All Chapters of The Maid the Alphas Couldn't Forget: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

We left before dawn. The village was still dark when we gathered at the western gate. The fires had burned down to embers, their glow faint and dying, casting barely enough light to see each other’s faces. The air was cold and sharp, carrying the scent of frost and damp earth, the kind of cold that bit at your lungs with every breath. Our boots pressed into the packed soil, muffled by the thin layer of dew that had settled overnight. I glanced back once. The cabins were quiet. The fields were still. The village looked peaceful—small, fragile, tucked into the valley like a secret the world had forgotten. I could see the faint outline of the well, the training yard, the hall where we had signed the Pact. The children were asleep. The elders were resting. Everyone I had promised to protect was tucked behind those walls. Then I turned away. I didn’t look back again. Kael was at my side, his blade sheat

I didn’t run.The fortress was silent behind me. The Hand’s body lay on the cold stone floor, his pale eyes staring at nothing, his lips still frozen in that thin, knowing smile. I had left him there, the dagger still wet, the candle still burning on the shattered table. The room felt smaller now. Empty. Like a cage that had already been unlocked.I walked.My footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, each one loud in the stillness. The walls were dark, the torches low, their flames sputtering in the draft. I passed the same locked doors, the same winding passages. The fortress felt different now. Less threatening. Like a beast that had already been gutted. The shadow was gone. Only stone and silence remained.I reached the gate.The crack was still there—a sliver of grey light cutting through the dark, cold and sharp. I pushed it open. The iron groaned, grinding against stone. The cold air hit my face, clean and sharp, carrying the scent of pine and distant snow. I stepped out in

Word spread faster than I expected. Within two days, the neutral packs were buzzing. The message had gone out through every channel we had—riders, birds, whispered words carried by traveling merchants. A gathering of the Pact. An open meeting. A chance for any pack, loyalist, neutral, or otherwise, to come and speak their piece. The invitation was careful. It didn't threaten. It didn't beg. It just offered a seat at the table, a bowl of stew, and a chance to be heard. The village braced. The northern wolves doubled their patrols, their eyes scanning the treeline with renewed intensity. The farmers worked faster, bringing in the last of the harvest before the cold set in. The children were kept close, their games confined to the center of the village, away from the walls and the gates. The fires were kept burning, the gates locked at dusk. I spent the mornings on the training yard, working through drills with Ronan. My body was still healing—the cut across my ribs had scabbed over

We watched the camp for two hours.The hollow was a natural bowl, ringed by old oaks and thick underbrush. The trees leaned inward like they were guarding something. The ground was soft, covered in a layer of dead leaves and moss that muffled sound. The tents were clustered close together, low and grey, their canvas stained by rain and time, sagging in places.Fires burned at the center of the hollow, their flames low but steady. The smell of cooking meat drifted through the trees, mixing with woodsmoke and damp earth and the faint, metallic tang of old blood. Wolves moved between the tents—some armed, some carrying supplies, some just standing, staring into the dark like they were waiting for something.I counted them. Thirty. Maybe more. Hard to tell in the flickering firelight, with shadows shifting and merging.Kael was on my left, his body perfectly still, his obsidian eyes fixed on the camp. He didn’t blink. He didn’t shift. He just watched, cataloging every movement, every guar

The days after the hollow were soft.Not soft like peace. Soft like the air after a storm—still heavy, still charged with static, but no longer breaking. The clouds had cleared. The wind had died. The village settled back into its rhythm, slow and steady.The farmers went back to the fields. Their backs bent, their hands moving through the soil, planting the winter crops. The weavers went back to their looms, the threads clicking and snapping in the quiet afternoon. The children went back to their games, their laughter rising and falling like waves.But the quiet felt different now. Like it had edges. Like there was something lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment we forgot to be careful.I spent the mornings walking. The crown stayed on the table most days. I didn't wear it as often. I needed to feel the wind on my brow without the weight of the silver pressing into my skull. I needed to remember what it felt like to just be Mira, not the Queen.I walked the perimet