Lahat ng Kabanata ng Rejected by My Mate, Fated to the Lycan King: Kabanata 431 - Kabanata 440

CereliaThe stones are singing again.Not with sound, but with pressure. An ache behind my teeth, a low thrum beneath my ribs. Old magic doesn’t shout. It remembers loudly. And right now, it remembers everything.I step carefully through the spiral corridor beneath the inn, lantern raised, boots brushing loose chalk and dust.The runes on the walls have started to pulse faintly. Rising and falling in waves that match Scarlett’s heartbeat.I know it’s hers. Because my magic knows her, too.The loom chamber is exactly as we left it. Threads suspended, glowing with magic older than anything still taught in our world.And at the center, the black stone loom waits. Still and watchful. As if waiting for a final command.Signe joins me a breath later, her hand resting lightly on the wall. “They’re responding faster,” she says.“They’re listening,” I agree“To what?” she asksI hesitate. “To what the choice will be.”She looks at me. “Scarlett’s?”I nod. “And Victoria’s. And maybe… Erik’s.”T

ChrisWe’ve been following the guy for three blocks.I don’t think he’s clocked us yet, but I’m not ruling it out. He’s too smooth. Too ordinary.Everything about him screams ‘don’t notice me’. Neutral jacket, nondescript haircut, shoes without a squeak.It’s the kind of forgettable that takes effort.Elliott walks beside me, hands in his jacket pockets, trying to look like we’re just two teens out past curfew. He’s good at this. Better than I thought he’d be.“He’s doubling back,” he murmurs.Sure enough, the guy glances into a shop window and adjusts his path. It’s not dramatic. Just enough to make it seem like he forgot something.Only, there’s nothing open on this street. And no one walks in loops unless they’re trying to catch a tail.“Still think this is nothing?” Elliott asks, his voice low.“No,” I say. “He’s watching the inn. He was there earlier, by the fountain. Just standing. Like he was waiting for someone.”“Or reporting to someone.”I feel a chill that has nothing to do

VictoriaThe dream isn’t mine. It’s hers.Scarlett stands in the center of a burning field, crowned in ash, eyes glowing like a dying star. Everything around her is blackened, broken, and strangely beautiful. I try to reach her.She looks right at me. And smiles. And then she dies.I wake up choking on air that’s too hot, tangled in sweat-damp sheets and the echo of flame. My magic roils under my skin, erratic and vicious, seething like it wants to tear its way out.I press a hand to my chest, but nothing calms it.Not breathing. Not remembering how Loki’s touch steadied it. Not even Erik’s runes scrawled beside my bed.I need to burn something. Or someone.But before I can move, the room changes.The shadows at the window deepen and the light folds inward. And then he’s here.Leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting for hours, all elegance and shadow and unreadable calm.“You were screaming,” he says.“I didn’t call for you.”“You didn’t need to.”He steps forward slowly, like

SigneThe archive isn’t dusty. That’s the first sign something’s wrong.Old places like this, tucked beneath churches or behind university walls, should reek of mold and parchment. But this one? It smells like salt and iron. Like blood and tides.Like something buried is trying to surface.I pull the lantern closer and crouch beside the lowest drawer, fingers brushing the carved sigil on the handle. Not a Circle mark. Older. The spiral of the Weavers, fractured and incomplete.I know I shouldn’t be here alone.Cerelia offered to come, but she’s already stretched thin, and honestly? I needed the quiet. Needed somewhere that didn’t smell like fire or feel like it was holding its breath.But now that I’m here, the silence hums too loud.I open the drawer.Inside are carefully rolled scrolls, sealed letters, one box of dried petals still humming faintly with spell residue. I touch nothing until I see what I’m searching for.A book bound in dark leather, edges worn to thread.It’s not labe

ChrisWe’re not supposed to be out. But honestly, rules feel like a joke lately.Not the important ones. Like don’t get killed, don’t get possessed, don’t wake ancient bloodline magic. But the ones that say when it’s bedtime, or whether we’re allowed to steal art supplies from Signe’s satchel.Because Elliott did.He’s crouched now at the edge of the rooftop, the wind tugging at his hoodie, holding the little vial of ink like it’s holy. The moonlight glints off the glass, pale silver and shimmery, like melted starlight.“I still think this is a bad idea,” I say, dropping down beside him.“Good,” he mutters, “Then we’re probably doing something right.”“Not reassuring. Since when did you turn into such a rebel? I’m supposed to be the troublemaker.”He flashes me a grin. “Signe said it’s harmless. Temporary. Just a glamour binding to make it glow in the dark.”“And you believe her?”“I believe that if it wasn’t safe, she wouldn’t have left it in her bag next to her hairbrush and a half-