All Chapters of Chronicles Of Moonblood 1. The Wounded Heart: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

NyraThe bath was slowly filled with steam, dissolving the boundaries of the world into mist. Outside the night was still quiet, but inside something vibrated in the air – not fear, not tension, but something deeper: desire, trust, and the irrepressible instinct that blood and magic only amplified. I leaned against Aedan’s shoulder, my hand slowly, barely perceptibly slid across his chest, on the warm skin under the water, where the muscles were still tense from the aftermath of battle. He only listened to my breathing, then, without any warning, turned me toward him. The movement was not rough, but neither was it asking – it was firm, as he always was: protective and possessive at the same time.– Tonight you will not hide – he said in a deep voice. – Not behind the Moon, not behind your role. There is only me… and you.My lips trembled before the reply, but I said nothing. I only nodded. Aedan slowly touched my neck, his fingers slid through the wet strands of hair, then over my sho

NyraIn the deepest hour of night, all lay silent in the palace. Moonlight spilled through the windows and painted silver patterns on the stone floor, like ancient runes only the old gods could read. In the royal bedchamber the air was warm, heavy with the aftershivers of passion and release. On the canopied bed I rested in Aedan’s arms, my head on his chest, my breathing growing deeper, steadier, until my body slipped across the edge of sleep.The passage wasn’t sudden.At first there was only light. Not the blinding blaze of the sun, nor the pallid glow of the moon, but a peculiar, milky radiance that cast no shadow. The world drifted formless around me, yet it felt familiar—like a childhood memory long forgotten but still known to the soul.I stood barefoot on the border of nothing and everything. Beneath me, a soft, silken substance undulated, as if woven from light. The air smelled pure, faintly floral, and an ancient peace flowed from it.A figure appeared before me.At first ju

NyraThe chain hit the floor with a dull clatter.The sound was both deliverance and cruelty. A metallic memory hissed through the silence, like the last word of a sentence passed. Aedan’s hand trembled as he unfastened the final lock from my wrist. A reddened mark ran beneath my skin, faintly chafed, as if the chain had scraped not only my body but some deeper, older wound as well.I still didn’t move.I sat on the edge of the bed, my clothes crumpled and clinging to my sweat-damp body, my hair falling in stuck-together strands into my eyes. I opened my eyes, yet it still felt as if the walls of another world surrounded me.Aedan said nothing. He knelt before me, silent, only watching.Then suddenly reality broke in; I flinched. I looked at my hand, where the trace of the chain still glimmered. Then the other. Then my ankles.Finally, at Aedan.“Who…” My voice cracked, barely more than breath. “Who… tied me up?”He didn’t look away, didn’t defend himself. He only answered quietly:“I

AedanThe light of dawn was but a faint glimmer, even the sky hesitated—should it rise or remain in shadow?I had already stepped away from the edge of the bed earlier. My armor hung beside my shoulder, and the blade of my sword still trembled slightly from the breath of the short night. The scent of blood and the aftertaste of fear mingled within me—but I no longer let them paralyze me.I heard the first graceful, threatening swish along the eastern wall. There, where only a few guards had stood before, now shadowy figures leapt forward. The cries of the sentries mixed with the rasp of metal—blades slicing, shields clashing. In the palace courtyard, I saw traces of blood where only moments ago dew had caressed the stones.“Shadowwolves!” someone shouted from the towers. His voice echoed far and wide.Grasping my sword, I stepped into the courtyard. The air was cold, but not fresh; it carried the taste of pain, of stone and scorched grass. Gravel crunched underfoot as I entered the wi

Nyra The world is sound at first. A dull rumble, like a distant storm rolling its thunder beneath the ground. Then comes the smell. Blood and ash. The bitter scent of burning flesh, mingled with smoke. My stomach wants to turn, but I don’t move. Because I can’t. Because my body still won’t obey me. I open my eyes. At first, I see only a cracked ceiling, made of gray stones. A spiderweb stretches from one corner, a tiny insect moves within it, indifferent. The world is small and muffled. Like being underwater, hearing nothing but the pulse of your own blood. Then comes the pain. Slowly at first, like a memory, then sharper by the second. My ribs ache. My hands are bound. Cold iron presses tight around them—so tight I can barely feel my fingers. My ankles too are restrained. Eyes wide, I look around, slowly, as much as my neck allows. I’m in a narrow, dark cell. The stones are damp, somewhere water drips rhythmically like the ticking of a sick clock. The air i