LOGINAlexander witnessed with his own eyes how Felix, the Alpha of the Blackclaw Pack, killed his parents. Swearing vengeance, he never forgot the little girl from the pack who had once saved him. When he finally overthrew the tyrant and seized power, he unleashed all his hatred on Melodie, Felix’s illegitimate daughter. Yet, only as she lay dying in despair did he realize—she was the very girl who had rescued him long ago.
View MoreOne year later.Dawn painted the cliffs gold.Alexander climbed alone, wind tugging at his cloak, a new birch flute in hand.Behind him, Blackclaw’s rooftops shimmered with lanterns.But today—this moment—was hers.---He reached the summit.Set down a stone tablet. Carved words read:**Melodie of the StarsLuna in SpiritMother of Light**---He sat.Closed his eyes.And raised the flute.The melody wavered at first—hesitant, raw.Then it grew steadier.Notes threaded through the wind, across sky and valley.A lullaby not of loss, but memory.---When silence returned, he whispered, “Forgiven.”The breeze answered—not with words, but warmth.A feather-light brush across his cheek.He didn’t need more.---He placed the flute beside the stone.Let it rest.Then stood.---“Goodbye, Melodie,” he said softly. “I’ll carry your voice in every law I write. In every child I protect. In every promise I keep.”
Weeks passed.But the cellar remained untouched.Until one morning, Alexander returned—with stone, tools, and silence.He worked alone.---“What’s he doing?” a child asked, watching from the gates.“Building something,” Marcus answered. “Or burying something.”---By nightfall, a cairn stood where the dungeon once gaped open—moon‑white stones stacked in quiet reverence.At the peak, he placed the scorched flute mouthpiece.---Each evening, Alexander sat beside it, diary in hand.He read aloud.To the wind.To the ghosts.To her.---One night, a refugee child approached, holding a wooden reed.“Can I play here?”Alexander nodded.Music fluttered between them.Imperfect.Honest.---Word spread.Others came.Mothers. Orphans. Runaways.They planted flowers. Told stories. Lit candles.The gallows field became a garden.---Marcus found him there, days later.“Reconstruction plans need approval.
Dusk cloaked the courtyard in silence.Jessica knelt before the execution block, wrists bound, hair disheveled.No crowd cheered. No rebels laughed.Only stillness.---Alexander stepped forward, holding the shattered flute.“This is not vengeance,” he said, voice cold. “This is truth paid in full.”Jessica met his gaze. “You loved me once.”“No,” he replied. “I loved a lie.”---The executioner looked to him. He nodded.Steel fell.It was quick.---He didn’t flinch.Just stared at the flames as her body was cast into the pyre.The flute fragments slipped from his hand, landing in ash.One piece—its tip blackened—still bore a single word:**Remember.**---Later, in the war room—“Reform laws,” Alexander said. “No child will bear their parents’ crimes.”Marcus blinked. “Are you sure?”“I was that child. So was she.”---He ordered orphanages built.He granted names to the nameless.He pardoned bastards on
The court assembled under gray skies.Whispers buzzed like flies.Jessica stood radiant in white, crown glinting. “Why summon the court before coronation?”Alexander stepped forward.Flute in hand. Diary page folded tight.“I have something to say.”---Marcus unrolled a scroll.Alexander began, voice hoarse but steady:**“Her name was Melodie. She was a servant. A prisoner. A survivor.”**Gasps echoed.Jessica stiffened.---“She gave bread to a blind boy,” Alexander continued. “Played music in a dungeon. Carved truths into wood and stone.”He lifted the flute.“This,” he said, “was never yours.”Jessica’s face twisted. “You’re accusing me based on a broken toy and some scribbles?”He turned to the guards. “Bring them.”Two soldiers entered, heads low.“She trained me,” one said. “To lie. To claim I heard the tune in her voice.”“She locked the girl away,” said the other. “We all knew.”Jessica laughed once, bitter. “They’






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