บททั้งหมดของ Beast Billionaire Claim : บทที่ 91 - บทที่ 100

The dawn rose, but it felt like mourning.Light cut through the shattered windows of the Vale estate, painting the marble floor in streaks of pale gold. Dust lingered in the air, catching the sun like a thousand restless ghosts. Maxim stood there, shoulders squared, gaze fixed on the horizon as though sheer will might force it to bend. Behind him, workers moved like shadows—hauling debris, hammering beams into place, dragging away remnants of the battle that had nearly consumed their world.He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His fists were wrapped so tight his knuckles had gone bloodless.Every time the hammer struck wood, the sound jarred something in his chest. Not rage. Not grief. Something hollow. Something he couldn’t name.Zara stood near the stairwell, robes inked with faint scorch marks from spells woven through the night. Her hair clung to her temples in damp strands, a sign of how long she had worked to keep the estate from collapsing on itself. She had been awake since the fight

The tower chamber breathed with silence, broken only by the whisper of thread sliding across tired fingers. Zara sat before the loom of light, her back bowed, her movements careful and deliberate. Magic hung thick in the air, sharp enough to taste. Threads shimmered where she drew them out of nothing—silver so bright it stung, violet that seemed more feeling than color, gold that pulsed faintly like a living heart. Each strand was more than material; it carried weight, memory, and every time she touched one, a part of her went with it.Before her, the tapestry was no cloth but something alive, something that wanted to vanish even as she tried to hold it. Shapes gathered slowly across the weave: the soft curve of a smile, the spark of stubborn eyes, the outline of a girl standing unflinching before the storm. Elira. Zara shaped her not as history nor as legend, but as essence itself. Yet the loom trembled beneath her hands, every line threatening to slip back into the void.Her fingers

The Vale was quieter than it had ever been, and that silence frightened Zara more than war ever had.The fires of battle were long doused, the blood washed from the streets, but the air felt wrong—too still, too brittle, like glass stretched thin and waiting to break. The villagers walked about with forced smiles, repairing stone walls, setting new beams, replanting gardens in charred earth. They moved as though hope were something they could stitch into place with enough sweat and will.But the shadows did not move the way they should.Zara noticed it first in the weaving hall. Her loom sat in the corner, threads stretched taut, shimmering faintly with the last traces of memory she had hidden there. She was watching the sunlight crawl across the floor when it caught—splintering against nothing. A ripple in the air, a shimmer of violet-black, like oil on water.Then it was gone.She pressed a hand against the stone wall, her breath tight. She told herself it was exhaustion, her magic

The chamber was lit by nothing but threads of light, glowing faintly in the dim air like veins of starlight pulled from the heavens. They floated around Zara’s body in delicate arcs, twisting as though alive, responding to her trembling hands. Every tug drew a spark, every knot a hiss of heat. She bit down against the pain, but her fingers would not stop. The threads were burning her from the inside out, stealing fragments of her strength with every movement, but still she worked.The Weave was forbidden for a reason. She had read the warnings long ago in cracked vellum scrolls that smelled of dust and age: To stitch what is lost is to unravel the self. Memory is not meant to be remade.But she had also read the smaller line beneath, nearly faded: Sometimes, mercy demands disobedience.And mercy was all she had left.Her promise to Elira had kept her silent, bound her tongue when Maxim reached for shadows and found nothing. But silence had its cost. She saw it in Maxim’s face every da

The Vale was quieter than it had ever been.Smoke no longer curled from the horizon, no screams of war echoed through the mountains. Instead, the air held the strange stillness that comes after devastation, where even the birds seemed uncertain if it was safe to sing again.Maxim stood among the ruins, the Beast in him subdued, breathing the scent of stone and ash. Around him, people worked in silence—stacking stones, pulling bodies from the wreckage, planting seeds where the earth had been scorched. They moved as if in a dream, exhausted but alive.Alive, because of her.Elira’s name was on every tongue now. It rolled across the Vale like a hymn, carried in whispers and in cries. Children painted her symbol on the walls. Warriors sang of her in low voices around the fire. Mothers soothed their little ones with the story of the woman who had given everything so they could wake to another dawn.At last, she was remembered.And yet, Maxim felt the truth like a blade inside him: she was