The Heart’s Whispers

(Paige’s POV) Stillness here holds weight. Not hollow, but fed by seasons of slow work beneath the surface. From that ground rise daily things - real ones - the smell of baking wheat drifting up from the kitchens below, Lysander’s voice ringing sharp then fading against old stone, my fingers meeting Noah’s without looking when night finally settles inside our room. Footsteps above might miss it, yet underground, roots twitch at faint quivers seconds ahead. Though silent, earth holds signs just beneath what eyes catch. Something stirs beneath the soil, though no dreamer speaks of it. Instead, voices rise where roots run deep. Hill Folk come to the Citadel one morning, their hands empty, their expressions heavy. Not gifts they bring this time, instead silence hangs around them like damp cloth. Kieran, who is Borog’s son and now speaks for his clan, steps forward without ceremony into the stone-walled chamber. W

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The Choice

(Paige’s POV)Beyond the mountain's core, where breath hangs sharp and faint, seconds dissolve. Up there, clocks lose their grip. Cold stretches moments until they snap. Thinness rewires how long things feel. Meaning of time unravels like thread in wind.A single minute passes. Then ten. After that, sixty more tick by. Slowly, the sun slips down, pushing shadowed shapes from the mountain tops so they crawl like dark fingers over the land beneath. Not a sound exists - just the hush of air whispering between cliffs far above.Stillness grips me as I face the shadowed gap my boy vanished into. My body begs to bolt forward, pull him close again, shield him from whatever waits. Yet Kieran’s words lock me in place, tighter than iron cuffs. The path ahead belongs only to bloodline heirs.Alex holds back, planted there like he’s bracing against a gust. Weight shifts among the guards - feet scuffing dirt, shoulders twitching. These ones thrive

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A Different Fire

(Paige’s POV)Back in the city as leaves fall, it's as if stepping into a different life. Behind lies the North - sharp, unyielding, real - now giving way to the murkier rhythms of the heartland. Most days on the road, Lysander rests, his frame quietly mending from what he faced, absorbing it piece by piece. A stillness marks him now, not fear, but watchfulness, deeper than before. That old dread has lifted; something firm sits where it once pressed.Footsteps slow when we reach the citadel's gate. Noah waits there - still, dressed in dark fabric that drinks the light, feet planted like he belongs to the ground itself. His arms are locked behind him, spine straight, a pose meant to say control. Closer now, the mask slips just enough: eyelids flicker too fast. A twitch rides along his jawline. Stillness holds, but not quite.When the carriage door swings open, he loses hold. Suddenly everything slips through his fingers.A shape appear

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Gilded Dust

(Paige’s POV)A flicker of noise, then music spills through the city's core. Lord Protector Eamon hosts what burns brighter than torchlight. The crowd moves like smoke - shifting, rising, never still. This gathering breathes on its own, restless under stone arches. Laughter cuts through cold air instead of silence. People press close, drawn without needing reason. Flame jumps when wind passes; so does celebration.A blaze of lamps spills from his mansion, a fresh sprawl of white marble and gilded edges rising too tall against the night. Crowds of carriages jam the roadways, each one coughing out nobles wrapped in bold silks - hues pulled by sea routes: loud as tropical birds, pale as salt-worn reef, or a strange golden sheen that pulls shadows inward. Perfume hangs thick - not just blossoms from distant soil or sizzling meat on spits - but underneath, something unfamiliar. It clings. Reminds me of fruit left too long in sun, mixed with warmth rising off ba

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Semua Bab THE DUKE'S FORBIDDEN PROPHECY: Bab 61 - Bab 64

The Heart’s Whispers

The Choice

A Different Fire

Gilded Dust