บททั้งหมดของ Bound To The Dragon Who Dreamed Of Me: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

Lyra — Age 16Blackwood Pack Territory, AlaskaBy the time she turned sixteen, Lyra Blackwood had become a wildfire no one could tame. The elders never said it so bluntly. When they were polite, they called her “strong-willed.” When they weren’t, “complicated.” Her father muttered “challenging.” Her mother, with that cool disappointment in her voice, called her “unfinished”—and that cut sharper than any criticism. Lyra called it survival.High school had carved her edges razor-sharp. She’d grown into her lanky height, found a stance that spoke confidence like armor, even though she’d forced herself into it. In classrooms and halls she moved with the quiet assurance of someone who’d learned to defend every inch of ground she claimed. She could fight now—not enough to best the pack’s elite warriors, but enough to embarrass the boys who still saw “unshifted” as “helpless.”Her grey eyes missed little. She could read a room’s tension, hold a council elder’s gaze without blinking, endure ho

VaelrionDarkness had been his only companion for so long that even the faintest flicker of memory dimmed beneath its weight. Not simple silence, not mere emptiness; something denser and more insidious—a gravity that pressed against his soul, probing every fracture to see if he would splinter as so many dragons before him had. He did not break. Not because he was invincible, but because he carried a single truth they had lacked: her.Even in this enchanted slumber, Vaelrion’s body lay nestled in the heart of the mountain chamber, encased in crystalline ice spells woven by ancient mages and bound by his father’s dying command. Stone columns soared overhead, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed with a dim, argent light, casting wavering shadows across walls carved from obsidian. Flames—eternal embers trapped within veins of magma—throbbed beneath the floor, sending tremors up his spine. Centuries brushed past like drifting ash, meaningless to a creature caught between heartbeat

Lyra — Age 18Blackwood Pack Territory, AlaskaThe final week in Alaska unfolded not in a frantic rush but with the solemn inevitability of an oncoming storm. Each morning dawned pale and slow, as though the sky itself knew what was coming. In her room, cardboard boxes materialized overnight, their sides bulging with carefully folded clothes. Her favorite novels—weathered spines and dog-eared pages— vanished into canvas suitcases, leaving bare spots on hand-carved shelves. Winter coats and heavy scarves were sorted into neat piles on the floor, the wool and down catching stray sunlight like muted promises of warmth. Important papers—passports, transcripts, scholarship letters—were laid out on her desk, then touched again and again until the leather folder holding her folded Harvard acceptance gleamed crimson in the afternoon glow, a beacon she could no longer ignore.She was leaving.Not for a weekend hunt or a midsummer festival her pack elders might romanticize. Not for a fleeting ta

Lyra — Age 18 Boston, MassachusettsWeeks dissolved into months like morning mist burned off by dawn. At first, Boston felt temporary— a pit stop on her journey— but by October its cobblestone streets and brick façades seemed to pulse in time with her own heartbeat. Each worn granite slab of sidewalk imprinted her stride; lamp-lit quads around campus shone like beacons guiding her back to routines she’d come to cherish. Lyra no longer summoned maps on her phone. She knew exactly which corner led to Widener Library’s arched entrance, which elm-shaded alley provided a shortcut to the student center. Even the corner café, its windows beaded with steam and the pale light of daybreak, anticipated her double- shot latte— oat milk, two sugars— before she spoke her order.Her first-year courses, once sheer academic cliffs she feared she might tumble down, now lay before her like summits begging for her flag. She reveled in midnight hushes at the library, casebooks stacked in fortress-high pile

Lyra — Age 20 Boston, MassachusettsFour Months Before Her Twenty- First BirthdayLyra lay awake beneath the thin wash of moonlight spilling through her curtains, tracing pale patterns across her quilt. The flat of her mattress pressed into her back, the sheets cool under her fingertips, yet sleep slipped through her grasp. Not for lack of exhaustion—she felt the weight of each day in her bones—but because something inside her throbbed with restless life. It wasn’t fear; fear struck like lightning and then vanished. This was a low, insistent pulse, like a second heartbeat that didn’t belong to her body yet stirred in her chest.She stared at the gouged plaster of the ceiling, imagining cracks branching away from a single point of impact. Her fingers curled around the blanket’s edge as she listened to Boston’s nighttime symphony—distant cars humming over pavement, laughter spilling from a late-running bar down the block, wind sighing between narrow alleyways. All of it sounded muted, as