Mag-log inShare
The Mirror of Thorns
Huling Na-update:
2025-08-24 15:34:17
Pinakabagong kabanata
The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen The Mirror of Thorns
There was no battlefield.No banners stitched with flame or bone, no warriors crowding the fringes with hope and dread. No war drums. No prophecy-calling priests. Not even a wind to disturb the hush that lay across the obsidian plain like a waiting veil.Only silence.Only shadow.Only reflection.Seren stood barefoot and alone at the centre of it—a space that was not a room, not a dream, not even a memory. Just an endless glass stretching out into nothing, rippling with shifting darkness beneath her feet. When she inhaled, the world fogged before her, then cleared. When she exhaled, the plane beneath her creaked with a sound like bone and old ice.She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t dreaming. She was at the end of the Trial of the Crownless—the final chamber, the secret at the heart of all those legends. A place Elara herself had never reached. The Mirror of Thorns.Across from her, Sirelia waited. Not as a warlord or queen, not even as a rival. Just Sirelia—hair loose, eyes rimmed with red,
The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen The Trial of the Crownless
It began with the stone.Not an earthquake. Not a burst of flame. Not the chaos of armies clashing, or gods descending from the sky. No, what came was pressure—a tightening of the world, so absolute, so absolute and breathless, it felt as if the bones of the land were bracing for a truth that could no longer be held back.At the Threshold of Flame, where so many wars had ended and so few had truly begun, the fire did not flicker.It breathed.Slow. Measured. A pulse older than memory. The breath of a world too wounded to weep, too wise to hope, too tired to rage.It was the breath of queens who had carved thrones from the wreckage of old dynasties, who had bled and burned and bartered themselves into legend, and whose stories had never found an ending.Tonight, that ending was waiting.Not for surrender.Not for triumph.But for judgment.Seren stood alone, boots scuffed by days of travel, the hem of her cloak stained by rain and ashes. She watched the fissure, where molten stone chur
The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen The Letter of Fire
It arrived just past midnight.Not as flame swallowing the sky.Not as siege or fury.But as something smaller.A single flicker.A sliver of fire, no larger than a prayer, floating just above the stone altar in the heart of Emberhold’s Flameheart chamber. It didn’t sway with the air. It didn’t flicker like a candle. It hovered. Intentional. Unhurried.Vessa saw it first.She didn’t shout. Didn’t reach. Her hand slid instinctively toward her blade, fingers resting on the hilt as if it might whisper the answer she couldn’t yet find. Her breath held.A message, she thought. Or worse.Saphira entered next, steps precise, boots nearly silent. She narrowed her gaze at the floating ember, her expression more suspicious than alarmed.“No spell does that,” she murmured.“No,” came Kael’s voice from the dark hall beyond. “No spell ever had to.”His voice was ragged, stripped bare. He looked thinner in the firelight, haunted around the eyes. But he still stepped forward. Closer than the others d
The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen The God Below
It began with the stone.Not with a quake.Not with a cry.Just pressure.Like the breath of something ancient shifting beneath the skin of the world.A long, slow inhale that never exhaled.And the earth, patient, worn, complicit, held that breath like it remembered what came last time.The Moon Seers were the first to feel it.They did not live among cities or stars, but in caverns webbed with silver moss and mistlight. Deep places. Silent places. They painted their bodies in dustmilk and star-ash, and they sang only through silence, mouths cut, tongues cauterized, so that no false vision might ever leave their lips. Their dreams were prayers. Their screams were prophecy.And tonight… they screamed.Not words.Not names.But sound.Raw and ripping and terrible.Their cave walls cracked open in perfect, spiraling patterns. Veins of moonstone lit up like the bones of dead gods waking. Reflection bowls shattered, their waters boiling with no fire.The oldest among them, older than memor
The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen The Reaping Field
They called it the Reaping Field long before Seren arrived.Not for what grew there, but for what was lost—what had been taken and never given back.The land bore no crops. It bore memories. And memory, Seren knew, could outlast even the most determined root.It was the kind of place that made the bravest scouts step softly, even if they wouldn’t say why.It’s nothing, the Emberhold mapmakers had said weeks ago, dismissing the northeast valley. No towers. No wards. No sigils. Just dead ground. Useless for strategy or shelter.But Seren felt the pull, low and insistent—a bruise hidden under scar tissue, too deep for words but too loud to ignore. So she led the march herself.The Ashborn and Moonbound flanked her, a silent column on battered legs. Unnamed wolves padded along the edges, noses twitching at scents only they could sense, their ears laid flat in a way that was more warning than fear.Vessa was at Seren’s back, quiet for once. Kael stayed behind, still mending after the last
The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen The Severing
The ritual circle was not so much drawn as remembered.Its lines cut deep in the soil with a blade that sang with old magic, each of its nine runes filled with the blood of a woman who’d lived too many lives under too many names. Storm ash dusted the lines, swirling whenever the wind dared to creep over Emberhold’s battlements. It was a night of no moon, and the air trembled as if the sky itself feared what was about to unfold.Seren entered the circle barefoot.Her feet, so often stained with the blood of battle, looked pale and small in the spectral blue fire she coaxed from the rune at the eastmost point. She wore no crown. No cloak. Nothing but the memory of everything she’d survived, and the jagged, living pain of what she carried now—the mark of the Storm Pact, a living god’s brand, pulsing black-violet along her spine, as if eager to witness her final defiance.Tonight, she would not kneel.Tonight, she would sever the cord between herself and the god who’d named her instrument
Maaari mong magustuhan
Alpha Theo
C.J. Primer842.0K viewsAscension of a Gamma
Caine Casann539.8K viewsThe Luna Choosing Game
Jane Above Story995.3K viewsAfraid Of My Mate
Lady Tamia430.0K viewsAlpha Noah
Violetta1234327 viewsLycan King's Cursed and Rejected Mate
AIMEN98 viewsOne Night with the Hybrid King
Anya Curves154 viewsEx-Breeder's Return for Vengeance
Ogheneovo137 views
