Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 181 - Chapitre 190

A full week had passed since Triston had taken the mysterious vial Ivone had sent from Nyxoria. Seven tense days, each one watched like the ticking of a final hourglass. But now—finally—there was a shift. The morning sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, casting soft gold patterns across the stone walls of his chamber. He stood shirtless by the balcony, the breeze brushing through his hair as he stared out over Elyria, the weight in his chest no longer the crushing pressure of poison, but something else—heavier, quieter. Grief. Guilt. Longing. Behind him, the physician snapped the brass clasps of his leather medical bag shut. “His lungs are clear,” the man muttered mostly to himself, “and the fever has stayed down for three days.” He straightened, glancing over at Triston’s back, then turned toward the door. That was when Jaxon entered, pushing the door open with a cautious hand, his eyes immediately scanning Triston from head to toe. The sight of his Alpha upright—alive, bare-

It had been a week. Seven agonizing days had passed since Ivone had stepped into Nyxoria, and with each ticking hour, her anxiety had grown, suffocating her like a shroud, each day an eternity of waiting and worrying. The silence from Triston was deafening, he hadn’t written back. Not a single letter, not a single word, she hadn’t seen any messenger from Elyria, not even a whisper of news, just an oppressive stillness that seemed to suffocate her with every passing moment. With each passing day, the shadows in her mind grew darker, and the silence from Elyria became a constant reminder that she might be standing alone, facing the unknown, with no one to turn to. She couldn't shake the thought that Triston might be dead, the possibility clawing at her insides like a beast. What if the antidote had arrived too late? What if Reyes had deceived her, if what he sent wasn’t an antidote at all? Had she bartered her life, her future, and her heart for a mere specter of hope? She sat on th

The chariot's golden wheels screeched to a halt on the worn stone steps of the Nyxorian castle, the sound echoing through the morning air. Rhea stepped down, her movements fluid and effortless, exuding confidence and poise, like a queen descending from her throne. Her cloak, a rich bronze hue that seemed to shimmer and glow in the morning light, billowed behind her like a cloud, and the smile that curved her lips was as polished as the gold clasp at her throat."Lady Rhea," A guard murmured, recognizing her instantly, and bowed low before extending an arm in a gesture of respect, to lead her. “Lady Rhea. Lady Zina is expecting you.”“She should be,” Rhea said, her voice like music, her eyes glinting with amusement, a hint of anticipation that seemed to dance in their depths. "I came as soon as I heard.”The guard's expression remained neutral, but his eyes flicked to hers, a fleeting moment of curiosity crossing his face. He led her through the castle's grand entrance, the doors swing

Ivone sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, scrolls scattered across the duvet in a mess of faded ink and brittle parchment. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as her eyes scanned the lineages and war treaties laid out in the fragile Nyxorian script. So much of it still didn’t make sense—the names, the secrets, the deliberate omissions. She was just about to cross-reference a note on Annora Valtor when the sudden, echoing blast of a war horn shattered the silence. She jerked upright, startled. Another horn followed—louder, angrier. She dropped the scroll she’d been reading and rushed to the balcony, flinging the doors open just as the chaos below unfolded. The Nyxorian courtyard, once orderly and composed, was now a storm of motion. Servants scurried like frightened birds, shouting over one another as they tried to stay out of the soldiers’ path. Horses were being led out of the stables at breakneck speed, weapons hauled out of armories, and the castle guard scrambled into ra

The scorched remains of the second Nyxorian village still whispered with heat, blackened skeletal beams jutting from ashen rubble like charred bones. Smoke curled upward into the sky, thick with the stench of fire, iron, blood, and vengeance. Triston sat atop his black warhorse at the front lines, his figure carved in steel and wrath, He didn’t move, save for the slight rise and fall of his chest, each breath a restraint, each exhale a promise. His eyes, narrowed and locked on the horizon, burned with purpose. The sunlight slanted across his bare forearms, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the faded bandages that still hugged his right shoulder. The wound left by the poisoned arrow had not yet fully healed and though the pain still haunted the joint where the poisoned arrow had once lodged, he held the reins without flinching, his fingers curled firmly around it, steady despite the occasional tremor he no longer acknowledged, his grip unwavering, showing no sign of weakness. His right