Semua Bab Marked by My Alpha's Father: Bab 91 - Bab 100

​"That’s suicide," Devon warned, watching the witches’ movements. "The backlash will turn this room into a blender." ​"It’s the only way to save the territory," Elena countered, her voice cold. "On my mark. Three... two... one... Execute!" ​Devon didn't hesitate. He launched himself not at the witches, but at the granite wall behind them, his dagger plunging into a hairline fracture in the rock. ​The sound of the mountain splitting was deafening. A massive, high-pressure jet of compressed mountain air and wild earth-energy hissed out of the crack. The witches, caught off guard by the sudden pressure shift, lost their synchronization. Their bone staves snapped. ​The result was instant. The fire in the cavern inverted, rushing back toward the witches in a shockwave. ​On the other side of the stone wall, Marcus felt the shift. The muffled boom of the inversion rattled through the granite barrier, sending a tremor straight through the fated-mate bond in his chest. His heart seized—a s

As she stumbled back, completely disoriented, Devon came down behind her. He reversed his grip on his dagger. With an unyielding downward thrust, he buried the dark steel blade deep into the juncture where her neck met her shoulder, twisting the hilt to ensure the dark magic in her veins was completely severed from her core. The lead witch froze. The purple veins beneath her translucent skin turned a dead, calcified grey. She didn't dissolve into ash like her sister, instead, her body stiffened into a petrified statue of blackened stone before collapsing forward, shattering into fragments across the wet mud. Silence slammed into their side of the basin, broken only by the ragged breathing of Elena and the injured Devon. The four elite vanguard warriors immediately stepped forward, their massive frames forming a protective wall of muscle and fur around them, shielding them from the falling shale. "Elena..." Devon panted, dropping heavily onto one knee as he used the hilt of his da

The transition from the dark of the underground vault to the blinding glare of the surface felt less like an escape and more like an execution. The banners of Silver Ridge caught the autumn wind, streaks of crimson and gold snapping against a sky that felt too bright for a pack that had just bled dry. Below them, the grand stone courtyard was filled with loud, euphoric voices. Thousands of pack members were singing the old victory hymns, their voices thick with spiced ale and the dizzying relief of survival. Jax was dead. The coven tunnels were sealed. The war was won. Elena stood on the high stone dais of the Packhouse, her hands resting lightly on the cold iron railing to hide their trembling. She wore the traditional robes of the Luna, but beneath the fabric, her spine was locked rigid against the noise. She wasn't looking at the cheering crowds. She was looking at the man beside her. Marcus stood like a monument carved from dark granite. His formal dress uniform was immacu

The High Keep’s subterranean vault smelled of decaying vellum, distilled vinegar, and frozen stone. Unlike the celebratory chaos roaring through the lower courtyards of Silver Ridge, where the bonfires threw massive, dancing orange shadows against the outer walls, the archives were trapped in a permanent, dead winter. No victory hymns reached this far down. The air was thick with centuries of dust that settled over the shelves like a shroud, suffocating the secrets of dead Alphas and forgotten wars. Marcus didn't wait for the master archivist to turn the brass key. He didn't care about pack protocol, nor did he care about the ancient, brittle history housed within these walls. He simply raised his boot and slammed the heel into the center of the doors. The rusted iron latch shattered with an echoing crack that sounded like a rifle shot in the quiet corridor, throwing the double doors wide. They groaned on their hinges, scraping against the stone masonry and sending a cloud of grey g

For a long, agonizing minute, the room fell completely silent. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the synchronized thud of their breathing. Slowly, the gold began to bleed out of Marcus’s eyes, leaving behind an exhausted, hollow gray. He didn't apologize—he couldn't—but he stepped back, dropping his arms to his sides. "We leave in one hour," Marcus said, his tone turning into cold steel. "You ride inside the carriage as a visiting noble. I ride with the vanguard three miles back, out of sight in the tree line. If anyone stops your driver, you play the part of the arrogant bureaucrat. But the moment we cross into the outer ridge and reach her door, I am the one who asks the questions. No improvising." Elena took a slow, steadying breath and nodded once. "Deal."____ In the High Capital, the storm was far worse. The rain battered the high obsidian spires of the Citadel, screaming through the open stone parapets like a dying beast.