The Regret of the Alpha のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

Sunlight sliced through the curtains.Alexander stirred first. He blinked, confused, then turned—and saw her.Melodie lay beside him, hair fanned out, eyes closed.Then it all came back.The garden. The kiss. The truth.The child.His body stiffened.---Melodie’s eyes opened slowly. “You’re already regretting it.”“I...” He sat up. “Last night was real. But this morning...”Her voice was steady. “You want me to pretend it never happened.”“I have a Luna-elect,” he said. “The court—”“And what am I?” she cut in. “The maid you tortured? The girl you kissed in secret?”“Don’t twist it.”“I don’t have to,” she said bitterly. “It’s already broken.”---He stood, running a hand through his hair. “If this gets out, it’ll destroy everything.”Melodie pulled the sheet tighter around her. “So you’ll bury me again?”“No,” he said quickly. “Just... not yet.”She laughed once, sharp. “You want me quiet. Again.”“I’m trying to protect you.

“She’s still alive?” the healer whispered.Jessica nodded. “Barely. Check if the pregnancy holds.”The woman hesitated. “She’s too weak.”“Do it.”---Cold hands pressed against Melodie’s stomach. She flinched, barely conscious.The healer sighed. “Heartbeat’s there. But... it won’t last unless she eats. Or rests.”Jessica smiled thinly. “Then let’s fix that.”She tossed a vial into the woman’s hands. “Make her drink it.”The healer paled. “This will—”“End it. I know.” Jessica’s voice turned sharp. “Now.”---Guards pinned Melodie down.She thrashed weakly. “No... please—”The liquid burned her throat like fire.She screamed.Then silence.---Later, Jessica knelt beside her.“Sleep tight, little liar.”She plucked the necklace from Melodie’s neck—a crude pendant shaped like a star.“A servant with dreams,” she murmured, pocketing it.---Night fell.The guards departed.Only the healer remained, cleaning the s

The feast roared above.Goblets clinked. Nobles laughed.Alexander sat at the head table, fingers tapping restlessly.Jessica leaned in. “You’ve barely touched your wine.”“Something feels wrong,” he muttered.She smiled tightly. “You worry too much.”His eyes drifted to the empty seat beside her. “Where’s Melodie?”“Unwell,” she said quickly. “Fever, perhaps.”His brow furrowed. “She’s been missing for days.”Jessica touched his hand. “She’s a servant, Alexander. Not your concern.”---Below, in the ruins of the cellar, the air had gone still.Melodie lay slumped against the post, lips pale.Her breaths—shallow, scattered—slipped into silence.But her soul remained.Weightless.Watching.---She drifted upward, passing through cracked stone and echoing walls.No pain.Just the haunting whistle of a lullaby unfinished.---In the grand hall, children paused mid-play, eyes darting toward empty air.One boy whispered, “

The court assembled under gray skies.Whispers buzzed like flies.Jessica stood radiant in white, crown glinting. “Why summon the court before coronation?”Alexander stepped forward.Flute in hand. Diary page folded tight.“I have something to say.”---Marcus unrolled a scroll.Alexander began, voice hoarse but steady:**“Her name was Melodie. She was a servant. A prisoner. A survivor.”**Gasps echoed.Jessica stiffened.---“She gave bread to a blind boy,” Alexander continued. “Played music in a dungeon. Carved truths into wood and stone.”He lifted the flute.“This,” he said, “was never yours.”Jessica’s face twisted. “You’re accusing me based on a broken toy and some scribbles?”He turned to the guards. “Bring them.”Two soldiers entered, heads low.“She trained me,” one said. “To lie. To claim I heard the tune in her voice.”“She locked the girl away,” said the other. “We all knew.”Jessica laughed once, bitter. “They’

Weeks passed.But the cellar remained untouched.Until one morning, Alexander returned—with stone, tools, and silence.He worked alone.---“What’s he doing?” a child asked, watching from the gates.“Building something,” Marcus answered. “Or burying something.”---By nightfall, a cairn stood where the dungeon once gaped open—moon‑white stones stacked in quiet reverence.At the peak, he placed the scorched flute mouthpiece.---Each evening, Alexander sat beside it, diary in hand.He read aloud.To the wind.To the ghosts.To her.---One night, a refugee child approached, holding a wooden reed.“Can I play here?”Alexander nodded.Music fluttered between them.Imperfect.Honest.---Word spread.Others came.Mothers. Orphans. Runaways.They planted flowers. Told stories. Lit candles.The gallows field became a garden.---Marcus found him there, days later.“Reconstruction plans need approval.