Rowan Celtic Tree Mga Nobela at Kwento

We walked deeper into the secluded valley where the ancient olive trees twisted out of the rocky earth, their leaves casting long, intimate silhouettes across the grass. Rowan didn't let go of my hand, his grip constant, heavy, and reassuring. As the wind whipped my wild curls across my cheeks, he stopped beneath the shade of a massive canopy, his silver eyes tracking the horizon with a sudden, quiet intensity that didn't feel like fear—it felt like hunger for something clean.

Rowan became emotional every time she looked at it, but for the first time, she would finally experience life without the presence of the Morennos and the Domineers. Alex looked on at the withered tree with a sense of captivation as they stopped before it. “So this is it then,” he said serenely. “There’s something about this tree that’s so beautiful to look at. I’m not sure what it is.” Rowan placed her hand on her heart. “I left it up at the Citadel,” she whispered to herself, realizing that her grandmother’s pendant was not there. “Yes,” she then replied to Alex as she looked back up at the tree. “My grandmother made her charm from this wood many years ago, the same that Delmar made the sp

Hearing no answer, Carwyn turned around to see Rowan's grimace. "I asked if you found it!" Carwyn shouted. "Didn't find Miss Grainne, but found this." Rowan pulled out a sealed bag with an iPhone inside. The ornament hanging from the phone, Carwyn recognized it at a glance. It was a couple of decorations that, when they were together, Grainne bought at a love shop.

The trees moved as if something old had woken inside their roots. Alexander felt Caleb’s hand tighten around his wrist before the silver light could burst free. Pain shot up his arm, but Caleb did not let go. Around them, the yard had become a storm of claws, shouts, and running feet. Above the noise, Rowan’s voice floated from the forest, calm and cruel. “Now he has seen enough.” The nearest pine bent toward the yard. Its branches stretched like long fingers, scraping against the fence. Another tree followed, then another, until the forest seemed to lean over the lodge.

"The Aethel-Group doesn't just lose assets, Miss Selene. We simply restructure them. Rowan is no longer a Knight. He has been promoted to **Regional Director**." Rowan stood up. He didn't look at Selene. He didn't look at the tree. He adjusted the lapels of a suit that hadn't been there a second ago—a sharp, charcoal-gray suit that appeared on his body like a second skin. "Rowan?" Selene whispered, her voice breaking. Rowan turned to her. His face was his own, but his eyes were empty. He looked at her as if she were a line of text on a screen. "The restoration of this sector is behind schedule, Unit Selene," Rowan said. His voice was cold, precise, and devoid of any emotion. "We need to begi

The air grew thinner, the trees sparser, until only hardy pines and bare stone remained. Caelan rode beside Lucien, his gray warhorse picking its way carefully over loose scree. The ancient power within him stayed alert, moonlight threads stretching ahead like silent scouts, revealing hidden caves, narrow defiles, and the growing knot of darkness at the heart of the mountains — Rowan’s stronghold, a network of fortified caves where the exiled prince had gathered his most fanatical followers.

Never even heard of such from the times that my father told me about some of this weird type of magic. The burning grew hotter inside my skin—like the magic wanted to carve a message no one could read yet. Cullen reached again, panic all over his face. “Selena, hold on. I’m here—” But the chain threw another spark, warning him. Rowan—bleeding, limping, barely standing—finally looked our way. One look. One second. His face dropped. “Oh no…” he whispered. Cullen spun toward him. “What? WHAT is this?”

The words brushed against her like lips at her ear, and against her will her body betrayed her — knees softening, heart hammering. And then the cathedral doors boomed open. The sound echoed like thunder. Both Selene and Lucien spun as a figure entered, broad-shouldered and alive with raw energy. Rowan Hale stepped through the threshold, the torchlight of the outer woods burning in his amber eyes. His shirt was gone, his chest streaked with old scars and ritual tattoos that seemed to glow faintly in the moonlight. The wolf in him stood just beneath the surface — tense, coiled, ready.

Then he shifts his gaze to Kryl, "right Kryl?" "Just right!" Kryl replies, grinning as well. "Should we get started now?" Rowan asks, picking up the fallen flowers on the table, and hurling it at the tree stems. His tone expresses friendliness with a beam over his face. His curly hair sitting relaxedly on his head speaks a whole volume of him.

Before he can touch me, a power-shaking growl rips through the air, so violent it feels like the earth itself flinches. The man is yanked off my side with brutal force. I watch through the haze as his body slams into a tree, bark splintering on impact. My vision swims, but one figure cuts through the blur with terrifying clarity. Rowan. He stands there like something ripped straight out of a nightmare and a legend all at once. His eyes glow gold, blazing and feral. His canines are bared, his entire presence vibrating with barely leashed violence. I should be terrified.