Semua Bab Wolf's Bane: Moonlit Forbidden: Bab 151 - Bab 160

The world returned in pieces—light first, then sound, then the ache. Triston stirred beneath the cool linen sheets, his breaths shallow and uneven, his body stiff and drenched in cold sweat, his skin burned, yet he felt chilled to the bone. The haze in his head slowly began to clear, like smoke rising from a smoldering fire. Sunlight filtered in through the tall windowpanes, dancing across the stone floor, dappling the edges of the bed in gold. His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the light. Every muscle ached as though he'd fought gravity itself—and lost. As his vision focused, he turned his head slightly and saw the soft curve of Ivone’s head, she was curled in a stiff-backed chair, arms folded and head bowed forward, asleep. Her honey-brown hair spilled over her shoulder like a tattered banner, her face soft in slumber, lined with exhaustion and quiet worry. One hand still rested on the bedframe, as if she hadn’t let go of him through the entire night. He stared at her for a mome

The moon hung high over Nyxoria, veiled behind drifting clouds that painted the night in shifting shades of grey. The palace gardens, usually a serene haven of fragrant blossoms and sculpted hedges, now lay cloaked in stillness—unnaturally quiet. Even the night birds kept silent, as though the earth itself sensed blood would soon be spilled.Five cloaked figures moved like shadows beneath the hedge walls, slipping between pools of moonlight. Elyrian spies handpicked by Jaxon himself, tasked with one mission: to steal the rare vyreleaf plant growing deep within the royal garden. The key to Triston’s survival.They moved swiftly, blades sheathed, breath tight. They had trained for this. Studied every path, timed every guard’s patrol, memorized the turning of the castle’s silent clocks. And yet, they were expected.As one spy reached for the base of the vyreleaf stem, a sudden, metallic clang rang out—then a hiss of released pressure. A trapdoor beneath his feet snapped open. He cried ou

The night air over Elyria was cold and still, the kind of silence that carried a warning—a breath held too long, a hush before a scream. The moon hung pale and distant in the sky, casting a silver sheen over the southern ridges, where the land dipped into shadow and the wind whispered secrets through the dry grass. A lone scout rode the southern perimeter, his horse moving at a slow, careful pace, ears twitching in the quiet. He had been assigned the midnight watch, a routine patrol that rarely offered more than fox tracks and the rustle of nocturnal beasts. But tonight felt… wrong. The stillness was too perfect, like the world had paused in anticipation. Then he saw it. A dark shape emerged over the ridge—no more than a silhouette at first, lurching against the horizon. As the scout drew closer, he raised his torch, and the flickering flame threw light across the approaching form. A horse. Riderless at first glance, until the firelight caught the limp figure slumped across its nec

The night pressed close around the castle walls, cloaking Elyria in a suffocating stillness. The air was heavy, as though the world itself had stopped to listen. No wind stirred the banners hanging from the ramparts. No birds called. Even the torches along the battlements hissed more quietly than usual, their flames guttering in solemn agreement with the darkness that had descended. Inside the cold stone corridors of the Elyrian keep, far from the noise of the barracks and the cautious murmurs of servants, two men stood alone beneath the flickering torchlight. The shadows cast by the flame danced across the granite walls, their jagged edges rising and falling like the tides of dread swelling in the narrow space between them. Xaren and Jaxon stood in the silence that followed truth. The crimson-inked note weighed heavily in Jaxon’s hand, its words simple but devastating, and yet they echoed louder than a warhorn in the still corridor. “Bring me the girl for the antidote.” It wasn’t

In the dim, vaulted chamber of the Nyxorian stronghold, the air was thick with the low rumble of voices. The war table stretched long down the center of the room, and lit by the harsh flicker of hanging lanterns. Battle-hardened men draped in black steel and crimson cloaks sat around the table, Deltas of Nyxoria, each one wearing serious expressions on their hardened faces. Maps were unfurled, tokens pushed across borders, and whispered discussions flowed like poison in wine. Reyes stood at the head of thr table, tall, muscular, and as composed as a loaded crossbow. He had one gloved hand braced on the table while the other toyed idly with a curved dagger, letting it spin between his fingers with practiced ease. His eyes—wolfish, sharp—roamed across the map before him, where a single crimson marker rested over Elyria. His lips curled into something between a sneer and a smile as the men around him talked on about Triston, the poison, and the spies that had been sent to steal the vyre