บททั้งหมดของ Alora's Windsong: บทที่ 61 - บทที่ 70

Snow fell in a soft hush that morning, as if the mountain were trying to quiet her thoughts. It didn’t work.Sarah woke to heat crawling along her shin like fire ants. The deep puncture marks on her neck had scabbed over, but the flesh around them was angrier than yesterday, shiny and taut, the color of bad fruit. When she pressed two fingers beside the wound, warmth bled up her neck and pooled behind her eyes. She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, trying not to make a sound.Not fever. Not weakness. Just tired, she told herself.She swung her legs over the side of the mattress and sat until the room steadied. The stove had gone to coals in the night; the air bit her lungs. She fed the fire with split pine, listened to the sap pop, and brewed her special willow tea with hands that didn’t quite feel like hers. They had become wrinkled and aged. The cup trembled against her lip. Half went down. Half didn’t.By midday, the ache changed shape. It wasn’t just the puncture wounds an

I awoke to Storm’s cries. But he wasn’t beside me.His voice came from somewhere beyond the dark, muffled by walls I didn’t recognize. Groggy, dizzy, I tried to sit up, but my body refused to obey. My legs were numb, heavy, as if the floor itself held me down.“Storm…” I whispered. My throat was raw, dry as sand.The sound of his crying tore through me, small, frightened, desperate, but strong. When I tried to follow it, my balance gave out. I hit the floor hard. The echo of the impact rang in my ears, scattering the last shreds of whatever drug still burned in my veins.“Storm!” I screamed again. My voice cracked. The room spun. I clawed at the walls, finding nothing but rough stone beneath my fingertips. Cold. Damp. Old.The air smelled of iron and smoke. There was no light, only the pulse of my own panic.Then silence.No crying. No sound.“Storm?” My voice broke completely.Darkness pressed closer, thick as oil. My mind slipped somewhere between waking and dreaming.In that drea

The storm had quieted, but not ended. By dawn, the sky hung heavy and bruised, clouds still circling above the northern ridge like restless spirits. The air smelled of wet pine and lightning.Inside the Alpha’s meeting hall, Blaise stood before the gathered pack. His hair was damp, his jaw tight, golden eyes reflecting the firelight as if it burned behind them. Beth stood nearest him, arms crossed, her expression caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.“He spoke,” Blaise said quietly. His voice trembled, not from fear, but reverence. “You all heard the thunder last night. That wasn’t the storm. That was him. Storm said his first word.”Ryker and Michael exchanged a glance, skeptical but listening.Beth took a step forward, her voice soft. “You mean, his first word was you?”Blaise nodded once. “Da-da.” The word broke the silence like a sacred truth.Beth let out a shaky laugh, tears filling her eyes. “His first word… was a storm.” She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “On

Sarah lunged for the baby, grabbing him, ripping him away from Alora’s breast.My scream split the cabin like broken glass. “Give him back!” I shrieked, lunging for my baby.Alora leapt, taking him back from her, shielding Storm in her arms. “You’ll never touch him again!” she cried.But Sarah’s fury burned hotter than her fever. She grabbed a kitchen blade from the counter and stumbled forward. “He’s mine!” she roared.Alora didn’t think—she reacted. With the strength of a mother defending her child, she kicked out, her heel connecting squarely with Sarah’s chest.Sarah flew backward, slamming into the table before sliding across the floor. Her head hit the wooden beam with a sharp crack.Silence.Then a faint exhale. Sarah’s body slumped, unmoving, blood trickling down from her temple.Alora sat frozen, chest heaving, Storm pressed tight against her chest. The candle flickered wildly, shadows jumping like frantic spirits across the walls.Her heart pounded. “It’s okay, my love,” sh

Snow muffled the world again. The wind had died, but the mountain still breathed—slow, heavy, ancient. Inside the half-buried cabin, silence ruled.A single beam of moonlight cut through a gap in the roof and fell across a shape beneath the table: Sarah’s body, half-frozen, rimed in ice. Her skin was gray, her lips blue, but her chest gave the faintest twitch every few minutes, like a heart that refused to surrender.The door creaked open. Then a whisper of cloth, a shuffle of moccasins over snow.The old witch had returned.She was small and stooped, wrapped in layers of tattered wool and raven feathers. Frost hung in her long white hair like beads of glass. She stopped just inside the doorway, her eyes clouded but far from blind, sweeping the room. “I told you not to bring trouble here, little runt,” she rasped. Her voice carried the weight of centuries.Her gaze landed on Sarah.The witch’s mouth curved into something between pity and delight. “Ah. The foolish runt wolf who thoug