Lahat ng Kabanata ng Mated To My Stepbrother : Kabanata 121 - Kabanata 127

Novah's POVDawn bled grey and reluctant through the narrow slit of my window. Not the fiery promise of sunrise, just a slow leaching of the dark, like water soaking into parched earth. I lay still, eyes closed, breathing shallow. The stone beneath my thin mattress was cold, a familiar anchor against the chaos already stirring *within*.*Anchor.* Breath. Cold stone. The rough weave of the blanket. *Layer calm.*But beneath that deliberate focus, the pack pulse hummed. It wasn't the sharp, discordant clash of yesterday's forge confrontation, nor the suffocating wave of Maren’s grief. This was… deeper. A low thrum, like the Keep itself groaning under its own weight. *Anxiety. North.* Thick and pervasive. *Weariness.* From the hunters returning late, empty-handed again. *Watchfulness.* Thorne’s faction, sharp-eyed and coiled. And beneath it all, a persistent, cold *grief* that hadn’t lessened, just settled into the marrow of the place. *Grief. Finn’s mother. Finn.*I pushed myself up, sw

Novah's POVThe cold wasn't just in the stones anymore. It had seeped into the marrow of the Keep, into the spaces between breaths. Dawn was a reluctant smear of grey beyond my slit window, offering no warmth, only the slow reveal of another day heavy with unspoken things. I lay still, eyes closed, listening. Not just to the distant drip of melting frost, but to the *hum*. The pack pulse.It was a low tide today. Not the crashing waves of yesterday’s confrontation at the forge, nor the suffocating undertow of Maren’s grief. This was deeper, slower. A thick, viscous thrumming beneath the skin of the world. *Anxiety. North.* It coated everything, sticky and cold. *Weariness.* Bone-deep, from hunters returning hollow-eyed under a moon that offered no prey. *Watchfulness.* Sharp, brittle, like shards of ice – Thorne’s faction, coiled and waiting. And beneath it all, the bedrock layer: *Grief.* For Finn’s mother. For Finn. Settled now, not sharp, but pervasive, like damp in old wool. *Grie

Novah's POVDawn wasn’t gentle. It seeped through the arrow slit like grey sludge, leaching colour from the stones, failing to touch the chill deep in the Keep’s bones. I lay still, eyes closed, breathing shallow. Not listening, exactly. *Feeling*. The pack pulse.Low tide again. Not the frantic surge of crisis, nor the suffocating undertow of grief. This was slower, denser. A thick, viscous thrumming beneath the skin of the world. *Anxiety. North.* It coated everything, sticky and cold. *Weariness.* Bone-deep, the kind that settled after too many hollow-eyed returns from the hunt. *Watchfulness.* Sharp, brittle shards – Thorne’s faction, coiled and waiting. And beneath it all, the bedrock: *Grief.* For Finn’s mother. For Finn. Settled now, not a wound but a constant ache, like damp wool against the skin. *Grief. Finn.*I pushed myself up. The stone floor bit into my bare soles, a familiar, grounding shock. *Anchor.* Cold. Solid. Unyielding. Yesterday’s raw edges – Doric’s fury, Maren