Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen: Kabanata 261 - Kabanata 270

The wind’s voice was ancient—older than memory, older than regret. It howled across the high cliffs of Thornecradle, skimming the black edges where the world fell away, brushing stone that remembered the footprints of gods and the vows of broken queens. It did not sound like wind tonight. It sounded like breath: searching, uncertain, exhaled by a mountain that had forgotten what it meant to hope.Above, no stars glittered. No moon carved silver from the shadows. Only the void—shivering, watchful, hollow—waited overhead, pressing silence into every fissure of rock.Saphira stood at the very edge, her cloak wrapped tight, the rough fabric snapping in the unseen gusts. In front of her, the stairs ended in air. There was no path forward, only a carved obsidian arch wreathed in runes older than language. Runes that pulsed, faint and inexorable, with a light no flame dared match.She stared at the door. No hinges. No key. No way in but knowing.Footsteps behind her—soft, steady, sure. Seren

The storm rose like a god unburied.No horns.No omens.Just a wind that forgot how to whisper.Ash curled in great spirals across the sky as if the world was remembering how it used to burn. Above Hollowspire, the last of Sirelia’s fortresses in the shattered east, the heavens roared and bled lightless.Lucien stood alone on the cliff.Cloaked in obsidian thread and silence.No guards.No scouts.No orders.Only a dagger.Short. Simple. Forged in Old Fire, the kind that knew how to end queens.He had taken it from Seren’s vault. No note left behind. No promise made.Because this wasn’t justice.It was a reckoning.A prayer without a god.A blade carried for the names that no longer had tongues to speak.He descended through the veil of the storm like something forgotten returning. The storm parted just enough to let him pass, ash sticking to his boots, wind yanking at his cloak like it wanted to pull him back.No one stopped him.No one saw him.Because even the Dustborn guards had learne

The dream began in silence.Not peace.Not rest.But that terrible stillness that settles when breath forgets how to move and your bones remember they were meant to break.Kael stood alone in an endless wasteland.No sky. No sun. Just smoke above, ash below. The world stretched in every direction, shattered, scorched, sobbing in silence. Mountains had collapsed into their own graves. Rivers hissed as vapor, steam rising from molten fractures. Trees, charred specters with limbs like twisted prayers, reached for something long gone.Nothing grew here.Nothing healed.This land had no name because it no longer deserved one.Kael walked. There was no path, no compass, only a pressure in his chest, a pull from somewhere beyond time. His feet left no prints. The ash swallowed everything.But still, he walked.Because the whisper in his marrow said:“She is waiting.”Time bent sideways, as it always did in these dreams. Seconds stretched and cracked open like hours. Every breath tasted of prop

Deep beneath Hollowspire, where even ash dared not settle, Sirelia whispered to the dark.Not to gods.Not to ghosts.To echoes.Her fingers, wrapped in thornweave bandages crusted with dried blood, danced across the rim of a black pool that pulsed with something older than memory. Not life. Not magic.Just, regret.The pool murmured back, not with voice, but with shape. Visions rising in slow spirals from the obsidian liquid, too smooth to be natural. Fragments of time. Splinters of choices Seren never made.Sirelia’s lips cracked as she smiled.“This world loves her,” she rasped. “But love is built on forgetting.”Seven glass sarcophagi stood behind her, each fogged from within.Not empty.Not quite full.Waiting.She dipped her fingers into the pool.It hissed.Light swallowed her hand.Then blood.Then, flesh.A face rose from the water.Seren’s.But not Seren.Too perfect.Too still.Symmetry that disturbed rather than comforted. Eyes like polished void. Hair suspended as if unde

They called it the last sacred place.The Temple of Broken Stars, carved at the ragged edge of the world, where the wind forgot direction and maps frayed into nothing. Here, even the constellations came to die. No road reached it. No scripture dared describe it fully. Only whispers survived, of a sanctuary born from the first firestorms, where the sky itself cracked open, and the old gods bled starlight into stone.Kael found it.Or perhaps, it remembered him.The moment he stepped beyond the final row of twisted trees in the Whispering Hollow, the air shifted. The mist parted, not like a veil, but like memory unraveling. Not his own. The world’s.The wind forgot to move.Time pulled thin as thread stretched too far. The sun paused behind a bank of unmoving cloud. Kael stepped into the forgotten margin.And the sky above the temple did not turn.Stars hung like shattered glass in tar, constellations broken, their light pulse slowed to a heartbeat. Not illumination, but echo. An afteri