Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Obsidian Covenant #1: The Rejected Mate's Ruin: Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

POV: NeomaIf the bedroom was a gilded cage, the dining hall was the butcher’s block.An hour after Viggo found me in the closet, I was marched down the corridor to a common area that connected the Vanguard’s private quarters.A long table of dark, polished mahogany dominated the room. It was set with silver and crystal that gleamed under the chandelier like rows of teeth.Commander Barzil sat at the head. A king in his own castle. He had shed his armor for a black tunic that did nothing to hide the width of his shoulders.Wolfy sat to his right, slicing a piece of steak with surgical precision. The knife snicked against the china—a sharp, efficient sound.Viggo sat at the far end, fidgeting with his fork. Bending the metal tines with unconscious strength.And there was one empty chair. To Barzil left."Sit," the Commander ordered. He didn't look up from his meal.I stood by the door. My arms crossed over my chest—a flimsy shield. I could still feel the weight of the butter knife tuck

POV: NeomaThe library door clicked shut behind me.I walked down the corridor, my legs moving on autopilot. My brain felt like it had been run through a centrifuge.Wolfy Vance didn't fight with fists; he fought with variables, exposing my ignorance like a raw nerve. Functionally illiterate. The shame sat heavy in my gut, acidic and hot.I rubbed my wrist. The black tattoo of the Bind pulsed—a low, rhythmic ache that synced with my heartbeat.I just wanted the closet. I wanted the dark, the smell of cedar, and the silence.I reached my quarters. I didn't check for traps this time. I was too tired. I swiped the keycard and the heavy magnetic lock disengaged.I stepped inside.And froze.The air in the room was different. The sterile, lavender scent of the Citadel was gone. In its place was something loamy. Deep. The smell of wet soil after a storm, crushed sage, and old parchment.Someone was in my room.My hand flew to the waistband of my pants, gripping the stolen butter knife. Adre

POV: NeomaIt started as a pressure behind my eyes. A drill made of static boring into the optical nerve.By the time I left the equipment room, leaving Viggo curled up on the floor like a sleeping mountain, the pressure had turned into a scream.The Citadel was killing me.Not with its soldiers or its laws. With its architecture. Every wall was reinforced with Barzil alloy. Every light fixture hummed with radiation. The air itself was thick, soupy with the magical runoff of five million Highbloods. It tasted like ozone and copper on my tongue.I was drinking it all.My body was a sponge in an ocean. And I was drowning.Just get to the closet, I told myself. I leaned heavily against the corridor wall. The stone was cold, vibrating against my cheek. Get to the dark. Hide.I took a step.The floor tilted forty degrees to the left.I stumbled. My shoulder slammed into the stone—a jarring impact that rattled my teeth. A warm wetness trickled from my nose. Thick. Slow. I wiped it away with

POV: NeomaIn the Citadel, a grey tunic was better than a cloak of invisibility.I moved through the service corridors. My footsteps were silent on the lower-grade stone. I wasn't supposed to be here. According to Wolfy’s schedule, I was supposed to be in "Recovery Meditation" with Guller. But Guller was deep in a trance, and the static in my head made sitting still agony.The air grew warmer as I approached the kitchens. The sterile scent of the barracks gave way to something richer. Chaotic. Roasting meat. Rosemary. Baking bread. It made my stomach rumble—a dull, insistent ache.I grabbed a stack of dirty plates from a forgotten cart near the door. It was the oldest trick in the Dregs: look like you’re working, and no one sees you.I pushed through the swinging doors.The kitchen was a cavern of steam and noise. Dozens of Null servants—House Nulls, the lucky ones with soft hands and full bellies—scurried between massive prep tables.No one looked at me. I was just another grey smear

POV: NeomaThe Dregs didn't look like hell anymore. Through the red tint of the tactical visor, they looked like data.I crouched behind a slab of collapsed concrete. The heavy Barzil-mesh suit adjusted its temperature, fighting the humid, suffocating heat of the Foundry District.My HUD flashed with streams of information: atmospheric toxicity levels (Critical), structural integrity (Unstable), and thermal signatures.Home wasn't a place of hunger and survival now. It was a grid of targets."Movement at three o'clock," Wolfy’s voice murmured in my ear. Crisp. Clear. "Two heat signatures. Shifting."We were outside a massive, hollowed-out warehouse that used to process ore before the Fracture. Now, it was a corpse. A tomb of rusted girders and shadows."Viggo, take point," Barzil ordered. His voice was a rock slide in my earpiece. "Neoma, stay with Guller. Watch our six.""I am watching," I whispered. I gripped the hilt of my combat knife until my hand cramped. The leather dug into my