Semua Bab The Triplet's Bullied Mate: Bab 331 - Bab 340

Elowen's POV The moment the instructor’s sharp, resonant voice dismissed us, the training arena, previously a crucible of focused energy, erupted into a flurry of motion. Students scattered like leaves caught in a sudden gust of wind, their earlier discipline dissolving into a cacophony of excited chatter and hurried footsteps. The air, still thick with the lingering scent of scorched earth and sweat, hummed with residual heat and raw energy, but I barely registered it anymore. My own heart was still thundering, a furious drumbeat against my ribs—though not from the physical exertion of the combat itself. No, it thundered from the way Theron had looked at me during the fight, his eyes a brewing storm of possessiveness and fear. It thundered from the way Caelum had watched me from the shadows, his gaze unnervingly familiar, hinting at secrets I couldn’t yet grasp. And most acutely, it thundered from the way Alaric hadn’t said a single word through it all, his usual measured calm hol

Elowen's POV The energy in the training hall was a suffocating weight. It hummed, vibrated, thrummed with a palpable tension, sharp and insistent, like the very air just before lightning rends the sky. I could feel it the moment I stepped into the arena, a prickling awareness on my skin. Whispers, light as dust motes but sharp as obsidian shards, followed me, a relentless, pervasive hum that seemed to thicken the air around me. It wasn’t just about sparring today—it was about them. About me. About the Triplets. About Caelum. About the new, unsettling heat in the academy’s ancient bloodline war, a silent, volatile conflict that had suddenly erupted into the open. And now, Ranon was stepping into the ring. Each deliberate scrape of his boots across the polished stone floor echoed in the sudden, expectant silence. His academy shirt, usually so pristine, clung to his powerful body, damp with sweat from the preceding drills, the crisp white wrap around his right hand stark and angry-loo

Elowen’s POV The lingering echoes of Ranon’s pained cry still vibrated in the air, a raw, sharp discord. I cradled his broken hand against my chest, my own fingers trembling, trying to shield it from the cruel, judging light of the arena, from the omnipresent whispers, from everything that sought to diminish him. Around us, the scattered students, once a clamoring, bloodthirsty mob, slowly, reluctantly dissolved, but not before leaving their stares behind—burning into my skin like frostbite, each gaze a judgment, a speculation. Caelum was still watching. Still breathing. Still calculating. He didn't move from his position by the cracked wall, a silent, dark silhouette against the fading sunlight. His presence was a chilling anchor in the chaotic aftermath. He just leaned there, still, elegant, his silver eyes colder than ever, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line as he watched me cradle Ranon. Watched me touch him like something fragile. Something precious. Something utterl

Elowen’s POV The stars hung impossibly low that night, a shimmering tapestry of diamond dust scattered across velvet. They seemed to lean in, closer than usual, as if even the silent, ancient heavens were listening, holding their breath, eager to bear witness. The academy grounds below had long since quieted, the last vestiges of student chatter fading into the rustle of the night. Only the occasional flutter of a night bird’s wings or the gentle, rhythmic rustling of leaves in the hidden garden broke the profound silence. But above it all—above the whispers that still haunted the lower halls, above the aching tension that permeated every stone of the academy, above the distant, omnipresent hum of magic that permeated every living thing—was this place. The rooftop. Our place. A sanctuary carved out of the very heart of the academy, known only to a precious few, and now, consecrated by our shared secrets. I found him there, right where I knew he’d be, drawn by an instinct as old a

Elowen's POV “I never—” I began, my voice barely a whisper, the denial dying on my lips even as I spoke it. It was impossible. I would never have given him access. “You never did it consciously,” he interrupted, his tone maddeningly steady, almost compassionate, as if he were explaining a simple concept to a child. “But that night in the woods, when I carried you—your magic flared. You trusted me. Even if your mind didn’t. And the Academy remembered.” He was referring to the chaotic aftermath of the attack, when I had been gravely injured, my magic spiraling out of control. It was a hazy memory, shrouded in pain and fear, but I recalled flashes of being held, of a raw, potent power that felt both alien and strangely familiar. The thought that my own magic, my very essence, had somehow granted him access, bypassing my conscious will, was profoundly unsettling. It was a violation of the deepest kind, a breach of my internal sanctuary. I instinctively stepped back, my spine hitting