Semua Bab Rejected by My Mate, Fated to the Lycan King: Bab 581 - Bab 590

ScarlettWe shouldn’t have come back here.It creeps in, unseen but undeniable, bending the air around me.The taste of copper and something older on my tongue.The pressure swells quietly under my skin, in the silent places fire makes its’ home.The seam we sealed a few days ago is no longer dormant.It pulses with life.Golden light seeps from the cracked earth like blood.Slow and thick, illuminating the shattered ring of burnt trees around it.Ash kicks up with every step we take, and I swear the grove is breathing.Not in a rhythmic way, but with stuttering, panicked gasps.Erik reaches for me the moment I start to sway. His hand is firm on my waist.His grip pulls me into presence, into now. Into him.“Scarlett,” he says softly. “Your eyes-”I close them, but it’s too late. The gold has already overtaken the blue.I feel it burning behind my eyelids, feel the magic trying to crawl out of me.This time, it doesn’t strike, it latches on.It wants out.No. It wants in.It wants me.

IlsaSmoke curls through the air like it remembers something. Like it’s been waiting for me.We’ve made camp beside a stream, its’ waters whispering soothingly over smooth stones, but I can’t sleep.Not with the brand on Elliott’s shoulder still pulsing faintly.Not with Loki’s laughter still scraping the inside of my skull.And not with the dreams clawing at the edge of my vision, waiting to be let in.Caelan is nearby, sitting motionless beneath a tree, silver eyes half-lidded like he’s watching the stars and not watching me.But I know better. He’s always watching me.I turn from the others and walk.Deeper into the trees, until the air thickens, until the mist smells of memory and the sky above turns colorless.The forest shifts. Not violently, but with eerie certainty, like it knows where I need to go.The shrine finds me, not the other way around.The stones are old, smooth with age and hollow with purpose. They curve in a circle around a pool so still it looks like glass.Runes

ElliottI should be sleeping.But the air feels wrong. Thick with magic, bitter like iron and honey mixed together.The kind of air that makes your teeth hurt.Everyone else is curled up near the campfire, far enough apart to have space, close enough to not feel alone.Chris is breathing slow and deep, like he's totally out, but I know his rhythm well enough to tell when he's faking it.And I know he's listening.Just in case I scream again.I don't plan to. Not tonight.Tonight, I'm not even looking for answers.I'm just walking. Circling the clearing. Letting my thoughts spin and burn.The moon hangs low, swollen and covered.It's been weird for days. Showing up where it shouldn't, too big, too red, then too pale, then suddenly gone.Like it's watching us but forgetting how to stay solid.Then I trip. Not over a branch. Not a rock. Something soft, crumbling at the edges. I drop down fast, heart hammering.There, half-buried in the dirt, wrapped in waxed cloth and what looks like fur

ErikI don't remember stepping away from the others.One moment, Scarlett is beside me, the next, the forest folds in around me like a living thing, reshaping itself with deliberate intent, and I'm alone.Except I'm not.The sensation creeps up my spine first, a prickling awareness that something ancient stirs in the shadows between the trees.They part like curtains as I approach, their branches weaving together overhead to form a canopy that blocks out the stars.The earth beneath my boots begins to glow, faint at first, then brighter.Lines of moss and root curl into intricate patterns that seem to shift when I'm not looking directly at them.The symbols pulse with a rhythm that matches my heartbeat, as if the forest itself is learning the cadence of my life."You came," a voice whispers, not aloud but threading through my thoughts like smoke.It's ancient beyond measure, echoing with the weight of countless judgments passed beneath these boughs."I didn't know I was meant to," I s

ArloThe night is too quiet.It’s brittle, sharp-edged, like glass waiting to shatter.I sit on the edge of our bed, still half-dressed in hunting leathers, sharpening a blade I don't need. The ritual is soothing, familiar. The whisper of steel against whetstone, the gradual perfection of an edge.My hands are steady, but everything else is tight with worry that coils in my chest like a living thing.They're out there. Our children.Not just by blood, but the ones we raised, protected, taught to fight and survive and never back down.The wind outside our window carries whispers I can't quite catch.Every instinct I possess screams at me to go after them, to track them down and drag them back to safety.But I know better. They're not children anymore, despite what my heart insists.Behind me, the door opens with a soft creak.Hilda steps in, hair braided back in the severe style she favors when she's preparing for war.Her shoulders are bare, the thin shift she wears doing nothing to h