Semua Bab Witch Among Wolves - The Alpha's Enemy Bride: Bab 51 - Bab 60

The world beyond the doors is nothing but shadow and cold, a night so deep it seems to swallow even the idea of morning. But inside the hall, the fire is no longer in the hearth, but in the hands and voices of the living. Thalia feels herself swaying on her feet, the drum of so many hearts beating like a war-song against the dark.The Hollowing claws at the edges, but it cannot divide them. Not now. Their laughter is a barricade, their stories a shield. The old tales say the dark is not evil, only empty—hungry for what it lacks. But here, in the circle of warmth, there is no lack.The doors shudder. A wind howls, mournful, full of longing and rage. The air thickens, pressing tight to every chest, but hands stay clasped, arms wound together. Rowan’s hand is in Thalia’s, his grip the anchor she needs. Mara stands at her back, solid and certain, her laughter rising above the howl.Come outside, Thalia hears herself think, the words like a spell she barely knows how to shape. Let it see i

When it comes, dawn arrives not with a shout, but a hush—the kind of silence that means every living thing is listening, waiting to see if the world will dare turn again.I stand in the churned snow outside the hall, Thalia leaning against my side, her breathing slow but steady. The pack and our odd new family are gathered all around: wolves sprawled with bellies pressed to earth, witches and humans with faces streaked by tears and soot, clutching each other, too spent for words.At first, it’s only a faint thinning of the night. The blackness loses its edges, colors seep back into the world—bruised blue, lavender, a strange golden green that feels like hope you can taste. The mist drifts through the trees, no longer heavy, but ribboning, silver-shot and curling. Frost on the grass sparkles pink and orange, lighting up in cracks and corners as if stars have fallen and gotten stuck on the ground.There’s a smell—the wild, electric scent of pine needles after snowmelt, the promise of new

The days blur, then stretch, then suddenly sharpen into something close to living. At first, Silverpine moves like a wounded animal—quiet, wary, picking through ruins with care. But as the weeks unfold, the land and the people begin to knit themselves back together.Every morning brings a new ache, a new demand. The scars on the earth are slow to heal, but spring presses forward, heedless of memory. When the first green tips of wild garlic push through the blackened mud by the south fence, Agatha weeps into her apron, then pulls Thalia aside and mutters, “Do it again, wild girl. Bring it back.”Thalia obliges, kneeling in the chilled dirt, whispering over seeds and roots. Her magic is different now—no longer the desperate, ragged power of a hunted witch, but a steady pulse that encourages life, nudges warmth into stone and wood, calls bees to the first violets. At night, she dreams of Fyre’s voice, sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce: You are not just what you lost. You are what you gr

The morning is wet with fog, dew beading along every blade of grass, dripping from the eaves in patient, endless rhythm. It soaks into the stones of Silverpine, seeps through the cracks, and creeps beneath my skin. I haven’t slept—can’t sleep—not since the sight of Ffion outside the wards last night. Not since I watched her press her palm to the earth, whispering to shadows that pressed back against her, as if the darkness itself could reply.I wash my face in the kitchen, blinking blearily at my own reflection in a battered kettle. Agatha bustles behind me, clattering spoons, humming a nonsense tune that sounds a little too close to a lullaby I half-remember from childhood. I shudder. Mara is already at the long table, eyes rimmed in red, wolf’s tail of a braid pulled tight and ragged.She’s waiting for me. “You saw her too, then?” she says softly, careful not to draw Agatha’s attention. “Don’t lie.”I glance at the window, pale light smearing the mist outside. “She’s not the same. N

Dawn bleeds into the hall, pink and thin as a scar. The air feels raw, restless—no one has slept, not really. Lanterns still gutter, talismans flicker dull at our necks, and even the wolves sit in a tight ring around the fire, watching the revenant like it might vanish with the first shaft of sunlight.Rowan stands by the door, arms folded, face set in that particular granite he wears when something doesn’t sit right. His eyes never leave the revenant, except to glance at me—searching, worried, half-daring me to look away.He breaks the silence first. “You say you want to stay. Why should we trust you? What do you offer us in return, beyond more fear in the night?”The revenant turns its face to him, shadow swirling, the suggestion of eyes and a mouth that is more memory than flesh. For a moment, it is silent. Then, softly: “I have seen empires rise and fall. I know the old ways—forgotten magic, stories that bind wounds, cures for hurts no one remembers how to name. I have wisdom. I h