Semua Bab Game of hearts: The Ruthless Alpha and his warrior bride : Bab 171 - Bab 180

CelesteBy the third night, the mountains stopped feeling like stone and started feeling like teeth.We lay in them.We waited in them.And when the enemy moved through them, we bit.I stood on a narrow ridge path overlooking the eastern defile, breath slow, fingers numb inside my gloves. Below, the trail cut between steep rock faces, just wide enough for two wagons abreast.Exactly the kind of route an army would use if they thought the main pass was too well defended.Which meant exactly where we would be.Beside me, Lieutenant Baros shifted his weight carefully. He was the one Captain Rul had kept reassigning from signal duty.Reliable men were inconvenient for traitors.“Scouts confirmed?” I murmured.“Yes, Commander. Supply train. Fifteen wagons. Light escort.”“Too light,” I said.“A trap?”“Always.”I scanned the slopes opposite us. Snow-dusted pines. Dark rock. Nothing moving.That didn’t mean empty.It meant patient.I raised a hand, signaling the ridge teams hidden along ou

CelesteBy the time Edgar’s message reached me, the snow had already turned pink.Not from sunrise.From men.I stood at the ridge overlooking the narrow approach road, breath slow, fingers numb inside my gloves, and watched our archers finish collecting arrows from bodies that had never made it past the choke point.War makes accountants of us all.Count the arrows you can reuse.Count the wounded who can still stand.Count the dead later, when there’s time to feel it.“Scouts confirm they’ve pulled back beyond the birch line,” Mara said, stepping up beside me. Her braid was stiff with frost. “No second wave.”“There will be,” I replied.“There’s always a second wave,” she agreed.We didn’t look at each other. We didn’t need to. We both knew the first push had just been a knock on the door.The real assault would come when we were tired enough to open it without meaning to.I turned from the ridge and made my way down the slope toward the roadblock. Our barricade was a mess of felled

CelesteThe mountain winds had a voice tonight.Not in words. Not in whispers. Not the faint, polite sighs that crept along frozen ridges and through pines. No — this wind screamed against the ridges and into my bones. It shook the snow in flakes like tiny glass shards, making the world shimmer, and made the torches along our lines look like they could snap under its force.I pulled my cloak tighter, feeling the cold gnawing beneath the fabric, but it didn’t matter. Cold was something you could get used to. Fear? That was something else entirely.“Commander,” Mara’s voice came from my side, clipped and steady. She didn’t flinch at the wind. She never did. “The scouts report movement below the eastern slope. Mantlets are back in place. Shield formations moving. Looks like they’ve committed for a push.”I didn’t look at her. Not yet. My eyes were on the faint flickers in the distance — small fires the enemy had lit to mark the path and maintain order. From here, they were barely distin

Celeste The wind had changed.It no longer whispered along the ridges or rattled the torches in soft menace. It roared, a raw and ragged thing that tore across the mountainside, whipping snow into horizontal sheets, stinging exposed skin and settling in every seam of clothing. My cloak clung to me like a second skin, wet with ice from the drifting snow, and I didn’t care. Cold was easier to endure than waiting.Below me, the southern slope shifted. Mantlets rolled forward, shields gleaming faintly under the pale light of a hidden moon. Footfalls in the snow sounded distant, muffled by the wind, yet I felt them in my bones — each step a promise of danger, each movement a challenge to everything we had built.“Commander,” Mara’s voice carried over the roar. She was crouched beside the eastern barricade, bow in hand, eyes scanning. Her braid was flecked with frost, cheeks red and raw. “They’re committing. Southern slope, all units. Mantlets and archers both. Looks like a full-scale pus

Edgar The sun hadn’t yet broken the horizon when I was already on the battlements, cloak heavy with frost and hands stiff from cold. The walls were quiet, but every shadow, every distant ridge, every muted sound carried weight. The enemy had pulled back overnight, but not vanished. They were regrouping, recalculating, like predators aware of a misstep. And we had to be ready.Hale joined me silently, as he always did, eyes scanning the distant slopes. “Northern push looks lighter today,” he observed. “Mantlets fewer. Probably testing morale.”“Tests are irrelevant,” I said, voice low. “What matters is control. Discipline. The ability to anticipate.” I traced the horizon with my gaze, imagining the enemy’s formations, imagining every flaw they might reveal under pressure. “They’ll overreach. They always do. Our job is to make them pay for it.”Hale’s eyes flickered to mine. “You sound confident.”“Confidence isn’t the point,” I said. “Preparedness is. And being calm under pressure isn