บททั้งหมดของ Craving the alpha soldier : บทที่ 71 - บทที่ 80

Tyla’s POVThe end of the world does not arrive.That is the strangest thing of all.No final test. No silver blaze splitting the sky. No moment where the Veil demands a last answer or reveals a hidden price hidden in the margins we were too tired to read.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, startled back into his body. “Is that possible?”“No,” I say. “But you’re trying very hard.”He grins sheepishly and lifts the kettle, steam curling up 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. His warmth is solid. Real. No hum

Tyla’s POVThe first crisis arrives quietly.No alarms. No horns. No breathless messenger pounding on the palace doors. It comes as a simple misunderstanding, layered and human and stubborn as stone.A river town upstream diverts its flow to repair a failing levee. Downstream, fields dry out. Accusations spread faster than facts. By the time the council hears of it, tempers are already bruised, words sharpened into something that remembers how to cut.Arthur reads the report twice, jaw tight.“I should go,” he says automatically. “I can fix this.”I don’t answer right away.The old world would have sent him without question. Authority like a blade—swift, decisive, unquestioned. The thought still fits him too easily.“You can go,” I say finally. “But not like before.”He exhales, slow and measured. “No orders.”“No threats.”“No promises I can’t keep,” he adds.I nod. “And you don’t go alone.”—The road to the river towns is uneven, newly mapped. We travel with two council delegates a

Tyla’s POVThe world almost breaks on a Tuesday.Not the dramatic kind of breaking—the kind that comes with fire and prophecy and the clean satisfaction of knowing where to stand. This is a quieter fracture, a hairline crack running through something that has been held together by trust and exhaustion and the hope that people will keep choosing each other.It begins with grain.The western harvest fails.Not completely. Not catastrophically. Enough to matter. Enough to scare.A blight moves through the low fields with an intelligence that feels personal even when it isn’t. Yields drop. Prices rise. Rumors spread faster than the fungus itself. By the time the council receives the first consolidated report, the city has already started to lean inward, arms folding protectively around what it fears it will lose.Arthur reads the numbers without speaking.I watch his face—not for panic, but for the reflex. The old instinct to command, to ration, to secure borders and silence dissent befor

Tyla’s POVThe first time I realize the world is truly ours, it is because no one notices.Not in reverence. Not in fear. Not even in gratitude.They just… move.The city wakes into itself with the careless confidence of something no longer waiting to be corrected. Shutters open. Water is drawn. Arguments begin over bread prices and end over laughter no one remembers starting.Life, unobserved.I stand at the window and feel an unexpected ache behind my ribs.Not loss.Relief so deep it almost hurts.—Arthur leaves early.Not because he must, but because he wants to help rebuild the southern steps before the rains return. He kisses my temple absently, already half-gone, mind on stone and mortar instead of borders and consequence.“I’ll be back before dusk,” he says.“I won’t be counting,” I reply.He smiles at that—still startled, sometimes, by how easily trust comes now.—I spend the morning in the lower city.Not as a symbol. Not as a mediator.Just… me.A woman recognizes me near

Tyla’s POVThe future announces itself in small, inconvenient ways.A roof that leaks because no one noticed the rot beneath the tiles. A meeting that runs too long because everyone has something to say and no one quite knows how to stop. A child who asks a question that has no clean answer and refuses to accept silence in its place.These things used to feel like warnings.Now they feel like proof.—The roof belongs to a family in the northern quarter. I learn about it because the child—sharp-eyed, stubborn—tracks me down in the market and tells me so, as if this is obviously my responsibility.“You helped fix the bridge,” she says. “So you can help fix this.”I consider pointing out that bridges and roofs are different disciplines entirely.Instead, I follow her.Arthur joins us halfway there, drawn by the sound of my laughter and the girl’s relentless commentary about everything that is wrong with her house, the city, and adults in general.The damage is worse than it looked from