All Chapters of BOUND TO THE BLOOD KING: Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

The Ashford estate’s great hall once a battleground of bloodlines had been transformed into a sanctuary of rebirth. The long obsidian table gleamed beneath chandeliers newly restored, their light clean and golden instead of the cold blue that had haunted it for decades.Outside, dawn stretched its fingers across the horizon, softening the sharp edges of a world reborn from ruin. Inside, silence reigned, taut and anticipatory.Bianca stood at the head of the table the same place she had once stood as a queen of vengeance. But this morning, she was something different: the architect of a new world.Across from her sat the surviving members of the global houses old enemies, weary allies, faces once painted in war and secrecy. Matteo stood to her right, the quiet enforcer of peace. Luna, though still pale, watched from a shadowed alcove, her presence hidden but felt.When Bianca finally spoke, her voice carried not with fire, but with finality. “For centuries,” she began, “this council h

The courtyard was alive with morning light. Dew glittered on the marble tiles like spilled glass, and from the high walls of the restored estate, the echo of wooden swords rang sharp and rhythmic.Luna Ashford no longer the child with soot on her cheeks and ghosts in her dreams moved through the forms with effortless precision. The sword in her hands gleamed like lightning caught in metal. She struck, turned, and parried again, her breath controlled, her feet light on the slick stone.From the balcony above, Bianca watched her in silence. Matteo stood beside her, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.“She fights like you,” he said. “No,” Bianca replied softly. “She fights to protect, not to conquer. That’s something I had to unlearn.”Below them, Luna shifted stance swift, fluid, and fierce. Every movement was measured, every blow restrained. She had inherited her father’s patience, her mother’s cunning, and a streak of quiet fire all her own.The sword clat

Morning unfurled softly over the Ashford estate, the light tender as silk.In the east garden, dew jeweled every blade of grass, and from the open veranda, the scent of tea and roses drifted through the air.Bianca sat at the long marble table, a simple linen robe draped around her shoulders. Across from her, Luna read the day’s reports on a tablet: economic treaties, diplomatic renewals, the dry bones of a world reborn. “You’re too young to sound like a minister,” Bianca said, smiling faintly. “Someone has to be, Mother,” Luna replied, not looking up. “You won’t sit in those meetings forever.” “I’ve sat in worse rooms than those.” “But none with air-conditioning,” Luna teased, a rare glint of humor in her eyes.Bianca laughed, the sound soft but startling in its warmth. Peace had softened her, not weakened her. She could feel the elasticity of life returning, the muscles of old fears finally unclenching.From the terrace doors, Matteo stepped out in shirtsleeves, hair tousled, th

The dawn came gilded, sweeping over the marble domes of the Ashford citadel like liquid gold. Bells tolled across the harbor, slow and deep, their echoes rolling through the valley as if the earth itself bore witness.Luna stood at the heart of the Grand Hall, a cathedral rebuilt from the bones of war. Light fell in streams through stained glass, painting her white robes in hues of crimson, sapphire, and gold.The crowd of senators, soldiers, citizens, and ghosts in memory held their breath.“By the will of the people,” intoned the High Minister, “and the blessing of the bloodline, we name you Luna Ashford, Sovereign of the New Concord.”The crown no longer forged of iron, but of crystal and light was lifted from its silken cloth. Its facets shimmered like morning dew, pure and deadly in beauty.Bianca watched from the steps below the dais. Her hands were clasped, her expression unreadable equal parts pride and melancholy.When the crown touched Luna’s brow, a hush rippled through the

The dawn came softly, as if the sky itself were afraid to disturb the silence. Pale light spilled across the ruins of the citadel, washing over cracked marble and shattered glass that once glittered like a crown upon the empire. Mist clung to the ground, coiling around the remnants of fire and ash the ghostly breath of a world that had burned itself to peace.Bianca stood alone on the terrace where once the banners of her house had flown. Her gown was white not the sterile white of mourning, but the faded hue of something reborn from ruin. The fabric caught the wind like smoke. Her hair, undone, gleamed with the faint rose of the sunrise.For the first time in years, she wore no armor, no jewels, no crown.Only silence.A single hawk circled above the tower, its cry cutting through the stillness like a blade. Bianca lifted her face toward it and whispered, “Fly free.” Her voice barely rose above the breeze. She had learned that freedom always came with loss.The courtyard below was a