Semua Bab Alpha Kael And The Crimson Bloodline : Bab 71 - Bab 80

The forest deepened as they moved, the air thick with age and memory. Kael could feel it even before he saw it — that hum, that pulse beneath the soil, like something old and sentient breathing in slow rhythm. The witches followed close behind him, their steps quiet, cautious, reverent. Then, at the heart of the grove, it appeared.The Ancient Oak Tree.It towered above them like a god of nature itself, its trunk vast and scarred by time, its branches twisting into the mist-filled sky. And there — at its core — glowed that same crimson mark that Rhea bore on her collar. A mark of unity, of curse, of destiny. The moment Kael laid eyes on it, his heart clenched. He’d read of this place in the journals of Draven, his ancestor — the wolf who had once stood between gods and dreams, binding AURA into the Dream Realm.Now Kael stood where Draven once had.The circle was closing.The witches began their work immediately. The younger ones spread salt and crushed bone ash in a protective ring,

The night air of Ashwood was thick with the scent of blood and smoke. Clouds had rolled over the forest like a living shroud, and the faint pulse of moonlight barely broke through the treetops.Kael moved fast, boots pounding against the damp soil, Marek running beside him, their breath misting in the cold. The Draven wolves followed, shadows in motion, their eyes glowing faintly silver in the dark.“Where do we even begin to look?” Marek asked, his tone low but edged with worry.Kael’s eyes cut through the fog ahead. “We don’t search for her, Marek.”Marek frowned. “Then what?”“We find chaos,” Kael said, his voice steady, certain. “Where there’s blood, where there’s death — that’s where Khaenat will be.”Marek nodded grimly. “Then we follow the screams.”Before Kael could reply, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the cracked screen.“Alpha, we have a situation,” came the urgent voice of one of his lieutenants. “Riverside. Our patrol guards— they’re dead. Torn apart. And—” The line crac

The morning sunlight spilled gently through the half-drawn curtains, painting soft gold across the cottage walls. Rhea stirred beneath the thin linen sheets, her body sinking deeper into the calm silence that wrapped the house. For once, there was no echo of screams, no thunder of claws in her mind—just a dream she wished had never ended.She saw herself on a stage, cap and gown pressed neat, her mother waving wildly from the crowd, her father beaming with pride. Elara had been there too, laughing, her hand clutching a bouquet of white lilies. For a fleeting moment, life had been simple again—before blood and moonlight had rewritten her destiny.When Rhea woke, the faint smile still lingered. The air smelled of salt and morning dew, the hum of Verona distant and alive beyond the hills. She slipped from bed, threw her hair into a messy braid, and padded barefoot to the kitchen.The old coffee pot hissed on the stove, releasing that comforting bitterness she’d grown to love. She poured

The night in Verona unfolded like silk—quiet, serene, and deceptively gentle. The hum of distant traffic faded beneath the whisper of crickets, while the faint glow from the city haloed the horizon. Rhea’s cottage stood still in that calm, the ivy-clad walls wrapped in shadows and moonlight.Inside, the faint sound of the sea breeze rustled through the open windows. Rhea had long since fallen asleep, her hair fanned across the pillow, the corners of her lips lifted in a faint, peaceful smile. Fenrak, however, lay awake.He stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, the quiet tick of the clock dragging him deeper into thought. His instincts refused to rest. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. It wasn’t the kind of unease that came from memory or guilt; it was sharper, primal. His wolf stirred beneath his skin, restless.He sat up, running a hand through his hair. “Get a grip,” he muttered to himself, swinging his legs off the bed. Yet, the feeling didn’t fade. It grew heavier.He

The warehouse stood silent under the bruised Verona dawn.Broken glass glittered across the floor, the air thick with the scent of blood and gunpowder. A few flies had already gathered near the bodies, drawn by the copper tang that lingered.Two black jeeps rolled up outside, their engines cutting off in unison.The new group of hunters stepped out, weapons ready — cautious, alert. They had received the distress signal hours ago.But the sight before them froze even the most hardened.Four bodies. Torn, twisted, drained of color. The floor looked like something had exploded through it — claw marks etched deep into the concrete, the steel beams bent inward like melted wax.One man still breathed. Barely.He lay near the wrecked Cadillac, chest caved in, lips trembling as if whispering a prayer.The leader knelt beside him. “Who did this?”The man’s eyes rolled, wild and glassy. He coughed, blood spilling down his chin. “We… had him… chained…”He tried to raise a hand, but his arm hung