All Chapters of Marked by My Alpha's Father: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

At the center of the granite courtyard, a massive wooden platform had been hastily erected, its timbers still smelling of fresh pine and woodsmoke. Standing at the edge of the stage, dressed in a grand, structured gown of deep crimson silk that caught the winter wind like a wave of fresh blood, was Lady Camille. Her long platinum-blonde hair cascaded past her waist in elegant, perfect coils, and her gold-ringed fingers gripped the rail of the platform with an iron-like possession. Her left arm was still heavily wrapped in white medical linen, but her face held absolutely no trace of a victim. Her eyes glittered with a manic triumph as she looked out over the crowded courtyard. Beside her stood the pack’s chief headsman, a massive, faceless warrior clad in solid black iron armor, his broad hands resting on the hilt of a heavy, double-edged executioner’s axe. Kneeling at the absolute center of the wooden stage, his head forced down over a massive block of scarred oak, was Devon. He

The columns of roaring royal purple fire slowly receded into the bronze basin, leaving the scent of clean cedarwood and ancient sage to blanket the freezing courtyard. The silence that followed the new Shaman's announcement was deafening. Thousands of Silver Ridge wolves stood completely frozen in the stone tiers. The revelation that baby Silas was the true biological heir was a triumph, but the truth about Devon—that he was entirely unrelated to the Vance line and belonged to the Beta bloodline—sent a shockwave of confusion through the vanguard ranks. Lady Camille’s knees completely buckled beneath the weight of her silk gown. She crashed heavily onto the ruined pine timbers of the platform, her fingers clawing at the wood as the iron tip of Marcus’s broadsword remained leveled less than an inch from her nose. "Mercy, Alpha King!" Camille shrieked, her voice stripping away every shred of its courtly elegance, replaced by a frantic, weeping desperation. She looked up at Marcus,

The mid-day sun did not bring warmth to the northern boundary line of Silver Ridge. It hung low in a pale, freezing sky, casting long, sharp shadows across the deep snow drifts that marked the official border between the warlord's territory and the lawless wastelands beyond. The mountain wind howled through the narrow mountain pass, shaking the frozen pine branches until they dropped sheets of white ice onto the hard, rocky path below. Devon stood at the absolute edge of the boundary, his body bundled in a coarse, dark travel cloak that Marcus's servants had provided. He looked older, his sharp face lined with a deep, permanent exhaustion that the supernatural healing loop could not entirely erase. The tattered medical linens beneath his cloak were clean, but his muscles were stiff, his left leg dragging slightly through the slush as a reminder of his near-fatal fight with the wild rogue scouters. He was no longer a prince. He was no longer an heir fighting for a stolen crown. He w

The liquefied crimson ink from the black envelope did not just stain Elena’s fingers; it sank directly into her skin like a swarm of microscopic, freezing needles. She tried to fling the melting paper away, but the dark parchment vanished into a thin, foul vapor that smelled of burning copper and rotting southern orchids. A sudden, dizzying wave of nausea hit her, making the granite walls of the master suite tilt violently before her eyes. Elena clutched her head, her breath escaping in ragged, panicking gasps. Inside her chest, the fully reestablished soul-tether violently groaned. It didn't snap, but a thick, unnatural numbness began to creep along the line, like a layer of gray mold choking out a living flame. Camille, her mind whispered in absolute terror as she looked down at her stained palms. She didn't just run. She left a parasitic curse behind. It was an ancient, forbidden alchemical spell known to the dark covens of the southern fronts—the Bond-Dampening curse. It was

The charcoal silk gown felt like a shroud as Elena dragged herself down the sweeping stone corridor of the royal wing. In her arms, baby Silas slept fitfully, his tiny fist curled against her chest. The coldness radiating through the soul-tether wasn't just an emotional distance anymore—it was a biological void. It felt exactly like the night Marcus had flatlined in the courtyard, a freezing, hollow vacuum where her mate’s towering, possessive presence used to live. Except Marcus wasn’t dead. He was awake, and he had completely forgotten her. “If I cannot feel the bond, you have no right to my bed, Omega. Pack your things.” The brutal finality of his words echoed in her ears, sharper than any blade Devon had ever wielded. He had stripped her of her title, kicked her out of the royal suite, and relegated her back to the status of a kitchen rat in a matter of seconds. The dark magic parchment’s curse had done what no enemy vanguard could achieve—it had completely blindfolded his