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Morning After the Moon
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2025-10-15 22:56:05
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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
The Lycan King’s Rogue Queen Terms and Conditions
Riley Silence had weight. It didn’t feel like peace; it felt like a burial. The silence pressed against my eardrums, my chest, and that hollow, aching place beneath my ribs where Kael’s heartbeat had lived for months. It wasn't just an absence—it was a surgical removal. I felt like a limb that had been severed but refused to stop itching, my soul still reaching out for a connection that had been cut to the quick. I staggered as we moved through the labyrinthine backstreets of Dalth. My boots splashed through puddles of grey rainwater, the sound unnervingly loud in the quiet. The city felt different now. It didn't feel curious anymore; it felt irritated. I had slipped out of a ledger column. I was a missing entry, and Dalth didn't like its books being out of balance. Silas walked a few paces ahead of me, unhurried and graceful. His hands were clasped behind his back as if we were enjoying a moonlit stroll rather than fleeing the most obsessive, record-keeping city on the con
The Lycan King’s Rogue Queen The Weight of the Tether
Kael The silence of the Council Hall was worse than the shouting. I stood in the center of the room, my hand still outstretched toward the space where Riley had been a heartbeat ago. My palm felt cold. The air where she had stood felt empty, a vacuum that sucked the heat right out of my blood. "The King seems... distressed," Councilor Vane said. She didn't sound concerned. She sounded like an art critic admiring a particularly tragic painting. I turned on her. The power I usually kept locked behind iron gates—the shadows of Veyra, the ancient, cold weight of my crown—flared to life. The torches in the room flickered, their flames turning a jagged, ghostly violet. "You planned this," I said, my voice dropping into a register that made the guards at the door take a step back. "The timing. The file. The psychological pressure of this room." Vane didn't flinch. She simply adjusted a silver quill on the table. "Dalth does not plan, Majesty. We merely facilitate the arrival of
The Lycan King’s Rogue Queen What the Ledger Took
Riley I didn’t scream. That surprised me. In all the stories I’d heard about the Fates and the Loom of Destiny, I expected the moment of revelation to be violent—a symphony of fire, the sound of the bond tearing itself free from my soul. I expected something loud enough to justify the way my chest suddenly felt as if it were being crushed by an invisible hand. Instead, there was only silence. The kind of silence that doesn’t just wait—it swallows. It consumed the sound of Kael’s breathing, the rustle of the councilors’ robes, and the very air in my lungs before I could even gasp. The first page of the folder wasn't filled with words. It was a symbol—etched with terrifying precision, impossibly familiar. It was the same jagged geometry I’d seen carved into the ancient monoliths outside Veyra. The same shape that pulsed in white-hot light beneath my skin whenever the bond woke. But here, on the parchment, it was inked in cold, flat black. Stripped of its magic. Stripped of its wa
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