Início / Werewolf / Stepbrother’s Obsession: Claimed By The Triplet Alphas / Capítulo 131 - Capítulo 140

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175 Capítulos

Isabella POV

The wind changed the night after we returned. Not just a shift in weather. A shift in everything. I stood at the edge of the north tower, cloak pulled tight around me, watching the storm build over the Duskmere valley like it had a vendetta. Lightning cracked low across the ridge line, silent and sharp. But there was no rain. Not yet. “She’s calling them again,” the voice behind me said. Asher. Of course it was. I didn’t turn around. “I know.” “She’s louder this time.” “She’s desperate.” “She’s close.” That one I didn’t answer. Because I’d felt it too. In the marrow. In the skin. In the thin place behind my ribs where no blade could reach and no ward could seal. She was closer. Not just whispering. Pressing. Testing the boundary like a tongue against a cracked tooth. “How long do you think we have?” he asked. I didn’t hesitate. “Days. A week if we’re lucky.” “And if we’re not?” I looked at him finally. “If we’re not, then she’s already here.” --- Aelira slept c

Isabella — POV

Duskmere didn’t sleep that night.Again.We moved through the halls like ghosts who still remembered what it meant to be hunted. Every candle re-lit. Every ward checked. Reinforced. Etched again with bleeding hands and splintered will.I didn’t sleep either.Not with Kaia unconscious in one room, Aelira silent in another, and that voice—her voice—still crackling in the air like it had permission to breathe my name.“She’s escalating,” Asher muttered as he finished reinforcing the last mirror ward in the eastern stairwell. “Whatever’s coming—whatever she’s building—it’s almost done.”“She’s not building,” I said. “She’s remembering.”He turned to me. “What does that mean?”I held up the shard of obsidian from the catacombs. The same symbol from the parchment now carved into the stone, the glow still fresh like it hadn’t stopped breathing since I touched it.“She wasn’t waiting to win,” I whispered. “She was waiting to be remembered. That’s why she marked the children. That’s why she se

Asher — POV

“The first thread,” she whispered.The words tasted wrong in the air—like they were never meant to be spoken out loud.We stood in a place that shouldn’t exist.No walls. No ceiling. Just endless shimmer and shadow, as if the world had split at the seam and folded in on itself. The floor pulsed beneath our boots—not stone, not soil—thread. Woven magic. Woven memory.And Isabella’s reflection was still there.But it didn’t move when she did.It watched.Waiting.And I didn’t trust it.“You’ve been here before,” I said, low.Her jaw clenched. “When I was marked.”“You never told me that.”“I never told anyone.”I looked at the reflection again—at its pale skin and silver-lined eyes. Not the red of tether-possession. Not the black of shadow-echoes.This was older.Deeper.Worse.“You’re not marked anymore,” I reminded her.But she didn’t respond.Because the reflection did.“No,” it said softly. “She’s woven now.”And then it smiled.My blade was in my hand before I realized I’d moved.“

Isabella — POV

Rowan’s breath was shallow. Too shallow. The kind you didn’t hear—you felt it, if you were close enough to count ribs and time and prayers. Asher laid him down on the stone, blood trailing from his mouth in threads that didn’t match the wounds. I pressed my fingers to his neck. It's still warm. Still there. Barely. “He’s tether-sick,” Asher said. I nodded. “But not hers anymore.” “No,” he said quietly. “Yours.” I froze. Then, I looked down—and saw it. A thread. Thin. Crimson. Tied to Rowan’s wrist. The other end? Wrapped around mine. My breath caught. Not metaphor. Not vision. Real. Asher reached for it, and it burned him. Not me. I held still. Heart thundering. “She tied him to me?” “No,” he said slowly. “You did.” He was right. I didn’t know when. Or how. But something inside me had reacted—to the blast, to the rupture, to the echo of her voice—and it reached out. Anchored. Bound him back. “I didn’t mean to,” I whispered. “I know,” he said, but the tightnes

Asher — POV

The moment she screamed, the walls cracked. Not stone. Not sigils. The walls. Reality bent like someone had gripped the edge of the Hollow and tried to fold it in half. I heard it in my bones before I saw it. A low-frequency hum that pressed against my teeth, my skull, like something ancient, grinding its teeth in the dark. And then— Silence. For almost an hour, Isabella was gone. Not hidden. Not unconscious. Gone. It's like a thread cut too fast to bleed. I’d seen a lot of things. Watched flesh pulled from bone, and souls scream through the veil. But nothing compared to that hour. Corrin paced the war room like a blade without a sheath. Kaia was still singing — that song that made the windows sweat saltwater and turned the shadows into things that breathed. And Aelira? She just sat. Watching the corner. The same one the Mother’s voice had come from the night before. I didn’t ask what she saw there. Because I already knew. And I was starting to wonder if she was

Isabella POV

The Hollow didn’t breathe.It waited.And I didn’t know how to walk through a place that once knew me and now watched me like I was a trespasser. The halls that had once flared with sigils and memory now pulsed dull and slow—like veins on the verge of clotting.I passed the old threshold into the map room.Not war room. Not anymore.Because war had shape.This was something else.Corrin stood over the table, palms flat, spine like stone. The dagger lay between us all like a question we already knew the answer to. Everyone had gathered—Kaia, Aelira, Asher, even Demian. The old guards. The new marked.And Rowan.He didn’t stand.But he watched.And I felt it again—the ghost of the thread that used to bind us.Not severed.Dormant.He hadn’t forgiven me.And I hadn’t forgiven myself.But he still came.That mattered more than I wanted to admit.“Asher,” Corrin said, breaking the silence. “Tell them.”I turned to him, and he met my eyes like the blade knew both our names now.He spoke low

Kaia — POV

I didn’t know how to breathe in a world where the threads no longer whispered.The silence was almost louder than the song.It pressed against my ribs like a cage of old bones, like the remnants of a scream I couldn’t remember making. For the first time in years, I didn’t hear the echoes in the corners, didn’t feel the weight of her voice laced through the wind.She was gone.And yet…I could still feel her.Not in my bones.In the absences.Where she used to be.---I stood alone at the edge of the Hollow.Not the deep places—those had gone still.This was the outer rim, where the snow fell in crooked circles and the old birch trees leaned toward each other like gossiping ghosts. The sky had gone soft, grey, unmarked.Even the stars were quiet.I let the silence hold me.Let the air brush against the places where her threads used to bite.And still, I didn’t feel free.Because freedom, it turned out, wasn’t peace.It was choice.And choice was a kind of grief.---They held a fire th

Kaia — POV

We didn’t crown a new leader.Didn’t build a throne.Didn’t bow.Instead, we got to work.And maybe that was better.Maybe that was what rebuilding meant—not replacing the center, but learning how to spin without one.There were questions, of course.There always are when the world forgets its shape.But no more prophecies. No omens. No pre-written maps.Only hands.And hands could be trusted, at least more than fate ever could.---I stood at the river’s edge the next morning, where the last of the Mirror Water had run dry.It hadn’t bled silver in weeks.Now, it was just water. Cold. Clean.Mortal.Aelira stood beside me, her hair pulled back in rough braids, wrists still faintly shimmering with the ghosts of burned threads. She looked older now. Not aged—weathered. Like a shoreline after storm season.“There’s a bend farther upstream,” she said quietly. “Good for building.”“For the city?”“For something. Doesn’t have to be a city. Could be a school. A sanctuary. A place where no o

Kaia — POV

Some things only bloom when no one is watching.That’s what the old woman said as she handed me a pouch of seeds.She didn’t ask permission to stay. Didn’t announce her name. Just wandered into the edge of the Weave on the thirty-third morning, skin like bark and eyes like dusk. She wore a coat of stitched-together herbs, and her laugh startled the crows.“What kind of seeds?” I asked.She cackled. “The kind that don’t ask for permission either.”Then she wandered off, leaving footprints that smelled like rosemary.---I planted them anyway.Not because I trusted her.Because something in me was tired of being afraid of wild things.They went into the cracks—between stones, under steps, near the water basin that leaked like an old memory. I didn’t label them. Didn’t tell anyone.Just pressed them into dirt and whispered, “Grow how you want.”And maybe that was selfish.Or maybe that was holy.---Demian found me in the half-built archive two days later, cursing over the splinter I’d j

Kaia — POV

The first storm hit on the fifty-seventh night.Not a metaphor. Not a myth.Rain like fists. Thunder-like warning. Wind that didn’t howl—it accused me.We didn’t panic. Not like before. There was no screaming, no scrambling. Just quick hands, faster thinking. Tarps pulled. Buckets placed. Children tucked close and cajoled with half-funny songs about frogs in boots and skies with leaky ceilings.I stood in the center of it all—barefoot, soaked to the ribs, laughing like I wasn’t scared.Because I was scared.But I wasn’t alone.Demian handed me a shawl that smelled like burnt sugar and lavender. I let him wrap it around my shoulders.“You’re still shivering,” he said.“I think I forgot how to be dry.”“Let me teach you again.”The way he said it—casual, easy—broke open something beneath my collarbone. Something I didn’t have words for yet.Maybe I’d never have them.Maybe that was okay.---The next morning, we rebuilt what washed away.The old bench by the river? Gone. Corrin carved a

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