Semua Bab Game of hearts: The Ruthless Alpha and his warrior bride : Bab 161 - Bab 170

Celeste Watching a king almost start a riot is a strange way to spend a night.Watching him stop one is worse.I stayed on the rooftop long after the square settled, long after Edgar’s guards dragged the agitators into the maze of alleys behind the market.He didn’t look up again.He didn’t need to.That was the problem.He was learning the rhythm of this — the street, the fear, the timing of unrest. Kings aren’t supposed to move that fast. They’re supposed to be slow, ceremonial, insulated by layers of permission.Edgar was none of those things anymore.And that made him dangerous.Not to the people.To the men who preferred him distant.I slipped back from the ledge and moved across the rooftops, keeping low. The city at night is a different creature — softer sounds, sharper dangers. Laundry lines brushed my shoulders. Chimney smoke clung to my cloak.By the time I dropped down into the narrow back stair of a shuttered tailor’s shop, the eastern sky had just begun to pale.I didn’

Edgar When powerful men start arresting the wrong allies, they don’t assume sabotage.They assume betrayal.Which is better.I was in the rafters of a print shop when the first confirmation came in.“Corven’s man is screaming about forged seals,” Risa whispered from below. “Demitri’s accusing Harren of cleaning house under cover of chaos.”I lay flat along a wooden beam, listening to the press thump out pamphlets below. Ink. Oil. Hot metal. The smell of quiet rebellion.“Good,” I murmured. “Let them eat each other.”Risa looked up at me. “You’re smiling.”“I know.”That should have bothered me more than it did.A runner burst in through the back stair, breathless. “Message from palace watch,” he said. “Your inside cook.”I dropped from the rafters, landing lightly. “What?”“Harren requested a private audience with the king. Tonight.”The smile vanished.“When?”“Within the hour.”Damn it, Edgar.Risa saw it on my face. “You think it’s a trap?”“I think Harren is a cornered animal,” I

CelesteI knew Edgar was in the war room before anyone told me.The palace had a pulse when he was under pressure. Servants moved faster but quieter. Guards stood straighter, hands closer to weapons. Even the torches along the corridor seemed to burn steadier, as if the fire itself didn’t dare flicker while he was thinking.I didn’t rush.If I hurried, it would mean I was worried. If I was worried, it meant he’d gotten under my skin again.I walked the long hall at an even pace, boots whispering against polished stone, hands clasped behind my back so no one could see the tension in my fingers. Courtiers pressed themselves to the walls as I passed. Not out of fear.Out of awareness.They knew what I was to him.They just didn’t know what he was to me.The war room doors stood open. That alone told me everything was worse than he wanted people to believe.Edgar never left doors open.I stepped inside.Maps covered the central table, pinned and layered, edges curling from too many hand

Celeste Snow hides tracks.That’s why I left before dawn.The pass was quieter in the early gray light, the kind of quiet that follows screaming — brittle, watchful, like the mountains themselves were listening for what we would do next.Edgar had wanted a list of every officer stationed in the northern defenses over the past six months.I wanted something else.Patterns.Betrayal always leaves one.I walked the inner wall alone, hood up, gloves dusted white as I trailed my fingers along stone that still held the night’s cold. Below, the repaired gate mechanism groaned softly as soldiers tested its movement. Wood. Iron. Rope.All fixable.Trust wasn’t.I crouched near the signal tower brazier — the one that had failed to light during the attack.At first glance, it looked like simple neglect. Oil too thick from the cold. Wick improperly trimmed.Too simple.I tipped the brazier gently.A folded scrap of waxed cloth fell from beneath the fuel tray.Not burned.Hidden.I unfolded it ca

Celeste The thing about traitors is this: They rarely look like villains. Captain Rul looked like a tired soldier. Snow clung to his boots as they dragged him into the pass courtyard, wrists bound, jaw set in the rigid way of a man who had already decided what story he would tell. He didn’t struggle. Didn’t plead. That worried me more than if he had. I stood at the top of the watchtower steps as they brought him in. Soldiers ringed the yard, pretending to be busy while watching everything. Word had spread fast: betrayal had a face now. Rul’s eyes found mine. Recognition flickered there. Not fear. Assessment. Good. Let him measure me. “Commander,” he said, voice steady. “I assume there’s been some mistake.” I descended the steps slowly. Let my boots echo. Let the silence stretch long enough that the watching soldiers felt it settle into their bones. “Three reassigned signal shifts,” I said. “All approved under your authority.” “Rotational necessity.” “A sabotaged braz