Semua Bab A DEAL WITH THE ALPHA DEVIL: Bab 111 - Bab 120

Logan's pov The scent of her never left me not even when I was bleeding out on the frostbitten ground.Lavender and fire.Sanctuary and war.Now, it’s all I can smell as I drift between layers of sleep and waking, memory and dream. The fire crackles softly somewhere to my left, casting long shadows on the wall. I don’t know how long I’ve been in this bed, but I know who sat beside it, every night.Her hand is on mine now, fingers soft, a feather’s weight. It anchors me. I open my eyes.And there she is.Fiona.Hair a mess of curls, wild and lovely, framing a face I would die for again and again. She’s asleep in the chair, legs curled underneath her, arms crossed.She’s still in her clothes—mud-streaked boots, blood-smudged jacket, a dagger loose in her lap. The same one she must’ve used to drag me back from the jaws of death.Her head jerks suddenly and she stirs, eyes fluttering open. I don’t say a word. I don’t have to. Her eyes widen.“You’re awake,” she breathes.I nod or try to.

Fiona's pov It started with whispers.At first, I thought they were dreams. Words muttered under breath as his body healed, as the bruises faded and his soul, fractured by Rowan’s blade, stitched itself back together.But the second night, I woke to him speaking a language I didn’t know, not in fear and his fingers gods, his fingers were drawing shapes on the sheets.Glyphs. Runic. Circular.Symbols I’d only ever seen in forbidden Hollow scrolls.I didn't wake him but i watched.Because there was a part of me ashamed and aching that it wanted to understand.A part that wondered if this was Logan or what Rowan left behind.By the third night, the dreams changed me.I saw flashes in my sleep. Red skies. Black moons. A door made of bone, swinging open to a song I couldn’t unhear.And every time I jolted awake, Logan was whispering again. Sometimes into the pillow. Sometimes into the air, like someone else was standing there with him, just out of reach.Once, I swear I saw something watc

Fiona's pov "Another one?" I asked, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.Elandra gave a slow nod, her fingers wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth. "Third this week. Different region, same rune."She stepped aside, revealing the stone slab scorched with a single sigil. The rune was jagged, old, burned deep into the surface as if it had been carved with fire rather than blade."Balance must break," I read aloud. My stomach turned.Silas sat nearby, his arm in a sling, blood still fresh along his temple. He looked up at me with a rueful smile. "They knew exactly where to hit. Got our supply line. Took down the sentry post. Left that... thing."I stepped toward the stone, heat still lingering in the rock like the magic had only just been etched."They want us to see it," I murmured. "To feel it."Logan's voice came from behind me. "Fear is easier to spread than fire. Rowan knows that."I turned. He looked worn—dark circles under his eyes, bruises still healing, but steadier. Grounded. His

Fiona's pov“She’s in the temple ruins,” Elandra said. “Alone.”I was already strapping my knives to my boots.“She wants you to come.”“I’m counting on it.”The First Temple was rotting. Cracked stone, half-swallowed by earth and ivy. The trees here leaned inward like they were listening. The ground pulsed faintly beneath my feet, as if something ancient remembered the rituals once performed here and was waiting for another.I stepped through the threshold. No guards. No spells. Just scent—jasmine and rust.She was waiting at the altar.Red robes. Bare feet. Her hair unbound and tangled like a crown of thorns. The air shimmered faintly around her, charged. Still, she didn’t turn.“You came,” Mia said.“You lit the fire.”“I didn’t think you’d come alone.”“I’m not the one who needs protection.”Finally, she turned. Her eyes were rimmed with shadow. Pupils too wide. Her skin pale and pulled too tightly over cheekbones. But she was still beautiful. Still familiar. That was the worst pa

Fiona's pov We felt it before the sky changed.A pressure, low and grinding—like something vast was shifting under the world. Birds stopped mid-song. The pups froze mid-run, ears flattened. Even the wind seemed to recoil.Then came the sound. Not a bell, not a scream.A summoning.Elandra stood from the scrying bowl, face bone-white.“It’s opening,” she said. “The Black Gate.”We left without waiting for counsel.Me, Logan, Elandra, and four of the fiercest wolves in our ranks. No caravan. No banners. No strategy.This wasn’t a war march. This was a reckoning.The closer we got to the Hollow’s heart, the worse it became. The sky peeled into bruises. The trees lost color. Everything smelled wrong—like burning honey and rotting stone.By the time we reached the ridge overlooking the sacred valley, the world had already started unraveling.The Gate was open.Not a doorway. Not something made.It was a tear, a jagged, vertical wound in the air itself. As if reality had been clawed apart