บททั้งหมดของ Marked and forsaken : บทที่ 121 - บทที่ 130

The fog lies thick, heavy with clouds swollen with impending tears, pregnant with danger—though I don’t know its gender. I stand at the edge of the poisonous river, my reflection wavering on the rippling surface. “Did you always plan to be poisonous,” I murmur, voice soft, “or did someone—or something—make you this way?” Lightning cracks across the sky, striking the water with a sharp, violent hiss. “Will you change your nature if the rain falls into you?” I ask again, speaking to the river as though it might answer. It feels… almost absurd, the way I talk to the river when I’m actually talking about myself . Would I have become this fearless, this fierce, if Varyn had kept me by his side, fighting with him ? Or did I become like this because of everything I’ve endured? Or was my origin—and fate—always meant to be this fatal? Just like this river… was I born to reveal pain, so that everywhere I go, disaster follows? Only a few days ago, Auren’s mother lingered by this

“I’m sorry, Serenya,” he whispers. “Elarion is dead. And your father…” My ears ring, my chest tightens—as if my heart already knows what’s about to kill me. “My father is?” “I couldn’t even find his body.” “Then Elarion is with him,” I breathe, refusing the truth forming in his silence. But Caelorn only keeps shaking his head, pain hollowing his eyes. “Light!” The scream rips through me before I can stop it. I shove past him, running into the village. Caelorn doesn’t know what he’s saying. He can’t. “Light!” I cry again, voice breaking. “Come out—your mother’s back!” I turn, and my breath catches—Rydan is carrying Moren’s remains. My sisters stand frozen, tears streaking their faces. It’s clear they already heard Caelorn’s words. They don’t move, only mourn—father and loss bound together in one unbearable moment. My steps falter at the sight of Elka, her hands clamped over her mouth as sobs shake her frame. “I’m sorry,” she whispers hoarsely. “I couldn’t do anything… I cou

⸻ Mia hurls herself into me, one leg injured. “My lady! I’m so happy to see you!” she cries. “You made me cry,” I whisper, my own relief mingling with hers. Around us, sobs and laughter mingle as Elara, Nyvrae, and Thyra embrace Father, clinging to him as though holding the world together. I step back gently from Elarion and Mia, turning to my father. In this impossible moment, I wrap my arms around him—just long enough to make sure I don’t wake from this dream. And then I see him. The Great Alpha. “Can I… hug you?” I ask. “Yes,” he says, a warm smile breaking through, and I feel a rush of gratitude for our survival. I pull back slightly, letting him go, and my eyes widen at the sight before me: a field of warriors stretching as far as I can see. “Amazing,” I murmur, awe catching in my throat. That is Varyn. Truly—the king of Alphas. Pelin and the others have already been released by Elara’s guards. Now, I sense Father is about to ask about Moren, and a knot ti

The sunrise hits our faces, and we halt, waiting for confirmation of the North’s position. Everywhere I look, warriors tense like coiled springs; the air is thick, heavy with the promise of bloodshed. I am fearful. Especially now, with Varyn using Elarion as a symbol, a young Alpha held between us—Varyn on one side, me on the other—both of us heavily guarded, all eyes trained on us. A whisper reaches Varyn’s ear. He straightens, voice low and feral. “Tell them to push them back, beyond the boundaries. Not a single sword is to touch Northern lands.” The messenger bows and departs. I catch the storm behind Varyn’s eyes: a king returned from death, yet his throne and his power remain contested. It is not easily reclaimed. But in that glance, in the tilt of his jaw, there is fire—a readiness to fight to the bitterest end. But immediately Anzelrius disturbs the fragile balance in the North. Rumors of his “victory” will spread before a sword is even drawn. Another messenger bu

⸻ And immediately, I see Varyn’s eyes widen in hope—while Rauth’s narrow in fear. I turn—and there he is. The boy who once helped Varyn meet Elarion for the first time. He steps forward, bows low before the throne. “Forgive me, my Alpha. I am late.” From his satchel, he draws the ancestral fangs of hierarchy—the lost symbol of rule—and places them into Varyn’s open hand. Varyn lifts it high, the room holding its breath. The elders who challenged him drop to their knees, fear and guilt washing over their faces. The guilty ones rise in a hurry, scrambling toward the doors as Varyn turns back to the boy. “Thank you, Myric,” he says, his voice soft for the first time. He pulls the boy into a brief, grateful embrace. “Ask me anything you desire, and I shall grant it. Wealth, land, shelter—name your wish.” Myric bows deeper. “I am sorry, my Alpha. I want the young Alpha’s godmother.” The words hang in the air like a blade. “What?” The sound escapes me before I can stop it. Var