Todos os capítulos de One More Hot Contract with the Shadow Alpha: Capítulo 91 - Capítulo 100

CORALINA'S POV The smell of burnt iron and wet wool has barely cleared from the central keep before the first reports of blood on the borders arrive. ​I sit on the massive obsidian throne of the Frost-Hearth, my fingers tracing the cold, geometric lines carved into the stone armrests. Below the dais, the great hall is quiet now, the northern nobility moving with a stiff, careful obedience that smells heavily of the fear I branded into Garrick’s flesh yesterday. But the peace is an illusion, a thin layer of frost over a boiling spring. ​A young Southern scout, his leather armor torn and splattered with grey mud, kneels at the base of the steps. His breath comes in ragged, shallow gasps that fill the sterile air with the scent of pine sap and stale copper. ​"They call themselves the Unbound, Grand Luna," the scout rasps, his head bowed so low his chin touches his collarbone. "Exiled purebloods, rogues from the fringes who refused to swear the oath. They are gathering in the norther

CORALINA'S POV The great ballroom of the Frost-Hearth breathes with a tense, superficial glamour. Tonight, the clinical, sharp-angled obsidian walls are draped in heavy crimson banners, and the massive stone hearths roar with a fierce Southern heat that forces the Northern nobility out of their comfort zones. It is the mandatory Blood-Moon Ball—a celebration explicitly designed to cement my status as Grand Luna. The surviving Northern lords and ladies arrive clad in dark silks and dense winter furs, their movements stiff, their expressions carefully masked. They are forced to drink heavy Southern wine from silver chalices and bow to the new regime, their scents a volatile mixture of shallow compliance and simmering, hidden rage. I stand at the top of the dais, the weight of my newly claimed sovereignty settling heavily onto my shoulders. I have traded the tattered silk of the grotto for a structured gown of midnight-black leather, the collar cut low to expose the permanent, pul

CORA.LINA'S POV The scent of roasted venison, heavy winter ales, and spiced Southern wine fills the grand banqueting hall of the Frost-Hearth, but the feast tastes of nothing but paranoia. Following the public bloodletting of Alpha Vance in the ballroom, a thick, suffocating tension has settled over the fortress. The long timber tables are packed with the high-ranking members of both the Northern and Southern factions, gathered for the communal victory feast. On the surface, it is a display of unified triumph; beneath it, every jaw is clenched, and every hand stays dangerously close to a hidden blade. I sit at the center of the high table, the heavy leather of my tunic pressing against my ribs like an anchor. The lavender mark on my neck throbs with a rhythmic, low-frequency warmth, but my eyes never stop scanning the room. The titanium data-drive still rests locked in my private chambers, a silent testament to the truths I buried inside my own skull. I do not remember the woman

CORALINA'S POV The pristine obsidian floors of the Frost-Hearth are no longer mirrors. They are scuffed by the heavy, mud-caked leather boots of three hundred Southern vanguard warriors who have taken to pitching rough canvas tents directly inside the grand geometric galleries. The air in the central keep is thick, static, and deeply volatile. It smells of roasting wild boar, damp pine needles, and the unwashed, feral sweat of my nomadic southern kin—a musk that violently collides with the sterile, lavender-scented oils of the Northern nobility. Everywhere I look, the friction of two entirely different civilizations rubs until the stone itself feels raw. Northern lords in dark, gold-embroidered silks pull their cloaks tight, stepping around the open cook-fires with expressions of pure, aristocratic disgust, loudly mourning the loss of their pre-Pulse electronic automation and climate-controlled luxuries. I stand at the high arched window of the council chamber, my bare fingers res

CORALINA'S POVStanding on the high northern parapet of the Frost-Hearth, the wind from the sea whipa my silver hair across my face in tangled, icy ribbons. Down in the bay, cutting through the thick grey fog of the coastal gates, a massive naval fleet rides the heavy swells. Nearly thirty iron-hulled warships, their pre-Pulse engines groaning with a low, mechanical growl that shatters the silence of the cliffs, sit anchored in our waters. They fly no pack banners—only the ragged, black-and-silver colors of the Western Coalition. The coastal packs have arrived. Clyde steps up beside me, his massive, broad-shouldered frame immediately shifting to block the biting sea wind. He doesn't look at the ships; his eyes are fixed on the lower courtyard, where a detachment of forty elite coastal warriors has just entered the gates under a heavy silk flag of truce. The dark, liquid musk of his shadow-energy rolls off his skin in restless, shimmering waves, pooling around his heavy leather boot