Semua Bab Rejected by My Mate, Fated to the Lycan King: Bab 451 - Bab 459

CereliaThere are bloodstains on the page.They’re not mine. Not fresh. They’re ancient. Soaked deep into the parchment like the glyphs had to be fed before they gave up their meaning.Signe says it’s a signature. I say it’s a warning. I hope we’ll get the answer we’re looking for soon, without too much personal sacrifice.The ink around the stains warps as I study it, curling in on itself like the page wants to flinch from my magic. I press my hand flat to the vellum and breathe through the surge of nausea.The loom doesn’t like this. Which means I’m probably on the right path. Going around purposefully angering magical objects seems foolish, but we don’t have time to tiptoe anymore.Signe sits across from me, her gray-streaked blond hair braided back in its usual crown. Her fingertips are stained with ash and rose ink. She hasn’t slept. Neither have I.“This glyph predates the main Weaving schools by at least five centuries,” she says, voice low. “Possibly longer.”“It shouldn’t exi

ChrisThey think I don’t notice.Scarlett doesn’t meet my eyes at breakfast. Erik has that tightness in his jaw that usually means something broke and he’s trying not to shatter with it. Cerelia keeps glancing at them like she’s holding a secret so sharp it might bleed through her tongue.And me? I just chew toast like everything’s fine.Like I don’t smell the magic scorched into the walls downstairs. Like I didn’t wake to the feel of the earth shifting beneath my skin.We all pretend. It’s what we’re fast becoming best at.But I’m not stupid. And I’m not a kid. I’m a wolf. And wolves watch and learn.I find Uncle Soren outside the inn, shirtless and barefoot, arms crossed as he surveys the narrow yard behind the building.His back is still as a statue, but I can tell from the tension in his shoulders that he knows I’m here before I speak.“Looking for me?” I ask.He nods, glancing over his shoulder. “You’ve been quiet.”I shrug. “Everyone’s been loud.”He gives me a long look, then n

ErikI’ve read the glyph seven times since Chris brought it to me, and it still doesn’t make sense.It curls like a vine or a snare. Delicate in shape, but violent in function. It draws in. Compels. Chains.It’s not from any of the standard Weaving schools. The geometry is wrong. It pulls where it should repel. The pressure in the lines feels inverted, like it was made to undo something that already exists. Or someone.I’ve seen it before. Not in a book. But on Victoria.Etched in light beneath her skin when she lost control. The glyph pulsed under her magic like it had a will of its own. Shaping her power and feeding from it.Now here it is again, tucked in the corner of a forgotten book Elliott and Chris happened to stumble across.Seemingly nothing more than a footnote.I close the book too fast, and the binding protests. The sound startles me in the silence of my mother’s study, where the lamplight throws long shadows across her shelves of relics and carefully contained magic.The

ArloThe magic in the air has gone sour. It tastes like sparks of metal on the tongue. A storm chewing at the edges of the city.I can feel it in the marrow of my teeth. In the way my wolf keeps pacing just beneath my skin.Hilda feels it too.She’s already stripped to her tank top and leggings, barefoot in the practice ring behind the inn, hands on her hips, waiting for me.“What’s wrong?” she calls.“Nothing.”“Liar.”I roll my shoulders and step inside the circle. She’s grinning, and it’s not sweet. No, this is her other smile. The one that means someone’s about to get bloody or bent over.My favorite one.“You look like you’re hunting something,” I say.“I am.”“And what, exactly, are you hoping to catch?”“You.”Then she lunges.We clash in the center of the ring, bodies moving with brutal rhythm. No counting strikes. No pulled punches. We’re past technique. This is muscle memory and instinct and shared history.She moves like a blade. Fast, precise, full of fire.I’m stronger, b

ErikScarlett won’t look at me.She sits on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in the same shirt she’d torn open earlier in the garden. Her magic hasn't settled, it just sleeps, low and restless, like a wolf crouched behind her ribs.The scent of burnt ozone still lingers. I’ve cleaned the blackened ivy from the back wall, scrubbed ash from the stairs. The damage isn’t physical. Not really.But it’s everywhere. And she won’t look at me.“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she says finally, her voice low.“I know.”“It’s like I blinked, and the leyline wasn’t there anymore. I couldn’t feel anything except…” Her fingers tighten around the hem of the shirt. “Except him.”Loki. Bloody fucking interfering ancient god of mischief who won’t stay away from the woman I love.I don’t ask what he said.Because I can feel the imprint he left behind in her. It’s slick and sharp, like oil on water.Her magic recoils at my touch now, not in rejection, but in warning. She’s changing. And I can’t tell i