Semua Bab Rejected By The Alpha, Desired By The Immortal King: Bab 61 - Bab 70

POV: ARAYA The courtyard was breathing. Not with wind. Not with life. But with that slow, predator rhythm a heart takes before a strike. Shadows pooled in the corners. Moonlight spilled silver across the stones like it had fallen only for us. I should have been asleep. Instead, I was here — palms raw, knuckles aching — facing the man who tore me apart and rebuilt me with every clash. Dorian. His blade caught the moonlight like it wanted to swallow it whole. “Again,” he ordered, voice low, uncompromising. I rolled my shoulders, ignoring the way my pulse jumped at the sound. The Hollowflame stirred under my skin, restless, waiting. We clashed. Steel sang sharp between us. His strikes were precise — reminders that if he wanted to hurt me, he could. I met each one, refusing to give ground, refusing to let him see the way my chest tightened every time he stepped inside my guard. Nyxara’s voice curled in my head like smoke: He’s fighting you and himself. I blocked

POV: Adira It begins with a word. Not a shout. Not a command barked across a training ring. A small word, almost tender. “Come.” Kade’s wolf lifts its head from the rug and obeys. He shouldn’t. Every line of him says so—the tight quiver in his shoulders, the flick of an ear toward the door as if the night beyond might offer him another choice, the growl that never forms. But the sound dies in his throat, swallowed by something colder than obedience and older than fear. He pads across the floorboards, claws ticking softly against wood, and sits at my knees. I thread my fingers into his ruff. Thick, warm, alive. Mine. “Good,” I murmur, as if praise were a blessing instead of another hook. He leans into my hand because he must. I feel the tremor beneath his skin, the one that says no. The magic that answers yes. Erik keeps his promises. I hadn’t expected that at first. I expected rot, the taste of dirt, the horror of bargains that never finish taking. And there is ro

POV: Selene / FateThe Hall of the Loom is the one place in Solara where even gods whisper.Not because we fear the threads.Because the threads remember.The air here is older than fire, colder than moonlight. The pillars climb higher than any mortal neck could crane, etched with runes that predate language. The floor is no stone at all but a vast weave of strands, humming faintly beneath my bare feet with every life they represent.My steps make no sound as I move deeper into the hall, though every instinct in me screams not to be here alone.The Loom rises at the far end, impossibly wide, its threads stretching out into a horizon that does not belong to this room or even this realm. Some shine like sunlight caught in crystal. Others flicker, dimming toward their end. Still others fray, curling like burnt parchment.Once, I thought I understood its patterns. That was before the First Sundering—before I learned the gods do not hold mastery over their own fates.I have not stepped ins

POV: DorianThe Hollowwild breathes when it wants you dead.THE BONE BLADE I feel it in how the branches ration moonlight, in the hush that falls when I cross the old boundary stone. Sound doesn’t vanish—it recoils. Even my own breath feels like trespass here.The glade is where I remember it: a circle of earth that never quite grows grass, ringed by trees that lean in as if eavesdropping. Waiting at the centre—my trial.It isn’t a beast in any shape the mortal world would name. It gathers from smoke and memory, a convergence of antler and ash, of every hunt my people survived and the hunts that unmade us. Its eyes aren’t eyes at all, but deep wells where stars might drown.“Your bloodline is ash,” it tells me, voice lodging in the bones of my face.“And?”“Ash is nothing unless burned twice.”White fire blossoms behind it—not flame that eats the forest, but a wall that burns without consuming. I can smell it. It’s not wood. It’s hot iron, old law, names spoken for the last time.“St

POV: ArayaIt starts as a hum.Not in the air — in me. Low and steady, like a heartbeat that isn’t mine, thudding up through the soles of my feet, into my bones, into the place the Hollowflame sleeps and pretends to be tame.The forest holds its breath. Crickets go mute. Leaves tilt as if listening.“Do you feel that?” I whisper.Dorian is already watching the sky. “Yes.”The first tear appears with no thunder. No warning. The night simply… opens. A seam of pale light splits the dark, its edges curling like paper too close to flame. It isn’t moonlight or sunlight — it’s the kind that hurts to see and won’t let you look away.The Hollowflame rises through me, uncoiling like a serpent scented with blood. It licks my ribs, my throat, the hinge of my jaw, asking. I don’t release it. Not yet.The seam widens. Shadows spill out with the light — not a contradiction, a marriage. The air makes a sound I’ve never heard: a long, thin keen, like a string pulled past forgiveness.Nyxara goes very