บททั้งหมดของ MARKED BY MY ALPHA'S FATHER: บทที่ 111 - บทที่ 120

The stone gallery outside the council chamber was dark, cold, and smelled of rising river damp. Marcus didn't slow his pace until they were deep within the shadows of the western colonnade, far from the echoes of the Elders' gavels. He slammed his palms flat against a granite pillar, his head dropping between his broad shoulders as his chest heaved in ragged, heavy intervals. Beneath his tunic, the silver veins were throbbing, a malicious pulse that seemed to mirror the heavy thrumming of the Citadel’s deep foundations. "Marcus," Elena said, stepping into his space. She didn't touch him—she could feel the volatile, static heat radiating off his skin, a warning sign that his inner wolf was straining against its human leash. "We have to look at the paperwork Camille brought out. The dates on the asset sheets don't match the official ledger of the Winter Ward." Marcus didn't look up, but his jaw tightened until the bone looked sharp enough to cut leather. "The dates are exactly whe

The air beneath the Citadel didn't circulate; it stagnated inside a cold, geometric labyrinth of black basalt that smelled of wet slate and old bone. Elena led the way, her fingers brushing along the damp, close-set masonry of the lower foundation tunnels. Behind her, Marcus moved like a wounded predator. His breathing was heavy, a ragged, wet sound that rattled in the narrow corridor. The silver veins beneath his collarbone were glowing an intense, volatile violet now, casting sharp, skeletal shadows against the dark stone walls. "The tunnel is widening," Elena whispered, her voice pitched so low it was almost lost to the dripping water. "Look at the tooling marks on the granite, Marcus. This isn't Capital construction. The stones aren't held together by modern mortar. They're locked by weight alone." Marcus stopped, leaning his heavy shoulder against the rough wall to steady himself. He pressed a hand over his chest, his jaw grinding as a visible spasm of pain shot through his fr

The air inside the subterranean vault went rigid, the pressure dropping so fast that the moisture on the black granite walls froze into a dull, crystalline frost. High above, the iron gears of the High Solar ground to a temporary halt, leaving the three-hundred-foot vertical drop suspended like an open throat between the ancient murals and the royal altar. Marcus didn't take a step toward the exit. He couldn't. The moment Alaric’s command left the high solar, the circular stone floor beneath Marcus's boots began to pulse with a thick, dull amethyst light. It wasn't standard magic; it was the ancestral frequency of the Citadel’s focal points—the original ritual grid designed by the First Queen to compress the parasite. Marcus let out a short, choked gasp, his knees buckling under a sudden, invisible weight that seemed to multiply the gravity of the room tenfold. He hit the frozen granite with a heavy thud, his hands slamming flat against the stone to keep his chest from hitting t

The freezing mountain gale screamed through the narrow stone gorges of the northern pass, turning the driving sleet into a barrage of icy needles. Three stolen carriage horses, stripped of their leather harnesses and iron bits, galloped blindly through the treacherous mud, their hooves striking sparks against the black slate path. Marcus rode ahead, his massive frame hunched low over the horse’s neck. He didn't use reins; his fingers were woven directly into the animal's frozen mane, his eyes cutting through the thick winter fog with intensity. Every few seconds, his chest would heave with a ragged gasp. Beneath his wet tunic, the silver veins flared in rhythm with his heartbeat, sending tiny arcs of violet static sizzling down the horse's flanks. Elena rode hard at his shoulder, her boots crusted with the dark mud of the drainage channel, her silver dagger held tightly against her thigh. "Marcus! The horses are flagging! If we don't break for the western treeline soon, the anim

The aftermath of the silver fire smelled of scorched iron, melted slate, and the chemical tang of vaporized rain. The shelf of black stone where the vanguard had stood was now a jagged, black trench, its edges glowing with a dull, unnatural heat that the freezing mountain wind couldn't kill. Elena dragged herself up from the mud, her breath coming in short, painful gasps. Her hands were raw, her fingers shaking as she stumbled through the thick white steam rolling off Marcus’s body. The stolen horses had bolted down the pass, their terrified screams long swallowed by the gale, leaving a suffocating silence in the mountain gorge. "Marcus," she whispered, her voice cracking as the cold, ash-choked air hit her throat. Marcus hadn't moved. He sat on his knees in the center of the scorched slate, his hands still buried three inches into the frozen mud where his claws had torn the earth during the blast. His head hung low between his broad shoulders, his dark hair plastered to his f