Semua Bab THE DUKE'S FORBIDDEN PROPHECY: Bab 41 - Bab 50

(Paige’s POV)Stone walls rise high, carrying whispers like secrets. Light falls in thin lines, cutting across worn floors. Every step echoes as if watched. Silence here holds its breath.Flickering flames fill the room, leaping inside iron holders fixed to cold rock. Shadows stretch upward, twitching across stonework draped in flags - each one showing a dark lion rearing on pale gray cloth. Over there, beyond the hall’s width, high upon steps meant for another ruler, Nolen takes his place where Noah refuses to sit.A shadow of his brother, worn thin by years. The bones in his face match Noah’s, just as those steady eyes do. Yet while Noah burns with ice and flame, Nolen holds stillness - a surface like stone, untouched. Leather wraps his frame instead of velvet or silk, built for roads not halls. A blade rests at his side, not for show. Not here for speeches. Here because debts must be faced.Standing beside him, six of his own guards sta

(Paige’s POV)Darkness sits heavy in Blackstone Keep's main hall, deep and still. From a fireplace big enough for a whole cow, flames leap and crackle, yet warmth climbs only so far. Up above, cold air holds the smoke, trapping it beneath the high arches where shadow gathers thick. Stone forms the walls - raw, uneven, untouched by tools meant for beauty. Underfoot, flat rocks lie cracked and smoothed, shaped not by design but by time and tread. Nothing hangs on the walls but old weapons. Axes, long spears, shields - silent, worn, resting against stone. Light from the flames licks at metal, giving them a cold shine. Portraits? Tapestries? Not here.Fergus stands there, a weathered man from the north. Tight features shape his face, hard as if carved from rock. A flicker of gray lives behind stony eyes - cold, sharp. Bowing comes slow, almost unwilling, more habit than respect. “Your Grace,” he says, then adds, “My Lady,” like it was forgotten. Sound scrapes out o

(Paige’s POV) Out here, chill doesn’t measure degrees. Instead, it moves like something alive. From the courtyard straight into hallways carved of rock, it creeps under clothes - past layers meant to block it out. Wool does little. Leather holds less. Inside the ribs, it lingers, refusing to leave. Around late morning, though sunlight tries slipping through tall, thin window slits, fog still puffs from each exhale in our borrowed room we now call work space. Focused light catches Noah mid-thought, bent over the broad table pocked with old cuts. Maps stretch corner to corner, held at edges by a blade and chipped mug steaming weak tea. A deep line crosses his forehead while one hand moves slow along a path - likely the river Gareth spoke of. “The bridge is here,” he says, not looking up. “It connects the high pasture to the main village. Without it, they have to take the flock five miles downstream to cross at the ford, which is treacherous after the snowmelt.” He finally lifts his

(Paige’s POV) A weight settles where words should be, colder than steel meant for shadows. What are you? Heavy flakes pile up now, dusting his coat, the body lying still beneath him, my shaking fingers too. No reply comes to mind. Whatever force had used my voice has vanished, replaced by a silence that rings inside. Standing there, speaking things beyond knowing, facing the edge of nothing - yet it’s his stare that cuts deepest, full of distance, not recognition. Wind thrashes the tall trees as I barely speak. "Paige," I say, so quiet it almost disappears. Not special. Just here. That's all A sharp edge shapes Noah’s mouth. Wonder fades there, replaced - slowly - by something colder, sharper: the watchful doubt of someone used to power. Red spreads across pale fabric, drawn from a cut on his arm. Alex reaches us, his face grim. “The decoys were a ruse. Well-trained. We were drawn into a skirmish half a mile west. It was a diversion. My lord, I failed - ” Late, says Noah,

(Paige’s POV)Nothing fills me at the start. What comes before sound, before shape - this is where I begin.A hush sits wide and shaking, empty now where heat once pressed hard against itself. Back it flows, that ache, pulling away as ocean pulls from sand, dumping me on ground that wobbles beneath. Split apart, I stand - broken casing, nothing inside but echo.After that, noise floods the space.A cry, sharp and narrow. That's my boy.I catch breath, sharp and ragged, just like he does. Her shape moves fast - midwife - a smear of red and effort, holding something tiny that writhes. Wet. Alive. Right there, surrounded by endings.A whisper escapes Mara's lips - soft, hushed. Her rough fingertip moves forward. Then, sudden grip: the infant’s fingers clamp down, tight, raw, alive. Strength floods through such a small thing.Lysander. That was the name, soft on our tongues late at night - something held c