Semua Bab THE PRICE FOR HIS NAME : Bab 141 - Bab 150

Thornecrest Academy refused to sleep.The entire institution pulsed with an electric hum, students gathering in hushed cliques, voices both jubilant and fevered, echoing through the marble halls like whispers of an impending storm. The aftermath of the Lion’s Arena trials lingered in the air—a mixture of sweat, blood, and something darker, something deeper.But then, there was House Six.House Six didn’t indulge in the frenzy of victory, defeat, or strategy.They slept.They didn’t linger in the common areas. They didn’t discuss their battles or victories. They didn’t indulge in the buzz that surged through the academy.They walked to their dorm, locked the door behind them, and vanished.By Saturday morning, the academy had noticed their absence.The hallways crackled with unease. House Six had not been seen since the trials had ended. They had missed meals, and worse, no one—no one—had dared to even

The Avancii estate’s private horse ranch was a masterpiece of manicured wildness—rolling green fields stretching into the horizon, sunlight glossing the tops of white fences that cleaved the land into pristine pastures. Sleek, well-bred horses grazed like aristocrats of the animal kingdom, flicking tails at flies, ears twitching at distant murmurs. The scent of sun-warmed hay, saddle oil, and the damp churn of earth was thick in the breeze.Stable hands moved through the quiet with reverence—until The Six arrived.“Move, you oversized lawn ornament,” Joy snapped, planting her boots with purpose beside a hulking black stallion who regarded her like an indifferent god. Her braids swayed with each word as she glared. “I swear, if you don’t move, I will turn you into glue.”The stallion blinked slowly, arrogantly. And stayed put.Perched on the fence like a gremlin with zero responsibilities, Mika crunched noisily into a stolen app

The sunset bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of their private suite like a wound slowly weeping gold. It spilled over the marble floors, over the rumpled silk sheets, over her skin like it belonged there. Outside, the ocean sang in time with their breath—waves crashing in lazy rhythms while the hush of air conditioning tickled the back of her neck. There was salt in the air. Coconut and vanilla, too. But mostly Fiero—a heat-soaked, clean spice scent that lived on his skin and made her feel branded just by breathing. Joy lay sprawled across the bed like a secret only he got to keep. Her bikini clung to her like a second skin, still damp in places from the pool, and her waist bead glinted like temptation between the dip of her hips. Every breath made it shift—sing, almost—and Fiero was looking at it like it was his personal religion. His forearm was braced beside her head,

The sky was a sea of diamonds, the moon casting a soft glow over the luxurious 40-meter yacht that bobbed gently on the dark waters. The deck was bathed in warm golden light, the scent of salt and champagne mixing in the air as music pulsed through the high-end sound system.It should have been a perfect night.But for Miriam DeSantis, everything felt wrong.She sat on one of the plush deck loungers, her arms crossed tightly, a fresh cocktail untouched beside her. Because she was still shaking.Not visibly. Not obviously. But deep inside, under her skin.Samuel had pinned her against a tree.Samuel had warned her—no, promised her—that he would kill anyone who came close to her.Her fingers brushed her throat, feeling the faint soreness there.She hated that she was still thinking about it.She hated that it still made her feel small."—And then he choked the guy out until he

Thornecrest Academy was dead quiet.No students.No whispered deals. No power plays in the halls. Just the wind dragging brittle leaves across the stone paths, the distant groan of wrought-iron flagpoles swaying under a moonless sky.Only House Elect remained.And, of course, Principal Whitmore and the ghosts of those who had died tonight.The underground vault reeked of blood and gunpowder.Thirteen men lay sprawled across the cold stone floor, their bodies arranged in a grotesque mosaic of failure. Some had clean, clinical bullet holes through their skulls. Others bore signs of chaos, throats torn open like paper, deep slashes carving through tactical armor and skin alike.The blood hadn’t even dried. It shimmered wetly in the dim light, seeping into the cracks between the stones, pooling in silence.Their weapons were strewn across the floor—rifles, blades, tech-embedded gadgets—all lifeless now, as useless as the fingers that had once clutched them.The vault’s massive metallic