Mark by Destiny. のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 61 - チャプター 70

The air around them grew heavier, thick with tension and the scent of blood. The moon glowed faintly red, half-veiled by clouds, as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath.The Alpha of Nightfang let out a guttural snarl that shook the trees. His bones cracked, his muscles tore and reformed; fur as dark as pitch burst through his skin. Within seconds, a massive beast stood before them — taller than any wolf in the region, his fur rippling with veins of shadow and his eyes burning with molten crimson fury.Gasps rippled through the gathered wolves. Some of the Moonspire warriors involuntarily took a step back. Even Alpha Dean’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched the creature bare its fangs, saliva dripping like venom. Loretta clutched his arm, her voice trembling.“Dean… she’s still just a girl.”But Liora’s voice broke through the murmurs — calm, clear, resolute.“I am no girl, Mother. I am Moonspire’s daughter. I am the Chosen.”And with that, her transformation beg

The moon hung low over Silvermoon Palace that night, its pale glow bathing the marble halls in an eerie calm. The air was heavy, still, as if the wind itself refused to disturb the peace that had settled uneasily since Ravena and Kaelen returned from Moonspire. Mariseth sat by her window, a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, though her body burned with fever. Her lips trembled, and her once radiant eyes seemed dim, clouded with exhaustion and unspoken torment.She had fallen ill only a week after her daughter’s return. At first, she dismissed it as a simple chill — a reaction to the cold air or her sleepless nights — but the illness grew swiftly, like guilt taking root in her bones. Her skin turned pale, her steps faltered, and her once sharp voice had softened to a whisper.The servants whispered among themselves, exchanging worried glances each time they passed her chamber door. The lady of Silvermoon, once so commanding, so proud, was now a ghost of herself. Her beauty, wh

The night swallowed the trees around Nightfang’s den and left only shadowed trunks and an air that tasted metallic with rain. Torches dotted the mare’s paths like furred beacons, their flames lapping with a hungry orange. They cast Thomas-long silhouettes over the rough meeting pit at the center of the hollow — a circle of stone and wet earth where the pack had bled, laughed, dominated, and sworn oaths for generations. At the very heart of that ring stood Theodore. He was larger than the memory that lingered in stories told in the hinterland. Where some alphas forwent size for cunning, he had both in cruel measure. His shoulders cut a broad silhouette against the torchlight; the black of his coat drank the flames. His eyes burned with a red that seemed to have been carved in the night itself. When he moved, the pack watched as one. “To have lost,” Theodore said, his voice low and even, “is not my shame. The shame lies in the fact that we were allowed to be seen as broken.” A murm

Liora's vigilance. Moonspire did not sleep in ignorance. The rumor of the failed cup had stirred something like a net being mended: cautious hands, tight conversations, more eyes. Christen moved with the authority of one who has held sway and knows the cost of miscalculation. He did not rail at the risk; he countered it. “We move the supply lines,” he said to Liora in the dim of the strategy room, where a map lay like a sleeping creature. “We send two caravans in staggered timing. We post two guards at each crossing, one obvious, one hidden. Anything worth stealing will be watched.” Liora read the map as if she were listening to it. Her mind threaded smallness into the larger weave: who would grieve a sack of barley, who would whisper about a missing coin, which merchant would be quick to suspect rivals. She thought of jealous tongues that outlived precise facts. “We will make the small things public,” she said. “If a merchant’s sack goes missing, we will make it known that we hav

The promise kept. The sun was dipping below the mountains when Korrin rode into the quiet edge of the village. The scent of pine and blooming lilies filled the air, carrying the familiar calm of home. His armor was worn, his cloak torn and dusted with the trail of war, but his heart beat with only one thought — Mirra. The village seemed almost untouched by the chaos that had raged beyond its borders. Children ran barefoot through the fields, laughter mingling with the rustling leaves. Women gathered at the stream, washing and humming songs of peace once more. Yet, to Korrin, all the sounds of life blurred into a single hope — that Mirra was waiting, just as she had promised. As he approached their small wooden house on the hill, his horse neighed softly. The door opened before he could dismount. Mirra stood there — her eyes wide, her breath trembling. For a heartbeat, neither moved. The months of fear, of sleepless nights, of wondering if the other still lived — all melted in that