Semua Bab Rejected Omega Princess: Meet My Overprotective Brothers: Bab 81 - Bab 90

The bells reached us before the gates did.Their sound rolled down the hill in broad, bright waves—deep and full - nothing like the shrill alarm I’d once heard in these same walls. The horses’ ears flicked, some tossing their heads at the sudden clamor. The closer we rode, the more distinct the rhythm became.Not warning.Welcome.“Someone’s enthusiastic,” Rowan said lightly, but his fingers were white on his reins.Mooncrest rose up ahead, stone walls bathed in late afternoon light. Banners snapped lazily in the breeze—Mooncrest blue and silver, Nightveil green and black, and, to my surprise, a new flag hanging just below them.White field.Mooncrest crescent.And beneath it, a slim, silver‑stitched curve like the scar at my throat.Hybrid sigil.My stomach did a slow, strange turn.The crescent under my collar gave a small, warm pulse, as if acknowledging its stitched reflection overhead.The gates were already open when we reached them. Guards lined the entryway in crisp formation,

The letter from Bloodthorn arrived three days after I’d stopped needing someone outside my door every night.I was in the smaller council chamber, a room I’d grown fond of—the one with the big window overlooking the eastern training yards. Sunlight spilled across the table, glinting off inkpots and catching the edge of Theron’s carefully stacked parchments.We were in the middle of a discussion about grain levies—dull, necessary, reassuringly ordinary—when a knock came at the door.Alden glanced up. “Enter.”A runner stepped in, cloak dusty, hair damp with sweat from a hard ride. He bowed to Alden, then to me, then held out a sealed document.“From Bloodthorn’s seat, Your Grace,” he said. “Marked urgent.”The room’s mood shifted.Grain could wait.“Thank you,” Alden said, taking the roll. “Get water. Food. Rest. You’ve done well.”The runner bowed again, eyes flicking curiously to me before he backed out and the door shut behind him.The seal glimmered red in the light—Bloodthorn’s th

The valley looked different when we came back.The last time I’d stood here, the old temple had been a skull full of rot—a broken circle of stone wrapped in a black web, every carved moon, and wolf defaced by curse‑script.Now, the air felt clean.The pillars had been righted as much as possible, cracked sections replaced with new stone veined faintly with different colors—a visible mark of the work Nightveil and Bloodthorn crews had contributed. The floor had been scrubbed and smoothed, scorched marks chiseled away or inlaid with pale marble.The old central glyph—crescent moon ringed by wolves—had been painstakingly restored. Around it, new runes had been etched, not in jagged, hungry strokes, but in neat, steady circles.Pact‑words.Promise‑words.Above us, the sky was a hard blue, banners from three packs snapping in the high breeze: Mooncrest’s silver crescent, Nightveil’s black raven, Bloodthorn’s red thorns without the snarling wolf’s head that had once glared from their standa

The moon shrine lay at the far edge of the castle grounds, tucked behind a stand of old yews that muffled the sounds of the training yards and town below.I’d passed it a few times since coming to Mooncrest—a small, secluded place I’d always given a wide berth. Shrines and I had never had an easy relationship. There are too many prayers that had gone unanswered. Too many people who thought offering me to a goddess was the same as helping me.Tonight, I pushed through the yew branches myself.The clearing opened quietly around me.The pool was smaller than I’d imagined, a perfect circle of black water ringed by smooth stone. Old runes were carved into the rim, worn soft with age. Witchlights—soft blue orbs—floated at ankle height, drifting lazily over moss like low, patient stars.Above, the moon hung full and heavy, its reflection cutting a silver path across the pool.My cloak rustled as I moved toward the water’s edge.My dress wasn’t elaborate—Mooncrest blue, simple lines, sleeves

The fighting was over.The curses were cut.But the work had only just begun.Laws didn’t rewrite themselves.We did.***The council chamber felt different these days.Less like a place where old men argued about taxes, more like a forge. Ideas went in raw—awkward, jagged—and, under pressure, came out shaped into something that might hold.Alden sat at the head of the table, as always, but he didn’t dominate the room the way our father’s portraits suggested an alpha should. He listened more than he spoke, letting others bring their thoughts to the surface.Theron had turned one entire wall into a living document—several large sheets of parchment pinned side by side, covered in columns and subclauses written in neat, meticulous script. Every time we changed something, he drew a line through the old text and added a cleaner version below.Today, at the top of the newest sheet, three words were written in bold, unambiguous ink:NO MORE CHAINS.“Article One,” Theron read, quill poised. “