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Bramrik Alderthane
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2025-12-26 12:10:06
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The Silver Fox Crown Bramrik Alderthane
The door clicks shut behind Elowen.Soft. Final.The kind of sound that shouldn’t matter—but does, because it means Sera is alone on the other side of it. Safe, technically. Warm. Tucked in. Taken care of.And still, every part of me wants to turn back, reopen it, and sit on the floor by her bed like I did when she was eight and the world had teeth and she didn’t know how to bite back yet.I don’t.Because wanting is dangerous.Because wanting her has always been dangerous.Elowen’s pace doesn’t change as we move down the hall. Controlled. Smooth. Not rushed, not frantic. That’s his version of rage: the refusal to let the world see the crack.Mine is different.Mine rattles in my bones like a caged animal.We take the stairs down—two levels below the main living quarters—into the part of the house built for exactly this. Planning. Holding. Waiting. Surviving.The door to the study is reinforced wood with a steel spine. No crest, no ornament. Just a quiet, expensive kind of strength.E
The Silver Fox Crown Elowen Thalric
The first mistake Seralyth makes is thinking she can stand on her own.I see it the moment her fingers curl against the doorframe—too slow, too deliberate. The way her shoulders set like she’s bracing against something invisible. Pride before balance. Habit before truth.She swings her legs out of the vehicle anyway.Her boots hit stone.And the world tilts.Her breath catches sharply, a small, involuntary sound that slices straight through me. Her knees buckle before Bramrik can even move.Before anything can move—I’m already there.I catch her as she pitches forward, one arm sweeping behind her knees, the other bracing her back. She weighs less than she should. Too light for someone who carries this much gravity.Her head knocks lightly against my shoulder.Warm.Alive.Her scent flares—fox, silver, heat threaded with exhaustion and something darker, sharper. Want. Unintended. Unfiltered.Arousal.My jaw locks.Not because it’s unwelcome.Because it’s hers—and she doesn’t realize s
The Silver Fox Crown Bramrik Alderthane
We don’t use the roads that have names.Names mean records.Records mean patterns.Patterns are how Authority decides where to look next.So we move through the seams instead.The Interstice isn’t a place the way people mean it. It’s a decision. A refusal by the land to belong to anyone long enough to be claimed. Old war corridors. Half-forgotten supply cuts. Ground that never healed properly after blood soaked into it and no one bothered to pave over the memory.The vehicle moves low and quiet, suspension eating the uneven terrain like it was built for this kind of running. No lights. No plates. Wards woven deep into the frame—Elowen’s work. Careful. Boring. Effective.I sit in the back.Because she’s back here with me.Seralyth Ashcroft is half-curled into the seat, knees drawn just slightly inward like her body hasn’t decided yet whether it’s allowed to relax. Her breathing is steady now, but it’s the kind of steady you get after your nervous system has been wrung out and left to d
The Silver Fox Crown Seralyth Ashcroft
We don’t take roads.Not the ones people name.Not the ones people patrol, pave, or pretend are safe.Elowen calls them primary routes, like the word itself makes them a liability. Like safety is something you can’t afford once you’ve been noticed.So we take the backbones of the land instead—service trails, old war cuts, dead stretches where the trees lean in too close and the sky feels heavy enough to press on your shoulders.Places that don’t welcome strangers.Places that don’t remember faces.Places that swallow scent.The vehicle smells like leather and cold metal and the faint bite of wards woven into the seams. It also smells like Bramrik.Warm. Earth-deep. Steady.That should calm me.It does.And it makes everything else worse.Because calm isn’t the same as safe.And wanting isn’t the same as being allowed.Elowen drives like the world is listening.Hands steady.Eyes always scanning the mirror.Jaw set like he’s already arguing our disappearance into legality.Bramrik sits
The Silver Fox Crown Soryn Kaelreth
Authority always arrives politely.That’s how you know it’s dangerous.They come with clean boots and measured voices and documents already signed, already filed, already justified. No raised weapons. No obvious threats. Just inevitability dressed up as concern.I watch them from the upper landing as they enter Ashcroft Mansion like they belong here.They don’t.Three units. Internal Stabilization. Not soldiers—administrators with teeth. Dark coats, neutral crests, no visible weapons. They move slowly, deliberately, eyes cataloguing exits, corners, people.They’re counting power.I step back into shadow as Vaelor intercepts them at the base of the stairs. Rhevan flanks him immediately, Ashcroft command rolling off him in waves. Caelric positions himself half a step behind—close enough to hear everything, far enough to remain unspoken.It’s a familiar formation.Dominance doesn’t need symmetry. It needs clarity.“Crown Lord Thryne,” the lead Regent liaison says, inclining his head just
The Silver Fox Crown Seralyth Ashcroft
The first thing I pack is nothing.I stand in the center of my room—barefoot, heart hammering, the walls vibrating faintly with distant voices—and I realize how little of my life fits into a bag.How little of it was ever allowed to be real.“Five minutes,” Caelric says from the doorway. He doesn’t look at me when he says it. His focus is elsewhere—down the hall, the stairwell, the approaching pressure of authority that feels like static crawling under my skin.Five minutes to disappear.Again.I move fast after that. Not panicked—trained. Shirts, trousers, underthings rolled tight and shoved into the duffel Bramrik tossed onto the bed. Boots. Knife. The old leather band my father gave me that I never wear but never leave behind.My fingers shake when I grab it.Not fear. Anger.Outside the room, voices sharpen.Measured. Polite. Dangerous.Authority always sounds like it has time.I hear Rhevan before I see him—his voice clipped, commanding, the tone he uses when he’s about to burn a
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