Princess's Revenge: Slave to the Soulbound King Chapter 136

Carl

The first faint rays of dawn spilled through the narrow windows of Lycandor Keep, falling softly into my arms. I walked along the stone corridors, my weathered hands clutching a satchel filled with healing potions and enchanted artifacts. Though age had crept upon me, as Silverhowl’s chief mage, I remained dutiful to the wolf king.

The keep felt different these days. The corridors seemed darker despite increased torch sconces. Guards patrolled in greater numbers, their faces grim. Servants whispered in hushed tones, their conversations dying abruptly whenever I appeared.

*Four years since Adelaide left, since the soul bonding ceremony shattered into chaos and revelation.* I remembered that night with painful clarity—the blood moon mark, the revelation of her identity, the accusations of betrayal.

But more than the political unrest, it was the unnatural changes in Lycanthar that weighed on me. Ever since Adelaide left, the Wolf King seemed cursed, plagued by uncontrollable bouts of bestial transformation. Over the past four years, his condition had steadily worsened—where once he succumbed to his feral nature perhaps once a week, now the episodes came every few days, and each time, his moments of lucidity grew ever shorter.

A sharp crash echoed from down the corridor, followed by curses and overturning furniture. I recognized the direction—Draven's command office. Another crash, louder this time, accompanied by a guttural roar of frustration.

I changed course toward the heavy oak door, slightly ajar. Through the gap, I could see chaos. What had once been the most organized command center in Silverhowl now looked like a battlefield. Empty wine bottles littered the floor, documents scattered everywhere, broken pottery suggesting repeated fits of rage.

In the center sat Draven himself, slumped with a wine bottle in one hand and a crumpled portrait of Thalia in the other. His usually immaculate appearance was disheveled—beard unkempt, hair loose, uniform wrinkled and stained.

"Commander?" I called softly, pushing the door open.

Draven's head snapped up, eyes bloodshot and unfocused. "Carl. Come to lecture me too, old man?"

"I came to check on you," I replied carefully. "It's been four years, Draven. This cannot continue."

His laugh was bitter. "Four years since she left. Four years since she chose her duty over us."

Draven’s lieutenant, Thorin, appeared behind me, looking haggard. "I apologize, Master Carl. I've tried to—"

"Get out!" Draven roared, hurling the wine bottle against the wall. "Both of you! I don't need your pity!"

Thorin shook his head helplessly. "It's been like this since she left. The First Legion is barely functional. We're holding together through the efforts of sergeants and lieutenants, but without proper leadership..."

I nodded grimly. *If this continues, we'll collapse from within long before any external enemy can finish us.*

The journey to Lycanthar's confinement took me deeper into the keep, past multiple security checkpoints added over the years. What had once been a simple locked door was now a maze of silver-reinforced barriers, magical wards, and multiple steel locks.

Captain Darius of the Guard stood at attention outside the final door, his scarred face grave. "Master Carl. The night was challenging. He attempted to break through the containment barriers again around midnight. The magical bindings held, but just barely."

I examined the door, noting fresh scratches in the silver-reinforced wood and the faint scent of ozone from recent magical discharge. "How long did the episode last?"

"Nearly three hours. His roars could be heard throughout the entire lower level."

I shook my head. "We've attempted every known magical remedy in our archives. Calming draughts, binding spells, nothing has had any lasting effect. His resistance to our treatments seems to be increasing."

"And the physical restraints?"

"We've reinforced them six times in the past year. Silver chains, magical bindings, steel reinforcements—he's breaking through them with increasing ease. His strength in beast form appears to be growing exponentially."

Darius hesitantly spoke the question we were all thinking. "Is there any truth to the rumors that this deterioration is connected to the departure of the human Moon Bride?"

I cleaned my spectacles slowly. "From a purely scientific standpoint, I cannot establish direct causation. However, the timeline is undeniable. King Lycanthar's condition has begun to show these symptoms since Princess Adelaide's departure."

“Then what if we bring Princess Adelaide back?”

I sighed. “It’s not that simple…”

A knock interrupted us. A guard entered, expression tense. "Master Carl, Cressida has arrived for the feeding."

As I walked toward Lycanthar's confinement, I studied Cressida with growing concern. The young werewolf's once-vibrant complexion had grown pale, almost translucent, with dark circles under her eyes. Most disturbing were the faint black lines tracing along her exposed arms—markings that shouldn't exist on a healthy werewolf.

"Cressida, how are you feeling today?"

She managed a weak smile. "I'm well, Master Carl. Ready to serve His Majesty."

The inner chamber was dimly lit by magical orbs. In the center, secured by massive silver chains, was Lycanthar in his partially transformed state. His body was larger than any normal werewolf, muscles straining against the bonds, covered in distinctive silver-white fur. But it was his eyes that broke my heart—sometimes showing flashes of the intelligent king I had known, other times reflecting only wild hunger.

"My King," Cressida said softly, kneeling and exposing her neck.

For a moment, Lycanthar's eyes cleared. "Cressida... I am... sorry for what I must do."

It was one of his rare lucid moments. Cressida smiled gently. "It is my honor to serve, Your Majesty."

He bent to her neck, and initially everything proceeded normally. Lycanthar's tension eased as he drew sustenance, his features relaxing into something approaching peace.

But then I noticed something that made my blood run cold. Dark lines—similar to those on Cressida's arms—began spreading from the feeding point. They traced across his neck and jaw like veins of shadow, pulsing with unnatural rhythm.

"Stop," I commanded, but Lycanthar seemed not to hear. The black veins continued spreading, and his body began to convulse. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open—not golden or feral yellow, but deep, blood-red orbs that seemed to burn with otherworldly malevolence.

He released Cressida with a roar that shook the chamber's foundations. The silver chains that had held him for years simply snapped—not gradually, but all at once, as if they were brittle twigs rather than enchanted metal.

Lycanthar rose to his full height, larger than I had ever seen him. His transformation was complete now—a massive, primordial wolf that embodied every nightmare our people had ever whispered about the old kings.

"Goddess preserve us," I whispered, immediately throwing up a magical barrier around myself and the unconscious Cressida. The beast that had once been Lycanthar threw himself against the containment walls with unprecedented fury. Each impact sent shockwaves through the entire keep.

"Emergency evacuation!" I shouted into my communication crystal. "All personnel clear the lower levels immediately!"

I managed to drag Cressida with me as I retreated toward the chamber's exit. Behind us, Lycanthar's roars echoed with volume and rage that seemed to come from hell itself.

As the emergency doors slammed shut, I knelt beside Cressida, using diagnostic magic to assess her condition. The black lines weren't just surface markings—they were manifestations of dark magic slowly consuming her from within. After the feeding, she was barely clinging to consciousness, her life force dangerously depleted.

But more disturbing was what I had witnessed. The dark veins, the sudden power increase, the red eyes—this wasn't natural lycanthrope behavior.

"This isn't natural phenomenon," I murmured as Cressida's breathing remained shallow. "This is vampire black magic..."

From behind the sealed doors came another earth-shaking roar, followed by stone cracking under supernatural force. The entire keep trembled, and I could hear guards shouting and civilians crying out.

I looked down at my hands, stained with Cressida's blood, and felt the weight of terrible knowledge settling over me. Whatever had been done to our king was far beyond anything I had the power to heal.

"I must report to the Council immediately," I said aloud. "But I fear it may already be too late..."

Another roar shook Lycandor Keep's foundations, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear stone giving way to supernatural fury. The Wolf King was breaking free, and I wasn't certain our kingdom could survive his liberation.