All Chapters of The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen: Chapter 201 - Chapter 210

They say the river once wept for queens.That was before it learned to bleed.The River Velaryn wound through the Vale like a silver thread stitched by the gods themselves, crystalline, gentle, a giver of life. Priests had once bathed Elara’s feet in its current on coronation nights; bards sang of its waters carrying the faith of a thousand villagers. Its delta cradled the oldest library in the realm, where scrolls lay safe beneath stone arches. Some claimed the gods first touched the soil where Velaryn kissed the cliffs, blessing the land with a sacred breath.Then the wars began.Then came the sealing.And Velaryn was dammed with bone, silenced with spell-oaths, rerouted to hide the blood Elara spilt in her final days. The land forgot, fields dried, marshes cracked, temples fell to ruin. But the river did not forgive. It remembered every spilt drop, every soul that drowned in its depths.Now it ran backwards.They first noticed at dawn, when scouts reported the impossible: silt and

Sirelia’s arrival was an omen first felt, rather than heard. Above the Dustborn sanctum, the sky bled red, each star a pinprick of warning in the dark canvas. Her bone‐plated armour, once pristine, was etched with ash and soot, remnants of Moonfang’s ruins, a silent testament to what she had endured. She did not dismount. She did not speak. With each measured step off her mount, the camp seemed to exhale dread.Her silhouette moved slowly as a glacier, shadow trailing like a living thing. Those who watched from behind barricades swore her armour absorbed light; her presence swallowed hope. Rumours curled through the tents: she had not eaten for days, had spent nights speaking to her reflection in obsidian mirrors, seeking, no one knew what. All agreed on one fact: Seren, defying myth and crown alike, had torn contrast from the world, and Sirelia would not rest until every face in the realm bore only hers.A hidden stairway led beneath the throne room, lit by torches that guttered in t

Dawn in Hollowgate arrived not with a heralding chorus of birdsong or sunlight spilling over walls, but with a dense, living silence that settled in the streets like a shroud. It pressed into every broken archway and littered courtyard, muffling the faint echoes of a life that had once thrived here. Where children had chased each other between stalls, weaving laughter into the market’s tapestry, now only the whisper of a breeze stirred empty canvas. Where clear water once danced over the stone lips of fountains, only dust and a fine film of soot remained. Even the traders’ cries that once tangled above carts of grain were swallowed by the hush.Seren walked this deserted cityscape alone, unaccompanied by guards or fanfare. Her cloak swept a trail of ash behind her, each dark particle a small testament to the fires that had raged here, to the lives consumed by flame and betrayal. She moved as though every step were a penance, her boots sinking slightly into the soft rubble, eyes fixed

The bloodlands had changed.Where once starlit frost threaded the rivers with pale light, now thick, crimson water crawled through cracked stone and dying reeds. It smelled not of rot, but of iron and memory, heavy as regret. Nothing moved in these lands. Not wind. Not a bird.Only Lucien.He rode alone, his horse a pale creature with eyes like hollow moons, hooves sinking soundlessly into dirt that pulsed faintly underfoot, as if it remembered how to bleed. Lucien’s black cloak dragged behind him like a shroud, catching on roots and forgotten bones. Dust clung to him, ash whispered in his wake.Above, the sky stretched wide and bruised. Not dusk. Not night. A never-ending hour. That bleeding hour when the world didn’t know what it was becoming.The silence here was sentient.It wasn’t the absence of noise. It was the presence of watching.The path sloped downward, twisted into the ribs of the hills. Trees thinned to pale-barked husks, leaves long lost. At the edge of the horizon stoo

The snow fell like ash, soft, steady, and without end. Each flake was a whisper, a breath held by the gods, a memory returned to the world. Moonfang Citadel, once the gleaming jewel of the north, now stood gutted beneath the moonlight, its walls a ruin, its sigils half-buried beneath snow and scorched stone. There was no glory here now. Only memory. Only ghosts.Kael stood beneath the southern wall, the ancient crescent moon sigil fractured behind him. His breath escaped in shallow, uneven gasps, each one a testament to the war within his own body. The Plague, that cruel, creeping corruption of wolf and man alike, had stolen nearly everything: his strength, his clarity, the voice of his wolf spirit, but not his will.Not yet.And it was will that brought him to Seren now.She stood across the frost-covered courtyard, wrapped in a mantle lined with the fur of fallen kin, flame-stitched at the hem with ancient runes that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Her silver eyes betrayed no we