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CHAPTER 127: THE LOCKBOX

Penulis: Inkbyjane
last update Tanggal publikasi: 2026-07-24 01:26:10

While Marcus held the Northern defenses, Elena and Devon searched the abandoned tower one final time, convinced Raymond had left something behind.

The small secondary lockbox did not yield to iron picks; it yielded to a ledger entry.

Devon sat on the cold stone floor of Raymond’s old study tower, his face illuminated only by the dying amber embers of a single brazier. Surrounding him were piles of discarded agricultural tax liens and torn legislative drafts. In his hands, he held an iron-b
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  • Marked by My Alpha's Father   CHAPTER 128: THE GEOMETRY OF THE QUARRY

    The old slate quarry at the western lip of the basin was a gray, amphitheater-like scar cut deep into the living rock of the mountain. It had once been an extraction site, now a dead-end chute. The walls were sheer drops of wet, black stone that caught the driving sleet, turning the tiered ledgers of the old mining steps into a cascading staircase of ice. Devon stood behind a low breastwork of shattered stone blocks at the center of the quarry floor. His hands were raw, his fingers white where they gripped his short-sword. He didn't look like the Pack's Beta. His gaunt face was smudged with charcoal, his hands raw from days without proper rest, his ears straining against the suffocating silence of the broken mind-link. "They are forming the baseline, Devon," Camille's voice cut through the howling wind from the stone archway behind him. She had discarded her trailing advocate's robes for a severe, leather riding kit, her hands holding a set of red-sealed legal decrees flat against

  • Marked by My Alpha's Father   CHAPTER 127: THE LOCKBOX

    While Marcus held the Northern defenses, Elena and Devon searched the abandoned tower one final time, convinced Raymond had left something behind. The small secondary lockbox did not yield to iron picks; it yielded to a ledger entry. Devon sat on the cold stone floor of Raymond’s old study tower, his face illuminated only by the dying amber embers of a single brazier. Surrounding him were piles of discarded agricultural tax liens and torn legislative drafts. In his hands, he held an iron-bound box made of dark northern oak, its lid sealed with a double imprint of the Capital’s high judiciary crest. "The tumblers are locked by a numerical sequence," Devon muttered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried to the doorway. He didn't look back as Elena stepped through the archway, her arms laden with fresh cedar kindling for the hearth. "Cassian’s men tried to split the wood with a crowbar, but look at the seam. There is a secondary glass vial of acid built into the

  • Marked by My Alpha's Father   CHAPTER 126: THE TRUE JAILERS

    The deeper layers of the keep’s archive vault did not hold royal treasures; they held the precise data of a permanent quarantine. Elena sat on a low three-legged stool beneath a single flickering tallow candle, her fingers leafing through the brittle, yellowed pages of a three-hundred-year-old blood-smith registry. The air down here was thick with the scent of damp lime, decaying sheepskin, and the bitter vinegar used to preserve ancient inks. Across the rough oak table, the shadow books lay open alongside the scraps of Raymond's unsigned confessions. Elena’s eyes were bloodshot, her analytical mind tracing the geometric tables of lineage lines, cross-checking every administrative date with the tactical notes left by the first extraction era. She wasn't looking at a history of power. She was looking at a ledger of damnation. "The capital scholars lied to the High Council for twelve generations," Elena whispered, her voice dropping into a cold focus that made the small flame of

  • Marked by My Alpha's Father   CHAPTER 125: THE SIZZLING BORDER

    The northern defensive trench of Silver Ridge was a ditch of freezing mud and sharp black slate, cut directly into the lip of the ravine. Sleet hammered the dirt, turning the parapets into a cascading slick of ice. The air up here didn't just smell of winter; it was thick with the foul, oily stench of Alaric’s vanguard scouts—burnt tallow, chemical blue fuel, and the distinct copper odor of active blood-reagents. Marcus moved down the trench line with a rigid, unnatural gait. His shoulders were hunched against the gale, his head lowered as a violent spasm racked his core. He hadn't shifted into his wolf form since they left the Citadel; the silver magic locked his bones in place, making any transition impossible. Beneath his woolen cloak, the scars was glowing a blinding violet that cast long shadows across the mud. Boros moved hard at his shoulder, his hand flat against the hilt of his claymore. "Alpha, the Capital’s light cavalry has established three separate signaling towers

  • Marked by My Alpha's Father   CHAPTER 124: THE REBEL ADVOCATE

    The iron-studded side doors of the great hall groaned inward against the rising mountain draft, letting a swirl of grey sleet hiss across the polished basalt floor. Camille stepped through the opening, her severe midnight-blue advocate’s robe completely soaked through, the fine silk trailing behind her like a fractured shadow. She didn't carry a weapon, but the iron-bound legal satchel clamped beneath her arm looked more dangerous than any blade. Boros, one of the pack warrior, instantly stepped into her path, his hand flat against the hilt of his short-sword. "Lady Camille, the inner gallery is restricted by order of the defensive vanguard. The local council has already ordered your family's clerks to vacate the administrative quarters." "The local council has no legal standing to order a mouse to move, Boros," Camille said. Her voice didn't carry a single drop of panic; it was a cold wire that cut straight through the low-level murmuring of the gather clansmen. She didn't slow

  • Marked by My Alpha's Father   CHAPTER 123: BEHIND THE SCREEN

    The great hall of Silver Ridge was a furnace of desperate whispers. Marcus stood behind a heavy oak privacy screen at the back of the dais, his forehead pressed against the cold timber. His lungs burned. Every breath felt like inhaling ground glass, the silver veins across his chest pulsing with a malicious heat that the ambient winter chill couldn't touch. "Alpha," one of his warriors, Boros, called out from the other side of the screen, his voice tight with the strain of a man trying to manage a panicked garrison. "The northern border clans have gathered in the courtyard. They’re demanding to see you. They’ve heard about the Capital's blue-torch decree. If you don't step out onto the dais and give them the war-bond signal, the lower vanguards will fracture before the first watch." Marcus didn't move. He couldn't trust his own vocal cords to carry the native, dominant resonance of an Alpha King. If he spoke now, they would hear the flat, scraping vibration of the parasite—the c

  • Marked by My Alpha's Father   CHAPTER 4: THE WOUNDED TYRANT

    The sound of Marcus’s roar sent a physical shockwave rattling through the stone corridor. Elena’s wolf dropped to its knees in submissive terror, but Devon gripped her shoulder firmly, his eyes wild with determination. "We have to move, now," Devon hissed, dragging her out of the shadow of the alc

  • Marked by My Alpha's Father   CHAPTER 2: BIOLOGICAL BETRAYAL

    Elena woke with a violent gasp, her hand instantly flying to her left shoulder. Her mind raced back to the sanctuary—the suffocating pressure of a tyrant's aura, the predatory glint in Marcus’s eyes, and the terrifying moment his fated fangs had ripped into her throat. She wasn't in the cold sto

  • Marked by My Alpha's Father   PROLOGUE

    The air at the northern border was freezing, thick with the stench of blood and churned mud. Alpha Marcus Vance stood atop a snow-dusted hill, looking down at the smoking ruins of a rogue camp. He wiped dark blood from his blade, his breath escaping heavily. The biting wind ripped through his heavy

  • Marked by My Alpha's Father   CHAPTER 3: THE TYRANT'S THRONEROOM

    The Grand Hall was filled with the chaos of noise, crackling firelight, and the rich scent of roasted meat. Hundreds of Silver Ridge pack members sat at long wooden tables, drinking dark ale and shouting over the din. But the moment the heavy oak doors groaned open, the entire room fell silent. El

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