Semua Bab The Triplet's Bullied Mate: Bab 361 - Bab 370

Elowen’s POV I stepped through the mist of the ancient forest just as the first fragile fingers of dawn painted the sky in hues of rose and lavender. The air was cool and damp, clinging to my skin, but beneath it, a new heat radiated from within me, a subtle hum of power that had not existed before. The winding, shadowy path that had led me down into the earth, into the heart of my ancestors’ exile, had closed behind me. The coven, the women of the Broken Flame, had faded into memory, their solemn faces and burning eyes etched onto my soul, their ancient chant still echoing faintly in the deepest chambers of my mind. But I wasn’t the same. I was fundamentally, irrevocably changed. Something ancient and wild burned beneath my skin now, a living fire that pulsed with a rhythm alien yet utterly familiar. The symbols, the intricate runes etched onto my arms during the ritual, glowed faintly even in the weak, nascent light of morning, shimmering with an inner luminescence. They pulsed

Elowen’s POV The training grounds had never looked so alive. Or maybe that was just me. The familiar clearing, usually a simple patch of earth, now pulsed with a vibrant energy, bathed in the sharp morning light. The air shimmered with an almost visible heat, a subtle distortion that spoke of raw power. My own magic swirled just beneath the surface of my skin, restless and eager, pulsing like a second, wild heartbeat in sync with the ancient rhythm of the earth itself. I could feel its pull in my fingertips, a tingling sensation, in the marrow of my bones, a deep resonant hum, and even in the subtle way the wind responded to my breath, swirling around me in gentle eddies. Alaric stood across from me, a formidable silhouette against the rising sun. He was shirtless, his skin gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat, every muscle defined. His swords were strapped to his back, silent witnesses to our ritual. Today wasn’t about weapons, about physical combat, or even about wolf magic. It

Caelum's POV The hidden cave reeked of blood and old spells, a potent, metallic tang mingling with the sharp, acrid scent of ancient, forbidden magic. It was a scent that clung to the damp stone walls, seeped into the very earth, and permeated my skin. A sickly, fireless glow illuminated the intricate carvings etched across the rough stone. These weren't the weak symbols of blessings or protection; no, these were symbols of possession, of absolute control, and of unmaking. A dismantling of what was, to reshape it into what I desired. I knelt before them, shirtless, my powerful frame a stark silhouette against the eerie luminescence. My pale skin was smeared in ash and binding ink, ancient substances that crackled with dormant energy. My silver eyes, usually cold and calculating, were locked onto the flickering glyphs, burning with a fervent, almost manic intensity as I whispered in the old tongue—words not meant for human or wolf ears, words that vibrated with a primal authority. T

Elowen's POV The air was still, a heavy, suffocating blanket that pressed down on the ancient forest. It was the kind of stillness that spoke not of peace, but of impending death, a held breath before the final plunge. The twisted, knotted trees ahead loomed like skeletal guardians, their branches clawing at the bruised twilight sky. Every root, every shadow, every cursed leaf of the Hollow Forest hummed with a malevolent magic that wasn't mine, yet it recognized me, responded to the newly awakened power thrumming beneath my skin. It was a dark symphony, and I was the unexpected conductor. The Triplets moved ahead of me, their forms lean and lethal in the dim light, their every step a testament to their calculated precision. Their bodies hummed with a restrained rage, a barely leashed ferocity that made the very air around them crackle. They didn't speak. They didn't have to. The unspoken pact, the shared fury, resonated between us, a silent language understood in the deep recess

Elowen's POV The Council Hall was colder than I remembered, a chill that seeped into my bones despite the fire that now hummed beneath my skin. It was a place carved from ancient, gleaming obsidian and towering skyglass, its vast chamber looming with silent, unyielding judgment. It wasn’t built for comfort, for warmth, or for human-scale interactions. It was built to remind everyone who entered, from the lowliest initiate to the mightiest Alpha, that power—true, absolute power, and the right to wield it—belonged solely to the Council. And today, by their decree, I was its enemy. I, Elowen Blackthorne, stood accused. I stood utterly alone in the chilling center of the vast, circular chamber, the polished obsidian floor reflecting my solitary figure. Around me, seven High Council members, cloaked in robes of impenetrable black, perched on their elevated thrones like ancient, predatory vultures. Their eyes, sharp and unforgiving, were like sharpened blades, dissecting me, piercing