บททั้งหมดของ Bonded To The Alpha God of War : บทที่ 131 - บทที่ 140

The seamstress’s fingers trembled as she obeyed, carefully lifting the gown from the box. The fabric caught the light, shifting softly between tones of gray and lilac… muted, elusive, like twilight caught in cloth.Mira’s eyes sharpened, her curiosity sparked. “What shade is this?” she asked, her voice smooth but edged with authority.The seamstress lowered her gaze, forcing steadiness into her tone. “Gray lilac, Luna. The dye is rare… almost impossible to find. I had only enough to make this one gown.”Mira stepped closer, her presence commanding, the rustle of her silk robe was the only sound between them. Her fingers brushed over the gown’s surface, tracing the seams with slow, assessing precision.“So plain,” she murmured, though her tone held something deeper… intrigue, perhaps. “No embroidery, no jewels… yet it draws the eye.”Her touch lingered as she lifted the gown against herself, studying the way the color softened beneath her reflection in the mirror. The corners of her li

Before the thought struck her, she already knew she couldn’t risk delay… not today of all days. If she failed to deliver that dress, if the message hidden within its seam didn’t reach Lyra, then everything… all their planning, all their sacrifice would unravel before it even began.And then, suddenly, the idea came. Her eyes widened, a flicker of desperate hope cutting through the fog of fear. “Yes… that might work.”Without wasting another heartbeat, she lifted the lid of the box and drew out the torn gray lilac gown. She spread it across her lap, its ruined silk glimmered faintly under the carriage’s dim lantern light. Then her hands began to move fast, sure, and precisely guided by instinct and urgency rather than thought.From her sewing kit, she brought out a needle and a spool of silvery thread. With swift, practiced motions, she began tacking the torn fabric back together… a temporary fix, just enough to make the dress appear whole. Not perfect, not lasting. Just enough to hold

Dawn had barely touched the sky when the seamstress stepped onto her porch. The air was still, the early morning mist curling low across the ground. Shadow the raven waited on the wooden railing, feathers sleek and dark as ink.At the sound of her soft steps, he hopped onto her shoulder.“There you are,” the seamstress murmured, her voice low and fond. She raised her arm gently, and Shadow moved from her shoulder to her forearm with a quiet rustle of wings.Her fingers brushed along his feathers with slow, practiced care. Then her gaze shifted to his leg, where a tiny strip of gray lilac fabric was tied securely, the knots tight and deliberate.“For Elia,” she whispered, brushing his feathers once more. “Straight to her.”Shadow let out a deep, throaty sound, as though he understood. The seamstress lifted her arm, raising him toward the pale dawn.“Go on,” she breathed.Shadow pushed off with powerful wings and rose into the pale morning mist, his dark shape cutting through the rising

The blazing sun had followed them for hours… merciless, scorching, turning the long road into a shimmering path of heat. Yet Anana and Elia rode without slowing… urgency in their bones, purpose in every thundering strike of their horses’ hooves.By the time darkness finally swallowed the sky, streaked only with scattered stars, they had reached the seamstress’s house at last.Elia’s horse was in front, Anana’s right behind her, the two silhouettes moving like shadows through the night. Gradually, their horses slowed, hooves softening against the ground until both animals came to a smooth stop.The women dismounted swiftly.The world around them was quiet almost unnervingly so.Apart from the soft tap of their own footsteps, the night was also ruled by distant cricket songs and the tiny rustles of small animals running through bushes. The air felt heavier out here… older… as though every sound pressed into the darkness.Anana and Elia straightened together, their shoulders brushing as

The air shifted instantly… the way deserts changed when storms approached.His presence didn’t just enter the tent;it pulled at the air, thickening it, darkening it, swallowing whatever warmth had existed a moment before. The generals straightened without a conscious thought, their chests lifting, shoulders squaring, spines locking into rigid lines of discipline.Lucien crossed the length of the tent with controlled, predatory steps.He stopped at the head of the war table.But he did not sit.He stood, towering over the maps like a verdict waiting to be delivered.Lantern flames flickered and carved his features into something severe, something almost too sharp for flesh… a man born for violence, sculpted by wrath, sharpened by wars that had broken lesser beings.When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady, deadly calm.“Report.”A general stood up, swallowing hard. “The Red Moon Pack has strengthened their eastern flank. They seem to be preparing for a countermeasure. Their pa