THE DUKE'S FORBIDDEN PROPHECY のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 51 - チャプター 60

(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

(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

(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

(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

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