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หน้าหลัก / Romance / THE DUKE'S FORBIDDEN PROPHECY / บทที่ 51 - บทที่ 60

บททั้งหมดของ THE DUKE'S FORBIDDEN PROPHECY: บทที่ 51 - บทที่ 60

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King’s Offer

(Paige’s POV)A chill holds the northern lands in place now. Inside Blackstone Keep though, heat hums low and steady from embers not meant for war. The mountain roared eight weeks back. Snow soaked up blood after Greymont reached too far. That clash shifted everything - our lives folded inward yet stretched outward the very same breath. All because a small face arrived, shaped just right.Lysander shifts by the hour. Those light brown eyes - so focused, just like Noah’s - scan everything quietly. A furrowed brow appears whenever he watches lines on paper, mirroring his dad without trying. My messy black hair sprouts from his head, never staying down no matter what. Draped across me while sleeping, he melts into warmth, breathing slow and deep. Wide eyed and alert, his tiny hands rise up suddenly, moving fast like they’re leading something unseen, already certain about how things should go.From deep inside this quiet heat we carry on. Solar energy no
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High Vale

(Paige’s POV)Footsteps toward Highvale pull you into an older rhythm, one where edges seem more defined than what came before. The air there cuts cleaner, almost as if memory shaped the landscape. Time doesn’t drag - instead it tightens, folding moments closer together. What remains feels less padded, stripped down to bone and breath. Places like this don’t shout - they lean in close and whisper through cracks in the stone.A few of us move through the trees, guards close behind - Alex, Gareth, twenty from the north who’ve seen cold fights. Warmth presses into me where Lysander rests, bundled tight under wool, unseen. That child shapes each moment, even how Noah watches shadows climb the ridge line, eyes never still.Down south from our peaks, the land shifts shape. Cold fades slowly, replaced by softer breezes. Snow lingers only where shade holds it close. Trees grow taller here, backs no longer bent by gales. Something about this calm makes m
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The Summit

(Paige’s POV)Above Highvale, the hall feels different than Blackstone’s. Smoke-stained walls are missing here. Instead, silence hangs thick, laced with beeswax polish and something softer - a whisper of rot beneath flower arrangements that look just a little too neat. Damp wool and pine sap leave no trace in these corners.A splash of colors fills the space, bright like morning light. Nobles from each great southern family sit lined along ornate seats, forming half a circle. Silk drapes one shoulder here, velvet another there - quiet fabric stories under watchful stares. Up ahead, built higher than the rest, stands the seat of rule. Waiting. Not used just now.Even though King Nolen stays away, his empty chair pulls focus. Without him there, tension creeps into every glance. Power usually fills that space - now it yawns wide open. Others shift in their seats, nerves frayed by what's missing.Ahead and slightly left of the raised plat
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The Map of Tomorrow

(Paige’s POV)A haze of fear, pages scattering like ash. Darkness swallows every thought except the next breath.Nowhere looks the same. Furniture once polished and placed with care has been pushed toward walls, out of the way. Across the bare floor stretch wide sheets - paper Alex took from a steward who could barely hold it. Every bit of space holds something: maps spread open, pages torn from account books, thoughts I wrote down while sitting quiet through long days.Picture this, not one moment but something bigger unfolding. It lives in routines, choices, repeated. Trying to sketch it feels impossible right now. Lines never quite capture what’s inside.“It’s impossible,” I breathe, my hands braced on the table, staring at a blank page. “They want a map of a kingdom? I can’t even sketch a coherent field rotation plan!”Noah is beside me, not hovering, but a steady, solid presence. He’s rolling out the old, outdated surv
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Blood and Ink

(Paige’s POV)A single beat hangs still. The King gasps, uneven, fading, while crimson spreads sharp across the cold floor. That color stains everything.A sudden roar tears through everything. Sounds crash like broken glass across the sky.Chaos spills into the room as shouting swells from every corner. Noblemen bellow over one another while women cry out in sharp bursts. Clattering metal cuts through noise - guards shoving forward, weighed down by steel. At the center, the Chancellor flaps his hands like a wounded sparrow yelling for healers of the crownStiff as stone, my gaze holds on the King’s pale, lifeless expression. Cold as snow, his hand clung to me just moments before. That last grasp - tight, pleading - burns through me now. End it.Out of nowhere, a thick hand grabs my arm, yanking me away from the stage. It’s Noah. He moves fast, placing himself right in front of me - like a barrier against the noise and mot
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The Pulse Holds What was Said

(Noah’s POV)Back toward the great hall, every step drags like stone. Each yard stretches wider than before. The path refuses to shorten. Distance grows even when I hurry. My feet weigh more with each beat. Nothing moves faster, not even time. This stretch of ground owns a slow curse.A hush rolls through each hallway. We move past servants who stiffen, shrinking into stone corners. From far off comes yelling - feet slamming down passages, sharp and sudden. Smoke lingers on the tongue, mixed with something tighter, quieter.Down the path moves Paige, steady under the load of our child asleep in her grip. My chest holds those papers - burning, real - the kind that might change everything we know. With each footfall, the night watches back, silent. At our sides pace Alex and Gareth, fingers near steel, glancing sharp into every dark corner.“Remember,” I murmur to her, my voice low. “We are not begging for our lives. We are presenting e
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The King’s Final Breath

(Paige’s POV)Noise rushes in when the King falls. A swell of hushed voices spreads fast, sharp as steam on hot stone. Out through a narrow doorway goes the stretcher, carrying him, pulled along by doctors and a few stunned nobles, faces drained. Behind them, the hall stays full but frozen, people hanging loose without grip - no ruler, no Greymont, no Prestwick to hold things tight.Inside the space, quiet hangs heavy, though nothing about it seems calm. Beside me, Noah stays motionless, energy crackling under his skin from taking down Greymont moments before. Air moves steadily in and out of his lungs, yet tightness runs through his frame - like something stretched too far. Watching. Always watching. Eyes trace corners, faces, doors, weighing who might move against us, who might run.Warm breath brushes my shoulder as Lysander shifts, half-dreaming. Such quiet moments feel strange now.Nowhere safe here, thinks Noah, words quiet. His
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The Protector’s Path

(Noah’s POV)Buried under stillness, the room holds its breath like frozen peaks at dusk. This quiet does not speak - it finishes what was begun long ago. A man slips away. So too does everything he ruled.Heavy. That iron band sits in my hand like stone from Blackstone Hold. Guard what matters, he said - never the shape of it. His last words. Clear eyes till death took him. Royalty fits another man. A crown would sit wrong on my head. Not because of the weight, but what comes with it - bending truths just to keep peace. Smiles stretched too wide, held too long. Rituals that never pause. All those quiet surrenders piling up like stones. I’d feel caged inside the role. Hollowed out by pretending.A shield against collapse - someone holding firm where things might break. One who uses honesty sharp enough to remove decay, standing guard when everything teeters. Yes, that makes sense to me.A shadow shifts first, then the doctor pulls li
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Thornes and Roses

Paige’s POV)Back in the city feels different from that first trip up north. That time, fugitives inside a locked coach, running from cold and shame. This moment, leading the line of riders.On horseback rides Noah, mounted atop a dark gelding that moves with quiet menace, the spy lord’s ring faintly catching light, the name Lord Protector settling on him slow and heavy. Beside him I go, tucked inside a rolling coach, fresh wind slipping through unlatched panes, Lysander curled up asleep near my feet in a tied-down wicker box. Trailing behind come envoys from noble families bound by the pact - Duke Argon among them, plus a few more - and soldiers drawn from our northern ranks, their numbers speaking without words.Our arrival isn’t a request. Power comes with us, not permission.Still, the city holds its breath. Crowded corners reek of sweat, spilled waste, sweet scents clawing through the damp. Perfume battles grime beneath a sky choked w
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The Unwritten Page

(Paige’s POV)Time does not move like a river. It piles up, piece by piece. Moments sit beside each other - some gleam like wet pebbles, while stress and routine dull the rest. Only when you pause to notice do the shapes come clear. What seemed scattered now fits somehow.Ahead of everything, Lysander fills my arms - warm, squirming, blinking up with round eyes and tiny hands clutching at air. Without warning, years fold into each other; now he stands seven winters old, curls tangled like mine, but those quiet, hazel eyes belong to someone else entirely. Midway through silence, he perches on a chair inside the stone hall where secrets live, legs swinging beneath ancient wood, voice whispering syllables from an open book spread before him.“Gran… ary. Granary.” He looks up at me. “That’s the place for grain. Like Uncle Gareth’s storehouse.”“Exactly,” I say, my heart doing that funny, proud squeeze. “And what does the number next to i
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