Semua Bab Rejected By The Alpha, Desired By The Immortal King: Bab 91 - Bab 100

POV: KadeI always thought dying would feel cold.But fire kissed my ribs as I stood on the ridge, and the Loom shivered in its threads. The battlefield reeked of sap and ash, blood and dust. Wolves sprawled in heaps—breathing, broken, still fighting with their eyes even when their bodies couldn’t. Above, the seam bled silver. Below, the ground twisted with Erik’s roots.He rose again—tall, perfect, patient. Bark wrapped his skin, leaves sprouted where veins should be. The ground bent to him like a servant.“Wolfless,” he mocked, orchard-eyes pinning me. “A husk. What strength do you carry, boy?”My wolf had been silent since the collar. A hollow cage where his breath should live. Most days I believed Erik—that I was nothing but a scarred man with no marrow left.But tonight—Tonight every scar lit like a lantern.Because Araya burned three ridges over, Hollowflame carving the dark into daylight. Because Dorian fought War’s avatar with a light older than gods. Because priestesses chok

POV: Adira The Moon Temple is gone, but I still see it when I close my eyes. White columns, silver flame, hymns that promised crowns if I bent low enough. All ash now. Ash and her. Araya. She stole everything. The wolves’ loyalty. The prophecy. Even the gods look at her fire like it’s scripture. And me? I’m left with nothing but Erik’s whisper in my blood and the child inside me my last coin, my last crown. I press a hand to the swell. You were supposed to be mine. The roots stir beneath my feet, answering his promise. Not alone. Not yet. Then the fire flares on the ridge. She’s here. Araya. --- POV: Araya She looks thinner than before, but her eyes are blades. Adira stands in the ruined courtyard, belly rounded, hands trembling as if she’s holding the world wrong. “Araya,” she spits. “You ruined everything.” Nyxara prowls in my skull, unimpressed. She ruined nothing. She revealed rot. Burn her roots, not her ribs. “Go home, Adira,” I say, though we both kno

POV: Araya The Field of Iron War came crowned in blood. His army rolled across the valley like an avalanche, armour clattering, banners dripping red ink and older stains. Wolves snarled. Men hammered spears on shields. Things that had once been wolves but were now only scars shuffled in his ranks, hollow-eyed, their howls empty echoes of a god’s command. He led them tall as a siege tower, shoulders plated in iron thicker than temple doors. Each plate wept blood that smoked and hissed in the dirt. His sword was no blade but a slab serrated with the teeth of wolves he had killed. The air bent around it. “Little flame,” War said, voice cracking stone. The ridges shook. Wolves in my ranks shuddered, not at death they had known that but at remembering how often they had bowed to that voice. Nyxara’s laugh licked the inside of my ribs. Show him. Show him what verdict tastes like when fire stops asking permission. The seam above pulsed once. The battlefield went still. I lifte

POV: Araya The ridge split like bone under a butcher’s hand. Fissures spidered through Blackthorn’s crown and raced into the valley. Stone heaved. Graves cracked. Old trees bowed as if remembering a name they’d sworn to forget. From every wound in the earth, roots writhed up thick as pillars, slick with black sap, veined with a sickly green light that pulsed like a stolen heartbeat. He rose with them. Erik was no longer a man wearing roots. He was a root-wearing, the last handsome suggestion of a man. Bark plated his ribs. Veins crawled with chlorophyll. A crown of thorns had grown straight out of his skull, dragging loam, bones, and broken collars like trophies. Wherever his feet touched, the ground bent in obedience. “Araya.” His voice rolled through bedrock, damp and certain. “Child of fire. You cut paper. You singe wrists. But the old law is earth. I am the first binding and the last. Burn if you like. The ground remembers me.” Above, the seam thinned to a silver razor.

POV: ArayaPine. Iron. Moonflower after rain.The ridge smelled like the first page of a story rewritten.Blackthorn’s courtyard was cleared by hands that wouldn’t wait for miracles.Broken stone was stacked along the walls like pulled teeth.The plinth where the Ledger once breathed lay bare but for a soot handprint.Above, the seam ran thin as a knife silver edge over velvet bruise while the void watched, patient.No trumpets. Only drums: palms on hide, low and steady a heart relearning time.Wolves came first: Blackthorn, Crescent, newly named strays, rogues pretending they hadn’t chosen us.Then mortals: farmers with dirt moons on their knuckles, river wives with knife calluses, city boys with stolen ribbons.Priestesses, hems torn and mouths clean of silver, carried bowls of coal as if this were a sacrament finally worth keeping.They filled the yard and left the centre to ash and sky.Nyxara stretched behind my ribs, lazy and satisfied. You’ve made them loud enough to hear thems