บททั้งหมดของ The Werewolf's Bride : บทที่ 41 - บทที่ 45

The forest beyond the manor had no name anymore. Once it had been called the Whispering Vale, back when wolves still told stories of peace under starlight. Now it was simply the Ruins; a graveyard of forgotten temples, shattered obelisks, and vines thick as pythons strangling marble that had once held up the sky. Moonlight barely penetrated the canopy here; what little slipped through turned the air silver-gray and cold, like breathing through frost. Elara ran. Not on two legs. Not fully on four. Her hybrid form had stretched, elongated, during the desperate flight from the manor. Silver-black fur covered her completely now, sleek and shining like oil on water. Her spine had realigned for speed, limbs lengthened, paws silent on moss and stone. Claws longer than daggers dug into earth with every stride, propelling her forward faster than any wolf in the pack had ever moved. Her daughter, Lyra, rode strapped to her chest in a makeshift sling of torn cloak and leather cord, tiny body

The Hollow Spire loomed like a broken crown against the starless sky, its black stone absorbing what little moonlight remained as the dark moon approached its zenith. Elara stood at the crater's edge, silver-black fur rippling in the cold wind, claws sunk deep into cracked earth. Lyra slept against her chest, tiny heartbeat steady and trusting, a fragile rhythm that anchored Elara even as the fragment of Darius inside her stirred again, cold and patient, waiting for the moment the Second Dark Moon rose. The mark above her heart pulsed once, slow, almost gentle, a reminder that the enemy was not outside but within. Kael moved beside her, human form now, midnight hair tousled by wind, fresh scars silvering across his chest and arms. His silver eyes never left her face, searching for weakness, for pain, for any sign the fragment was gaining ground. The bond between them thrummed, fierce and protective, but frayed at the edges, strained by the poison still lingering in her blood and the

Years passed like seasons over the united lands. The manor at the heart of Blackthorn territory had grown, new wings added, gardens reclaimed from wild thorns, banners of black and silver now joined by threads of crimson, the colors of Ironfang woven in harmony. The great hall rang with laughter instead of battle cries, children’s voices echoing where once only growls had answered. The packs had merged, not through conquest but through choice, through the promise of a child who carried both lines in her blood. Lyra grew tall and fierce, silver-black fur shimmering like moonlight on obsidian, eyes that shifted with her moods, brown when she laughed, silver when she hunted, midnight when she dreamed. She ran the forests with the other young wolves, climbed the battlements at dawn, listened to stories of the bridge who had bled willingly and the Alpha who had refused to let her fall. She knew her mother’s scars, knew her father’s strength, knew her grandmother’s quiet wisdom. She knew