Semua Bab Alpha Blake's Broken Luna : Bab 121 - Bab 130

Blake P.O.V.The roof’s a bad joke; waist-high parapet that’d make a safety inspector faint, a chimney that leans like it’s thinking of retirement, and a view too pretty for what’s been happening underneath it.Bane comes for me because of course he does. He always picks the wrong fight.He’s bleeding from the wrist, and I see a bite mark rimmed in silver like honesty. His eyes are red-rimmed and mean. He feints high, dives low, tries to take my knees. I leave one foot where it is, lift the other, and make a small correction to his face with the bottom of my boot. The sound he makes is universal.Crean stands by the roof access like a museum guard who’s bored of his job and thinking of lunch. Rope twirls easily in his hand; shadow and poisoned teeth and practice. He’s watching angles, not egos. That’s the dangerous part.“Allison,” he says pleasantly, as if we’re at a garden party. “You’re very tiresome.”“She’s alive,” I tell him, putting myself between them, “which is what keeps end

Allison P.O.V.She’s fast. Not young, not fresh, but fast in the way of women who’ve burned so much of themselves there’s nothing left to slow them down.She gives ground when I press her to the wall of air that Talia hung and then takes it, snapping her wrist for my face. Dawn tilts my head. The strike whispers by. I answer with my shoulder; she flows around it like smoke. It’s like fighting perfume.“Mother,” Crean says, rope humming, “stop playing.”She doesn’t. Her eyes never leave mine. There’s a very small part of me that wants to say I see you, and then I remember the puppy kicked, and what she wanted to teach me, and decide I’ll be generous tomorrow.She inhales, lips parting, black etching deeper. She’s about to pull something big.‘Tara,’ I whisper, ‘please.’‘Left,’ the child says at once, delighted. ‘And down. And… Now!’I drop. The spell Caitlyn throws costs a decade; I can feel it peel off her. It rips the air where my head was and hits the chimney Tabs has obligingly wr

Allison P.O.VWe do not descend to cheers. We descend to work.Caitlyn’s prison floats between us like a jewel I’d rather drop down a well. Tabs and Talia keep it small, smaller than a hatbox now, humming their father’s old song under their breath, the one that pulls clean threads through dirty cloth. My ears ring with it until the sound sits in my bones and the box’s edges stop trying to sharpen themselves in the air.Oloron meets us at the stair head with a face that says everything we need to know. He scans the seams with a craftsman’s eye, then my face with a father’s. His hand trembles as he tips Talia’s chin and checks for cracks that aren’t there. She rolls her eyes and then she leans into the touch anyway. Tabs bumps his shoulder with hers, he leans his hands against her cheek and says I see you. The song thickens, steadier.“Crystal,” Oloron says, to me this time.I pull the cord. The stone is warm as a mouse in winter. He relaxes a sliver. “Good.”“Later,” Blake tells every

Ruby P.O.V.The eastern meadow of Silver Dawn isn’t much to look at by daylight, just bleached grass and an old stone that remembers winters. At the edge of evening, though, it starts to come to life. Freya’s people chalk out a geometry that doesn’t care about pretty things. Silver filings sift into furrows, braided with salt and ash. Oloron walks the lines with a satchel of crystals that knock softly together like patient bells and Tara’s shadows gather at the tree line in a quiet crowd, curious and ready.I stand where Freya puts me, the east point, and try not to think about cages.“You anchor by asking,” Freya says, simply. She’s Nicholas’s half-sister, sharp cheekbones, sharper eyes, a daylight witch who’s patient with wolves if we’re useful. “Don’t force it, don’t bargain, ask and mean it.”“I can do that,” I say, and it isn’t bravado. My whole life people told me I feel too much, fine, but tonight it’s a tool.Nicholas stops a few feet shy of the line, long enough for the habi

Blake P.O.V.Morning makes honest liars out of all of us and by the time the sky goes pale over Silver Dawn, the field looks like it never learned what we did here last night, just frost on old grass, chalk ghosts, and a ring of tired people pretending their bones don’t creak. Freya’s warlocks police the circle with quiet hands while Oloron checks the seam on Celine’s new box every six seconds like a man making sure the door he just locked is still a door. Tara sits on the anchor stone with both babies and Mindy, the shadows drowse at their feet like well-fed cats. Elira stayed back at the packhouse, resting to be here when we come back and Mindy needs a break. It’s a good call on their account, and I’m proud of them for making it. We split the work. Cassie marshals the vault convoy with a list, a glare, and three redundancies. She’ll take Caitlyn to the Council under enough layers of warding to make a god sweat while Elliott runs flanks like chaos on a leash. Tabs and Talia ride sho