Throne Of Glass 소설 & 이야기

"He'll like you." Something moved in his expression: warmth, genuine and unguarded, the kind he did not perform. "I hope so," he said. The afternoon light was moving through the study windows, crossing the floor in long warm strips. In three days she would stand in the chamber and the lycan world would rearrange itself around a truth that had been suppressed for thirty years. She would stand there with a name and a bloodline and a bond that was constitutionally complete and absolutely her own choice.

I felt countless needles pierce my trembling soul. I wanted to rush forward and tear off Delila’s false mask. Moreover, I had so many questions for Kelvin. Were all our past memories nothing but a joke? But I could not do anything. I could only watch helplessly as Delila grew bolder. She reached out to touch the necklace around Kelvin’s neck. It was my gift to him after working three months straight. Just as her fingertips were about to touch it, Kelvin abruptly stepped back. He frowned tightly. A flash of irritation darted through his eyes, as if he had reached his limit.

Darius cursed and followed. We reached the door in seconds. My hand slammed against the handle. Unlocked. Good. The door flew open. And my heart nearly stopped. The window was shattered. Glass covered the floor. Cold wind rushed into the room. And Zariah Brooks was gone. “Malik…” Darius said carefully. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Because all I could see was the empty room. The broken glass. And the fact that the one woman I was supposed to protect had disappeared.

she said carefully, “this was found among the princess’s dowrys, as you instructed.” I recognized it instantly. My bridal mantle—woven in cloth-of-gold, embroidered with the northern stag and the southern lion, commissioned for a future queen. I stood at once. “Why is that in your hands?” Ethan waved dismissively. “Pack it and send it to Lady Ava’s residence. You have no right to wear state colors reserved for a sovereign’s bride. That mantle will serve her far better.” I moved toward it instinctively, but he caught my wrist and pushed me back.

Nonetheless, the bright full moon at the sky served enough to illuminate the grounds and other objects inside from the open windows. Likewise, the figure of a lady seated on an extravagant, intricately chiseled and decorated throne glows bright as two tall windows flash light on her like converging spotlights. The rear of her fingers altogether supported her tilted head while her other arm rests at her lap. Few meters away from her, a young man stands still, staring directly at her, awaiting the movement she will take. It is Tristan, that child she has been watching over since the first day of their meeting.

The First King’s sigil. She set it on the nearest table, flipping through pages until she found what she was looking for. “Here.” Elior stepped closer, the others gathering around as Myrra read aloud. “To break the Throne is to break the Balance. The Chains of the Veil will shatter, and the Dark One shall rise again.” Silence. Elior’s pulse quickened. The Dark One. He didn’t need to say it. They all knew the name Erythos.

--The Nydisian Kingdom, Eraregord, Royal Academy-- "Dane, comprise a list of your best students and have them submit their names to be before tomorrow at noon," Lucian ordered as he took a seat in the headmaster's study. Dane was a tall yet lean man with olive skin tone and piercing red eyes, the colour eyes most vampires seemed to have. "Consider it done, Milord. Do you still wish to hold the tournament?" The headmaster, Dane, asked. His Highness had sent word to him a few days ago that he'd be arriving in a week's time to gather the academy's best as well as strongest fighters.

Ana (voice thick): “Eight treasures down, thirty-nine still sleeping. Tonight we wake the ninth.” She leads us past the church, up a frozen path to an ancient hay barn that smells of cedar and centuries. Inside stands the Winterglass Mirror: tall, black ice veined with silver, humming like a hive. It doesn’t show our reflections. It shows futures we’re terrified of. - Me on a throne of frozen blood, crown complete, eyes empty. - Remy kneeling, broken, dagger at his own throat. - Seras burning everything she loves because she couldn’t stop it.

The Throne shatters and grows in the same breath, spines twisting like serpents. And in the heart of it— Us. Burning. Breaking. Becoming. The Throne roars a promise in my skull: If I can’t have you, I’ll take HER. And then— Everything goes white.

Her fingertips brushed the glass, and— —visions exploded. Fire raining from a red sky. The Spiral shattering, not once, but again and again—across worlds. A woman not Selena, but wearing her face, laughing as realms crumbled beneath her feet. And at the center of it all, a throne of obsidian, burning with a flame that consumed reality itself. Upon it sat no god. No monster. Just her. Or what she might become.