stir around her—the archive responded, as if it recognized the blood thrumming in her veins.“This is everything ever written about us,” I said quietly, glancing down the rows of shelves. “Bloodlines, packs, inheritances. If there’s anything tied to you… its trace will be here.”I drew out the compass—an ancient relic that didn’t point north, but to the st
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