Lahat ng Kabanata ng MATED TO MY BROTHER'S ENEMY : Kabanata 81 - Kabanata 90

The Neutral RegionIts stone walls worn by time from a valley that four empires had quietly crossed paths for centuries, the ancient way station perched nearby. Had been neutral ground for centuries of diplomatic meetings before written history. Riding horseback, Lyra viewed the strategic spot; her empathic senses picked up the tranquil energy still left on stones blessed by centuries of successful diplomacy."Ideal defensive posture," Marcus remarked, his soldier's eye seeing how the encircling mountains would channel any invading army into confined corridors. "Mountain spring water, horse grazing, and ancient supply tunnels capable of sustaining a major force."Captain Nara descended to inspect carved markings establishing the edges of the waystation, historic symbols still legally binding among those who remembered the Old treaties. The shields of neutrality hold still; any force destroying this land necessarily breaks accords with all five founding kingdoms.Lyra said enthusiastic

Lessons PoliticalYeah, so, the waystation’s dining hall? Absolutely humming with this weird, nervous energy. Everyone’s dressed up, six kingdoms’ worth of big shots squeezed around this old bargaining table that’s probably seen more drama than a soap opera marathon. Marcus, poor guy, is standing behind Lyra, clutching his sword hilt like it’s a security blanket. I mean, the way his eyes flick around, you can tell, he’d rather be fighting ogres in the mud than wading through this mess of etiquette and fake smiles.Lyra leans back just enough for Marcus to catch her words, voice barely above a whisper. “Ambassador Blackwood from the North goes first. You step up, rattle off my list of titles, then back off exactly three paces. Not two. Not four. Three. They’ll count.” She doesn’t even bother to look at him. The confidence? Unshakable.Marcus, meanwhile, is sweating it. You can almost see the gears grinding in his head; he’s built for swinging swords, not walking the world’s most danger

Spies and SecretsThat damn Blazewood thing glided down onto Nara’s arm, all sleek menace and those eyes, like polished coal just daring you to look away. Definitely not your average songbird. She slipped the note off its leg, hand steady, even though half the intel circle was lurking in the shadows upstairs, probably holding their breath. Typical."Blackstone Keep," she muttered, squinting at the bark-paper, which, by the way, was covered in symbols that looked like someone had doodled while drunk. "Lord Hartwell’s keeping the supply lines open, but he’s hearing weird crap in the old mines again."Master Ahldric barely looked up from his chaos of letters. Seriously, it was a mess, all sorts of colored wax and secret codes. "That’s the third time this week someone’s reported things crawling around underground. Something’s digging through those ancient tunnels."Grace, who used to sew hems but now basically ran half the spy ring (go figure), pointed at a spot on the big, battered map s

Empathic WarfareThe training ground behind the waystation was pure, organized chaos. Lyra planted herself right in the middle of fifty fighters, soaking up every scrap of info through her gift, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, like she was listening to a song only she could hear. All the trainees looked like a bunch of color-coded parade rejects: red ribbons for the would-be attackers, blue for defenders, and white for the “civilians” everyone was supposed to keep alive.“Let’s kick this off!” Marcus hollered, his voice ricocheting around the field. Instantly, people started moving, sticking mostly to their planned routes, well, for now.Lyra’s empathy flooded the space. It wasn't just feelings she picked up; she was in their heads, riding shotgun on their hopes, nerves, and half-baked strategies. She could practically taste the red team's excitement as they slithered around the edge, convinced nobody noticed their sneaky little plan.“Defenders, slide left, twenty degrees,” she sai

Partnership DynamicsMan, that room felt like a shoebox, back of the waystation, just Lyra and Marcus sitting across from each other, table jammed with so many maps and papers it basically screamed “do not cross.” Sunlight angled in through those skinny windows, like it was in on the drama, throwing shade (literally) on the weird tension hanging between them since their blow-up earlier.Lyra went straight for the business voice, the one she used to shut down idiots at embassy meetings. “We need procedures,” she said, all clipped and official. “Actual rules for who does what, when.”Marcus gave her that stiff military nod, as if he was reviewing troops, not hashing out power dynamics with his, what, partner? Rival? Both, honestly. “Field command, supplies, who’s doing what, yeah, all the usual top-down stuff.”Lyra didn’t miss a beat, scribbling out categories with that obsessive neatness of hers. “And empathic coordination, network management, dealing with supernatural bigwigs, my stu