All Chapters of Craving the alpha soldier : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Arthur’s POVThe city does not bow when I pass through it anymore.That realization hits me hardest on the third day after the surge, when I walk the lower market without escort, coat unmarked, presence unannounced. People move around me—not away, not toward. A woman argues over grain prices. A child laughs too loudly near a fountain someone rebuilt crooked. Two men nearly collide and swear at each other with equal heat, then laugh and clap shoulders.No one freezes.No one kneels.The absence of reverence should feel like erasure. Instead, it feels like air returning to lungs I didn’t realize I’d been holding tight for decades.I stop at a stall selling carved stone charms—anchors, mostly. Not official sigils. Personal ones. Each different. Each imperfect.The merchant looks up, squints at me, then shrugs. “You buying or admiring?”“Both,” I say.She snorts. “That’ll cost extra.”I pick one shaped like a spiral fractured down the middle. The break isn’t clean—it veers, corrected mid-

Tyla’s POVThe first time I realize the world no longer flinches, it happens when I trip.It’s stupid. Ordinary. A raised stone on the east stair, one I’ve walked a hundred times. My foot catches, my balance goes, and I pitch forward with a sharp intake of breath already preparing for impact.Hands grab me.Not magic. Not a Mark-flare. Just people.A woman with paint-stained sleeves steadies my elbow. A boy barely past ten catches my basket before it spills. Someone laughs—not unkindly, just surprised—and asks if I’m all right.“I am,” I say, startled by how true it is.No one bows. No one stares.They go back to their lives.I stand there a moment longer than necessary, heart beating fast, and feel something loosen inside my ribs.The world caught me.—Arthur is in the lower archives when I find him, sleeves rolled, dust on his knuckles, scowling at a stack of ledgers like they’ve personally offended him.“You know,” I say, leaning against the doorway, “most rulers don’t reorganize

Tyla’s POVThe first real fracture comes without spectacle.No silver light. No alarms. No sudden hush like the world drawing breath before a scream.Just a rumor.It reaches me in fragments—whispers threaded through the west quarter, a healer’s hesitation, an anchor who avoids my eyes. By the time it reaches the palace, it has already hardened into something heavier than doubt.People are saying the Veil is weakening again.Not surging. Not failing.Slipping.I stand at the window overlooking the lower terraces, hands wrapped around a cup that’s long gone cold, and listen to the city breathe. It sounds the same as it always has. Uneven. Alive. Stubborn.Arthur finds me there.He doesn’t speak at first. He never does when I’m quiet like this. He just steps close enough that I can feel his warmth at my back, a steady presence that doesn’t crowd.“You heard,” he says eventually.“Yes.”“What do you think?”I take a breath. “I think fear is louder when it doesn’t have a shape.”He exhale

Tyla’s POVThe first time the city chooses without asking, I don’t hear about it from a council or a report.I hear about it from a child.She can’t be more than seven, hair in uneven braids, shoes two sizes too big. She collides with me in the lower terrace market and nearly bounces off my hip.“Sorry!” she blurts, then freezes, eyes wide.Not in awe.In recognition.“You’re the lady who listens,” she says.I blink. “I will try.”She nods gravely, as if I’ve confirmed something important. “They fixed the bridge.”“That’s good,” I say. “Which bridge?”“The broken one by the river. The one everyone argued about.”I smile. “How did they decide?”She shrugs, already halfway turned away. “They stopped arguing.”And then she’s gone, swallowed by the noise and color of the market.I stand there a long moment, heart thudding.They fixed the bridge.Not because someone commanded it.Because they were tired of not crossing.—Arthur finds me later with my shoes off, sitting on the palace steps

Tyla’s POVThe end of the world does not arrive.That is the strangest thing of all.No final test. No silver blaze across the sky. No moment where the Veil demands a last answer or reveals a hidden price we failed to read in the margins.The world simply… keeps going.I realize this on an ordinary morning, standing barefoot in the kitchen while the kettle screams because Arthur forgot it on the fire again. He’s leaning against the counter, half-dressed, hair still sleep-tangled, staring out the window like the city might confess something if he watches long enough.“You’re burning the water,” I tell him.He blinks. “Is that possible?”“No,” I say. “But you’re trying very hard.”He grins sheepishly and lifts the kettle, steam curling like a reprimand. “Old habits.”“Letting things scream until they explode?”“Being needed,” he corrects softly.I cross the room and rest my forehead against his shoulder. “You’re allowed to make tea without saving anyone.”“I don’t know how,” he admits.