All Chapters of The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen: Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

Some stories are written to be read.Others, to be remembered.Elara’s story was never hers alone.It was always the realm’s.And when the Archive Keeper came to its final page, he found it blank.The Archive rested deep beneath the roots of the Gathering Tree, in a chamber neither hidden nor revealed—a place both timeless and easily overlooked by those who had long since learned to look forward, not back. It was cool beneath the earth, the air heavy with the scent of dusk petals and old parchment, filtered sunlight tracing uncertain paths through veins of rootglass and living bark.Here, the Keeper dwelled.Older than roots, or perhaps not old at all—simply enduring, as all true memories do.He bore no name that would be remembered in song or written in ink.He was a silent steward of stories: the first to witness Elara’s rise, and the last who ever wrote her name by hand.He had chronicled everything.The child who wept beside the roots, hoping for someone to call her name.The quee

Decades have gone by since Elara Moonstone rose from banishment to seize the Flame Throne and redefine Eldoria in blood and mercy. But queens do not last forever, and some flames do not burn as much as splinter. After Elara disappeared beyond the Veil, taking a shattered kingdom and a legacy of prophecy with her, a hush fell over the land. And now it has ended. In the Outlands, a masked queen named Sirelia rides with stolen crown on her head and a court of outcasts sworn to dust and revenge. Far in the wilds to the north, a silver-eyed child stirs,branded with the same crescent scar Elara wore. Fire and war whisper in her dreams. The world thinks the queen dead. But fire never perishes, it waits to be born.The sky bled.A crescent eclipse hung low over the dunes of Iskhar, casting crimson halos over the bone-dry horizon. Sandstorms whispered in the distance, carrying echoes of names long buried and sins never forgiven. The wind had the taste of old blood and something more bitter, me

The Moonfang Fortress was dying.Once, its walls had glittered with silverstone and banners woven with moonlight thread. Now, ivy strangled its towers and rot gnawed the bones of its past. Wolves no longer patrolled its gates. The great central brazier, the beacon that once burned with Elara’s eternal flame, had been cold for three winters.Kael stood at its base, staring into its emptiness.He remembered the nights he and Elara stood here, watching the stars fall, hands wrapped in frost and promise. She had whispered dreams then, of peace, of unity, of daughters born in light instead of shadow.Now, her flame was gone.And Kael could feel himself unraveling with it.He rubbed his temple, fingertips brushing the cold sweat that never truly dried. The sickness gnawed at his insides like a beast with too many teeth. It wasn’t fever. It wasn’t poison.It was the Plague.A slow, creeping rot that devoured the bond between man and wolf. Only those of royal or ancient blood felt its sting.

Snow fell like ash.Soft. Silent. Relentless.It drifted down from a sky that had long forgotten stars, settling over the broken edges of the world like the closing of a story no one had finished reading. Emberhold was distant behind her now, a fading warmth at her back. Before her rose the northern scar, once called the Moon Temple, once a place of light.Now, it stood half-swallowed by snow and silence.Not broken.Waiting.The wind had changed. Subtle. Almost tender. But Seren felt it in her marrow, beneath the weight of her cloak, behind her ribs, in the hollow space just under her skin where the Storm Pact had once burned like a second heart.She paused on the threshold of the ruins, breath a slow exhale. The wolves flanked her, their golden eyes wary, their paws making no sound as they circled wide, instinctively avoiding the central altar.They felt it too.The Moon Temple did not look ruined anymore.It looked awake.Stone arches jutted from the ground like ribs of a buried go

The Red Dunes bled.Beneath the rust-colored sky, the great sandstone gates of Iskhar yawned open. Heat shimmered off the ground like ghosts, and bone towers twisted toward the clouds, each one carved from the remains of wars long buried. Spears lined the paths. Skulls crowned the watchtowers. And in the air, thick and hot, hung the scent of flame-tempered oil and old prayers.This was the Dustborn Court.And it did not kneel.Inside the scorched amphitheater, hundreds gathered in a silence so absolute it rang. Veiled priestesses draped in ash-gray silks stood shoulder to shoulder. Warriors in lacquered bone armor knelt in perfect formation, their eyes ringed with kohl and powdered dust. No banners flew. No horns sounded.Only fire.It danced in bowls carved from the ribcages of tyrants. It hissed up from braziers embedded in stone thrones. It writhed across the arms of the one who stood above them all.Sirelia.She wore no crown today.Only war paint streaked across her cheeks, black