Craving the alpha soldier のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 91 - チャプター 100

Arthur’s POVThe last chapter does not arrive with certainty.It arrives with repetition.I wake before dawn, not because I am needed, not because something has gone wrong, but because my body has learned a different rhythm and refuses to sleep past it. The city outside the window is quiet in the way only a lived-in place can be—not empty, not tense, simply resting between choices.I lie there for a while, listening.No alarms.No distant argument sharpening into urgency.No sense of a problem waiting to discover me.Just breath. Stone cooling. A cart rattling far away, early and unconcerned.For the first time, the absence of responsibility does not feel like space I should fill.It feels earned.Tyla sleeps beside me, turned toward the window, one hand curled loosely as if she might reach for something and then decided not to. She has changed in ways so gradual I almost missed them.Not smaller.Lighter.She no longer holds herself like a hinge in the world’s spine. She does not bra

Tyla POVHistory does not remember them the way they expect.It remembers events, pressures, turning points that can be argued over without ever agreeing on cause. It remembers dates that blur and names that survive only because someone wrote them down carefully enough.Arthur’s name appears in ledgers and treaties, sometimes misspelled. Tyla appears less often, and almost never accurately. Scholars argue about what she was—conduit, symbol, exaggeration, invention. There are footnotes. There are dissenting essays. There are entire shelves dedicated to proving she could not have existed as described.None of them are entirely wrong.None of them are entirely right.The city endures.It does not become perfect. It does not become gentle. It does not become wise all at once. It stumbles into progress the way most places do—through argument, compromise, repetition, and the occasional mistake so large it forces everyone to stop pretending.The palace loses its authority first, then its sig

What RemainsThere are places where history thins.Not vanishes—history is stubborn—but thins, like fabric worn soft by years of use. The edges blur. The threads loosen. What remains is texture without pattern, memory without narrative.The city becomes one of those places.It is still called a city, though no one agrees on when it earned that name or whether it still deserves it. The boundaries shift. The wards merge and divide like cells. Streets are renamed, then renamed again, until directions are given by landmarks that no longer exist.“Turn left where the old market used to be,” people say, and everyone understands.The palace stands longer than anyone expects.Not because it is revered, but because it is useful. Its lower halls become storage. Its roof becomes a vantage point for weather-watchers and children daring each other to climb higher than their parents would approve. No one guards it. No one locks it.A generation passes.Then another.Stories flatten with time. The s

Tyla povI did not expect my memory to come back this way.Not as images. Not as longing. But as a texture.The way a morning feels before it decides what it will be. The way my hands know what to do before my thoughts catch up. The way silence settles differently now—less like a held breath, more like a resting place.I am older.Not in the dramatic sense stories prefer. My body does not announce its age loudly. It negotiates. My knees remind me of the weather before it arrives. My eyesight has softened at the edges. My patience has widened.Arthur says this is the natural order of things.I think it’s just what happens when no one is asking you to be more than you are.We live near the coast now, though “live” still feels like a temporary word. The house is small and poorly insulated. The roof complains during storms. The neighbors are kind without being curious.No one knows who we were.Sometimes, I forget too.In the mornings, Arthur wakes first. He always has. He moves carefully

Arthur povI wake before the light.Not out of duty. Not out of habit sharp enough to cut sleep short. I wake because my body does what it does now—rises gently, without urgency, as if it trusts the day to meet it halfway.The room is dim, holding its breath between night and morning. Tyla sleeps beside me, her back warm against my arm, her breathing slow and unguarded. There was a time when I learned to catalog that sound without realizing I was doing it—measuring pace, noting irregularities, preparing myself for interruption.I don’t do that anymore.I listen the way you listen to rain when you have nowhere else to be.I slip out of bed quietly. The floor complains softly beneath my feet. I welcome the sound. It reminds me that the house is alive in the way all structures are—wearing down, shifting, accommodating.Outside, the sky is undecided. The horizon holds a pale suggestion of color, not yet brave enough to commit. The sea is restless tonight, the kind of restless that does no