The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 161 - チャプター 170

The throne was not supposed to be alive.And yet it pulsed beneath her.Sirelia sat still at the heart of the Dustborn sanctum, barefoot, cloaked in nothing but ash-stained linen and the weight of a thousand betrayals. Around her, the hall echoed with the distant chants of priestesses and the pounding of war drums from training courts carved into the sandstone cliffs. But within this chamber, there was only breath.Not hers.The throne’s.The seat rose from the floor in a spire of fused bone, melted iron, and blackened sigil-stone. It had no shape a craftsman could mimic, more spine than seat, more ribcage than relic. And nestled within its core, hidden beneath layers of war trophies and sacred char, lay the pieces no one spoke of:, The fragment of Elara’s crown., The blade Sirelia once held against her own throat., The ash of the sister she buried in memory.Sirelia exhaled.The throne inhaled.And then it spoke.“You are not her.”The voice was everywhere and nowhere, gravel and

There were oaths deeper than memory.Vows not written, not spoken, but bled, sealed in the marrow of wolves and the bones of moons. Kael had once believed Elara’s greatest weapon was fire. Now he knew better.It was silence.And it was breaking.The Frostvale Sanctuary lay hidden in the crescent cliffs north of Moonfang, buried beneath a glacier older than the empire itself. Few knew of its existence. Fewer still remembered its purpose.Kael had traveled through the night to reach it, guided by an elder Moonbound who had once served in Elara’s personal guard. His name was Oren, ancient, scarred, and half-mad from years spent in vow-induced silence.They didn’t speak as they climbed the icy steps.Didn’t speak as the wind howled like dying gods around them.But when they reached the carved doors, silver etched with flame and fang, Oren finally stopped.He touched the center rune.And the door shuddered open.Inside, the walls whispered.The chamber was circular, lined with statues of w

The wind at Moonfang Citadel had changed.It tasted like old paper and rusted steel, like the end of something once sacred.Kael stood on the northern balcony, watching the horizon split under the rising moon. The snow didn’t fall anymore, it drifted like ash, soft and quiet. Below, wolves prowled the empty training fields. None spared. None howled.Not since the fire sigils started appearing along the outer walls.Not since Seren’s name returned from the dead.Not since Lucien did.Kael clenched his jaw.He had let Lucien in.Had listened when the vampire spoke of Sirelia’s court.Of the broken crown.Of Elara’s forgotten sister.But what he hadn’t heard, what Lucien had kept tucked behind his smirk and silence, was the truth behind the fire Elara had buried.Now, Kael would drag it out of him.Even if he had to tear it from the man’s fanged throat.He found Lucien alone in the high sanctum.A shattered glass of ashwine lay beside his boots.Moonlight cut through the window like a bl

The path to the forgotten Moon Temple was carved in silence.No birds sang in the trees. No beasts roamed the pass. Even the wind held its breath as Seren ascended the jagged slope, Mourne at her side, his presence steady and unreadable.She hadn’t spoken since the wolves turned their backs.She hadn’t wept.Hadn’t burned.Hadn’t asked why.Because something inside her already knew.You can’t return to a home that no longer exists.But maybe you can build a new one.If you survive the trial.The temple emerged from the cliffside like a wound, a cracked structure of silver-veined stone and collapsed arches, half-swallowed by roots and snow. Ancient moonsteel glyphs lined its walls, many faded, some freshly reawakened. The wolves had once protected it. Elara had once bled here to seal the Flamebound prophecy.Now it belonged to no one.Except her.Seren stepped through the broken threshold.The ground shimmered beneath her boots.Mourne stopped at the entrance.“You walk this path alone

They met atop the cliffs of Highvale, where the red wind never died and the earth remembered too much blood.The sky above was clear, deceptively peaceful, but the ground still bore scars of battles fought long before Seren was born. Beneath those cliffs, broken swords jutted from the soil like jagged teeth. Each one marked a faction that once pledged fealty to the Flame, Elara’s flame.Now, that flame had scattered.And the summit was called to decide whether it would burn again.Kael stood at the head of the stone circle, weathered cloak trailing behind him, a fresh crescent of blood staining his shoulder armor from a Dustborn scout he’d personally executed two nights earlier.Beside him: Saphira, dressed in ceremonial steel and veiled in silver thread, though her fingers twitched near her blade hilt the entire time.On the far end, opposite Kael, came the vampire heirs of Frosthearth, the bone-blessed witch-tribes of Valdren Hollow, and the hybrid lords of the Eastern Divide, each