All Chapters of Claimed by the Seven Alphas: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

The dome's zenith light poured through the circular glass window, slamming a white-hot disk onto the black basalt floor. The only moment of the day the Council chamber was struck by direct sun.At the center of that column of light stood the accused's stand—the iron cage cast into the basalt when the Council was first founded. Rust seeped outward from the marrow of the bars. Every rail had been gripped by countless hands over three centuries.The last time Luna stood in this iron cage, it had been for her Council trial. She had stood inside it for an entire day. Her scalpel, drawn, had accidentally grazed the rust, leaving a fine, short scratch on the third bar from the left. Only she knew where it was.Today, she stood outside the cage.Seven Alphas flanked her on either side. Before her, on the semi-circular stone dais, sat the seven Elders. She had deliberately positioned herself half a step outside the column of light, letting the sun graze her shoulder and drag a long shadow acro

The zenith light of the Council rotunda fell on the basalt stone floor precisely on time that morning.The iron cage was empty. Before the coronation ceremony began, the Council guards had wound every bar with dried northern thistle stems and fresh sprigs of ice-plain lily-of-the-valley.The Elder stood on the stone dais. He wore the full ceremonial robes from the founding of the first Council. He had switched his ebony staff for the oldest one. He had sat in this Council for most of his life, presided over countless hearings, countless votes. But he had never presided over a coronation.Today's coronation was not merely the coronation of the new. It was the shared coronation of every Mother of Wolves who had come before her and been silenced, stripped, killed, forgotten.While Luna was changing into her coronation robes in the dressing room, the old Omega arrived with the Omegas from the laundry. They didn't enter the room. They just stood in the corridor, each wearing her cleanest g

【 Lily of the Valley】The infirmary occupied the second floor of the castle's west wing.Elias Crane sat by the window. A new Omega file lay open before him. Morning light cut through the narrow window and fell across the medical chart, tracing a pale gold edge along the paper. He pulled the file closer. The pages whispered against each other, dry and quiet.Name: Luna. Age: eighteen. Origin: Northern Territory. Family history: none.His dip pen hung above the approval column. The nib quivered. He did not lower it.Something drifted through the window. Cold, then sweet. The raw green scent of thawing permafrost, the kind that rises from Northern soil in early spring. It traveled through three strata of air. Laundry yard, back court, stairwell, second-floor corridor. And then it found his nostrils and settled there.Not the alkaline reek of washing powder. Not the sharp chemical bite of hallway disinfectant.Lily of the valley.The pen stilled.The gland at his nape answered before his

【Ashes on the Battlefield】He did not know how he had survived.The gash across his back ran from shoulder blade to waist, flesh peeled outward, exposing gray-white fascia beneath. Blood had softened the frozen earth under him. Fallen leaves and mud churned together into a froth of dark red.Pheromones leaked from his scent gland.His body was giving up on its own. The scent of ashes—cold, dry, like the last trace of warmth after firewood has burned completely through.Ordered footsteps approached from the distance. A patrol. Then a single set of footfalls broke away from the formation. Boots ground over gravel and dead leaves, unhurried, stopping beside him.He could not open his eyes. Blood had glued the left lid shut. The right could only make out blurry patches of light.The person crouched down.A scent pushed into his nasal cavity—cold, sweet, like the first meltwater seeping through frozen soil at the onset of spring in the Northern Reaches. Lily of the valley.He had smelled l

【Seed】There was a patch of ground at the edge of the northern ice fields.Not large. From the rock pile on the east side to the fissure on the west, seven paces. From the twisted dead pine on the south to the frozen earth slope on the north, nine paces. Seven paces wide, nine paces long. Saine had measured it with his own feet.He planted thistles on this patch. Three years. Not a single one survived.The neighbors called him a fool. The frozen earth of the North thawed only three inches deep in summer. Beneath those three inches lay permafrost, hard as iron. A thistle's taproot needed to drive a full foot down. Three inches was never enough.Saine crouched at the edge of his plot and pushed his fingers into the soil. Three inches of mud. Below that, ice. He dug his nails into the ice and clawed. A fingernail peeled back. Blood seeped into the frozen cracks. He pulled his hand free, sucked the wound with his mouth, and kept clawing."What are you planting that crap for? It's not pret