LOGIN“They say every Alpha has a shadow. I was his—a pale imitation of the woman he truly loved. And our sick daughter? An inconvenient reminder of his mistake.” Alpha King Kairi promised Sze forever, but she was just a substitute—a cheaper version of the goddess he truly desired. After years of living a lie, Sze discovers his cruel plan to send her and their sick child away. Broke, desperate, and humiliated, she will do anything to save her daughter, even beg from the monsters of her past. But when Kairi storms back into her life, his protection feels as dangerous as his rejection. Is his sudden change of heart real, or just another game to keep his secrets buried?
View MoreThe world didn’t end with a big noise or a scary silence. It ended with a warm, quiet feeling of home. It ended with the happy rumble in my own chest, a sound that shook the wood of our little house.Peace isn’t something you just have. It’s a place. You have to guard it, mark its edges, keep watch. The Blandness, and that cold Chrome thing behind it, weren’t gone. You can’t kill an idea. But you can make a home so full of life that the idea has nowhere to stand. We did that.My study used to be a quiet place for old scrolls and unbreakable rules. Now, it’s a map room of our loud, messy, happy life. Lyra’s drawings of how roots grow are stuck next to Silas’s charts of bird songs, and my own notes on how to keep our little piece of the world safe. On the biggest wall, there’s a drawing in a frame. Lyra drew it. It’s Sze, asleep in a sunbeam, a piece of his wild hair over the mark on his shoulder. I wrote around the edges, not laws, but the names of things we love: The sound of a breaki
The silence in the cottage after our return was heavy, but it wasn't the Blandness. It was the quiet of a storm passed, leaving us all bruised and reeling. I stood by the hearth, the weight of the Chrome Figure's words a leaden reality in my gut. A faulty copy. A ghost of a noise.I stared into the flames, seeing not fire, but the sterile, mirrored surface that had shown my reflection—my real reflection—overlaid with Lyra’s. The same constellation of marks on the shoulder. A Maker’s sigil. A brand of origin.Kairi was a vortex of restless energy. He couldn't stop. The mystery had reshaped itself, and him with it. His usual crisp movements were jagged, his Lawgiver’s composure frayed at the edges."The paradox isn't just stable," he growled, the word low and rough, more animal than academic. He paced, a caged thing. "It's feral. It shouldn't exist, but it does. It has teeth." He stopped, pinning me with a gaze that was no longer dissecting, but… hunting. "Your storms were never just we
The word—RECALIBRATION—wasn’t a sound. It was a concept stamped directly onto my consciousness, cold and sterile as a surgical steel tray. The Conductor, now a mere baton in the chrome figure’s grip, hummed with subdued, obedient energy.My brain stuttered, trying to process the new threat. “Okay,” I breathed, my voice the only ragged, human thing in the crushing silence. “He brought his manager.”The Chrome Figure’s head tilted the other way. Another word formed in our minds: “ANOMALIES. PATTERN: PERSISTENT. SOURCE: PROXIMATE TO EPICENTER.” Its blank face-plate swept over us, pausing on Lyra, then on me. A longer pause. A series of quick, precise pulses, like a scanner, washed over my skin.Lyra had her knife out, but her hand was shaking. Kairi was paralyzed, not by fear, but by a Lawgiver’s rapt horror at this new, terrible logic. Silas simply looked like he wanted to be sick.“QUERY,” the concept bloomed. It was aimed at me. “IDENTIFY CONTAMINATION VECTOR.”“My winning personality
The victory hangover was worse than any cheap ale. It wasn't the pleasant ache of muscles used, but a deep, psychic fatigue, as if our souls had been stretched and snapped back. For two days, we moved through the cottage like ghosts, jumping at ordinary shadows. The silence we’d won felt fragile, a soap bubble balanced on a spike.Kairi, of course, refused to rest. He’d swapped the spinning battle-sigils for a new obsession: the paradox.“It wasn’t just an absence,” he muttered, hunched over a slate covered in self-erasing chalk-runes. “It was a structured absence. A negation with intent. A logical weapon. If we could replicate it without requiring you to have traumatic amnesia, Sze…”“Please don’t,” I said from the hearth, where I was listlessly poking the fire. Every pop and crackle still sounded like a minor miracle. “I’m not keen on having more bits of me carved out to make metaphysical scalpels. I’m running low on fond childhood memories as it is.”“We wouldn’t use your memories.
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