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Blood, Sweat, and Sass
Huling Na-update:
2025-09-25 13:40:22
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The Lycan King’s Rogue Queen What Remains When the Story Changes
Kael No one moved. The Heart of the Archive was too quiet for a room filled with people who believed in absolute control. The Councilors sat in a perfect semicircle, their charcoal robes immaculate despite the chaos we had dragged in with us. No guards raised weapons. No spells flared. They didn’t need to. Because the Ledger had already spoken, and the ink was already dry. Lumi stood at the center of the chamber. She wasn't restrained. She wasn't protected. She was presented. Her copper hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching the cold, sterile light of the Archive. Her posture was straight—too straight for a girl who should have been trembling with terror. Her hands rested calmly at her sides, fingers relaxed, as if she were a priestess presiding over a ceremony she had rehearsed her entire life. But her eyes were the horror. They weren't empty. They were occupied. They had turned a flat, milky white, veined faintly with silver like parchment that had begun to absorb a
The Lycan King’s Rogue Queen Where Stories Go to Die
Riley The entrance to the Unwritten did not look like an entrance. There was no iron door, no ancient sigil, no dramatic threshold carved in prophecy. There was only a mistake. It was a gap in the under-city where the architecture stuttered. A wall repeated itself twice, then forgot to exist altogether. The stone wasn’t broken; it was undecided. It looked like a sketch the artist had started and then abandoned, leaving the reality to buffer in the dark. Kael stopped short, his hand hovering over the flickering masonry. “This wasn’t here before.” “That’s the point,” I replied, my voice sounding tinny and far away. “If it had been recorded, it would have a shape. This is the trash bin of the universe, Kael. The stuff that didn't make the final cut.” The bond twitched. It wasn't fear—it was an aversion. Like two magnets of the same pole pushing apart. I stepped forward anyway. The moment I crossed the line, the world conceptually tilted. Sound thinned out until I could he
The Lycan King’s Rogue Queen The One Left Behind
Riley We didn’t run. Running would have meant panic. It would have meant making noise, leaving footprints stamped in the messy ink of fear. Instead, we slipped. We became ghosts in the machine, sliding through a fracture in the under-city where the stone still hummed with the memory of older paths—maintenance corridors abandoned centuries ago when Dalth decided efficiency was a better god than mercy. Kael moved ahead of me, his pace agonizingly slow. His shoulders were tense enough to snap, and every breath sounded measured, like he was calculating the exact cost of oxygen he couldn't afford to spend. The bond pulsed once. It wasn't a hum. It was a glitch. An uneasy, flickering sensation that felt less like comfort and more like a question I didn't have the answer to. I ignored it. I ignored him. “Left,” I whispered when the corridor split into a fork of jagged rock and rotting wood. Kael shifted, turning his body with a grunt of effort, trusting my instincts without asking w
The Lycan King’s Rogue Queen After the Storm
Kael pov The silence came back wrong. It wasn't the clean, surgical absence Riley had carved with the obsidian dampener. That had been a void. This was a haunting. The silence creaked through the ruins of the Archive, thick with the choking scent of ionized ozone, wet ash, and the metallic tang of burned magic. Thousands of books—the collective memory of an empire—lay scattered like casualties on a battlefield, their pages fluttering weakly in the draft like dying birds. The walls still glowed with a sickly, bruised violet where spells had failed to die, flickering like a failing heartbeat. Riley was alive. I clung to that fact like a drowning man clings to jagged wreckage. She was pressed against my chest, her breathing shallow and ragged, her weight real in my arms. But she felt too light. Far too light for someone who had just detonated a centuries-old system of fate. “Riley,” I croaked, my voice sounding like it had been dragged over broken glass. “Stay with me. Eyes on me.”
The Lycan King’s Rogue Queen The Price of the Ask
KaelI didn’t use the stairs.Shadows don’t need stone steps. I tore through the Archive like a wound reopening, slipping between locked corridors and warded thresholds, leaving frost and fractured sigils in my wake. Every heartbeat without Riley in the bond felt like a layer of my soul was being peeled back, exposing something raw and rotting to the mountain air.The Scribe’s ward hit me like a wall of solid ice.I didn’t slow.I ripped through it, my magic shrieking in protest. Violet light flared across my vision, blinding and jagged, as I forced my body to remain solid while the city tried to turn me into mist. Pain tore through me—sharp, punishing, and utterly deserved. I welcomed it. Pain meant I was still moving.Still late—but not too late.I burst into the circular chamber just as the torches flared in a frantic, orange alarm.The room was a masterpiece of chaos: scattered parchment, fractured stone, and ancient magic thrumming like a wounded beast in the corner.And there—
The Lycan King’s Rogue Queen The Scribe Who Counts Souls
Riley The corridor ended without ceremony. There were no massive doors, no armored guards, no dramatic gates. There was only a threshold where the air changed—growing thicker, warmer, and saturated with the cloying scent of old ink, scorched parchment, and something faintly metallic. It smelled like copper. Like old coins left too long in a clenched, sweaty fist. I stepped into a circular chamber carved directly into the ancient bedrock beneath Dalth. The scale of it made my head spin. The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves that groaned under the weight of a thousand years of secrets—scrolls that hummed with static, ledgers bound in skin, and tablets that didn’t look like they were meant to be read so much as endured. Some glowed with a sickly yellow light. Others pulsed in a slow, rhythmic throb, as if the words inside were still breathing. At the center of this cathedral of information sat a man. He wasn’t old—not in the way I expected. His hair was dark, b
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