Semua Bab The Lunar Queen's Redemption : Bab 51 - Bab 60

The first light of dawn filtered through the shattered stained-glass windows of the Grand Banquet Hall, painting the once‑opulent chamber in fractured hues of ruby and gold. Long before the sun’s rays reached the highest towers of the Eternal Palace, Nyra Duskbane stirred on the cold marble floor, her silk gown torn and stained with blood. Every muscle in her body ached, her head throbbed, and her chest burned with the unrelenting pulse of the mark that had appeared on her skin the night before.Slowly, she rose to her feet, clutching the edge of a fallen table for support. Plates and goblets lay scattered among spilled wine and remnants of last night’s feast. Velvet tapestries, shredded by claws and flame, fluttered in the morning breeze that seeped through the broken windows. Candles, long since guttered, left behind pools of black wax on the floor.A groan escaped Nyra’s lips as she straightened. Her silver hair, tousled and damp, fell in tangled waves around her face. She pressed

The Temple of Ash rose from the blackened cliffs like a crown of obsidian, its spires etched with runes that pulsed with faint red light. Nyra Duskbane stood before its grand entrance, the mark on her chest throbbing like a war drum. Two sentries in ash‑streaked robes flanked the carved doors, their eyes hidden beneath cowl’s shadow.Beside her, Ryker adjusted his cloak, face set in grim determination. Selene stood opposite, regal and proud, yet her silver eyes betrayed worry. “Remember,” Selene whispered, “this trial is as much about control as it is about power.”Nyra nodded. “I understand.”With a creak, the great doors swung open. Inside, the air was stifling; warm as a forge. Elder priestesses formed a semicircle around a dais of scorched marble. The High Priestess, robes embroidered in molten gold, raised a hand.“Daughter of Ash,” she intoned, voice echoing, “to prove your worth, you must conquer the Trial of Fire.”A chamber beyond opened to reveal a ring of living flame; tall

Nyra Duskbane awoke to the soft creak of ebony floorboards and the echo of her own ragged breathing. She lay sprawled on her silk-covered daybed, limbs entwined in the ash-gray sheets that clung to her damp skin. Every nerve pulsed with residual heat and the unforgettable memory of Kaelan’s touch. Moonlight filtered through the tall, arched window, casting silver patterns on the polished marble floor.She pressed a hand to her forehead, blinking against the afterglow of passion. Beneath her pillow, the black feather; a silent token from the Rogue Prince, brushed her fingers. She retrieved it, running her fingertips over its inky barbs. The faintest whisper of wind stirred its fine strands, as if eager to share a secret.Nyra sat up, pressing her palms into her eyes. Her heart thundered in her chest. The solar was silent except for the distant toll of the Citadel’s dawn bell. Ryker was gone, no doubt wrestling with guard captains over patrol routes. That absence left the room achingly

Nyra awoke to the metallic clang of her own heartbeat and the bitter chill of damp stone against her back. She lay on a narrow cot of rough‐hewn wood, the coarse blanket tangled around her thighs. Torchlight flickered through iron bars, casting long shadows across the cold floor of the dungeon cell.Her wrists throbbed where iron shackles bit into her flesh, chains rattling each time she moved. She sat up slowly, sweat beading on her brow despite the chill. The air smelled of moss and stale incense, and somewhere beyond the bars a drip of water echoed like a ticking clock.“Morning already,” she murmured, rolling her shoulders. She tested her ankles, also bound by heavy iron. “At least they give me rope and iron, not poison and dagger.”A heavy footstep approached outside the cell. Nyra drew in a breath, pressing her back against the wall. The door groaned open. A tall figure stepped into the torchlight, a warrior in black‐leather armor, chainmail glinting at his shoulders. Dark hair

Twilight draped the forest highway in velvet shadows as Nyra Duskbane rode at the front of the small escort. Selene’s silver cloak brushed the leaves at her side, Ryker’s warhorse thundered behind, and Kaelan followed on Ashwing, eyes shifting to every darkened hollow. The roar of Ember Falls echoed in the distance like a living thing.“Can you sense him?” Nyra called over her shoulder.Kaelan nodded, jaw set. “His magic flares in the mist... wild, untamed. He’s near the ledge.”Selene’s hand tightened on the pommel of her sword. “Be careful... he’s dangerous.”Ryker offered a reassuring grin. “Danger is her element.”Nyra shot him a sidelong look. “And yours.”The road ended at a clearing where the river plunged over polished stone into a churning pool. Moonlight and torchlight danced on the spray, creating halos of mist. At the lip of the falls stood Kaelen Blackthorn, the Rogue Prince, cloak torn at the shoulder, hair plastered with mist. He turned as they emerged, face half‑hidden