Princess's Revenge: Slave to the Soulbound King Chapter 148

Morgana

I felt it the moment Draven's bonds weakened—a ripple through the dark magic I'd woven around Lycandor Keep. Four years of careful manipulation, and now that pathetic wolf had somehow found strength to break free.

*No matter.* I'd already dispatched my hunters. Let him run—it would make the eventual capture sweeter.

The great hall stretched before me, its banners hanging in tatters. Moonlight streamed through shattered windows as I waited at the center of my conquered domain.

The air grew thick with power that made my ancient blood sing. Darkness pooled at the far end of the hall—not mere shadow, but true void. The temperature plummeted until my breath misted.

He emerged from that abyss like death itself walking.

Lazarus.

My creator. My master. My king.

The Vampire Lord appeared as a skeletal figure draped in ancient black robes that hung loose on his emaciated frame. His skin stretched paper-thin over prominent bones, translucent enough to reveal the network of darkened veins beneath. Yet from this withered form radiated power beyond measure—three millennia of accumulated might housed in flesh that seemed ready to crumble.

I dropped to one knee instantly, centuries of conditioning overriding thought.

"My lord," I whispered, head bowed. "You honor me with your presence."

His gaze swept the conquered hall with those dying ember eyes. When they settled on me, I felt exposed completely.

"You have done well, child." His voice carried the weight of ages, soft as a death rattle yet cold as winter. "Four years of patience. You understand the longer game."

"Everything proceeds as planned, my lord. Garrick dances to my tune, drunk on Shadow's Blood. The Wolf King degenerates with each feeding. Their leadership fractures."

"And yet," Lazarus stepped closer, each movement deliberate as if his bones might snap, "Draven has escaped. The Moon Bride stirs. Do these complications concern you?"

"No, my lord. Adelaide's return was anticipated. Her blood will be essential for the Blood Moon ritual. Draven's escape serves us—he'll lead us to the scattered resistance."

Lazarus smiled, revealing fangs like yellowed ivory. "Excellent. The Blood Moon approaches. The werewolves' strength, their connection to the moon goddess—all will serve us."

Before I could react, skeletal fingers closed around my wrist with crushing force. Agony exploded through my body as Lazarus began to feed—not on blood, but on the magical essence I'd accumulated over years. The power I'd gathered through ritual and sacrifice flowed into him like water.

I bit back screams as strength abandoned me. My carefully maintained beauty cracked, revealing the corpse beneath. This was our reality—no matter how mighty we became, we were always cattle to those above us.

"Your sacrifice will fuel the ritual," Lazarus murmured as my vision grayed. "Consider it an honor."

When he released me, I collapsed, gasping. Fury burned alongside pain—rage at being reduced to nothing more than a vessel.

"Rest, child." Lazarus stepped back, my stolen power bringing color to his withered cheeks. "Soon you will have vengeance. Soon, the sun sets on werewolf rule forever."

He melted back into shadow, leaving me alone with my rage.

I dragged myself upright, every movement an effort. But I was Morgana—I had survived three centuries of hiding, four years of subterfuge. I would survive this too.

And when the time came, I would remember who had made me kneel.

"Garrick," I called.

He arrived within moments, moving with mechanical precision. The Shadow's Blood had worked perfectly—my former ally now stood hollow-eyed and compliant, his will thoroughly subsumed.

"Mistress," he said in a flat monotone.

I studied him, remembering how Lazarus had just stripped me of power. A different hunger stirred—not for blood, but for control. For reassurance that I still held dominion over something.

"Remove your armor," I commanded.

He obeyed without question, each piece clattering to the floor. Beneath lay a warrior's body marked by corruption—black veins pulsing beneath scarred skin.

"Now come here."

As he approached with empty compliance, I felt the first stirrings of restored power. Not magical strength—that would take time—but the darker satisfaction of absolute dominion.

"On your knees," I whispered.

He sank down obediently. In his face I saw no trace of the ambitious wolf who had once plotted for the throne. That Garrick was gone, consumed by the very power he'd craved.

I pressed my lips to his, tasting metallic corruption. He responded automatically, hands moving with practiced motions that held no passion—only programmed obedience.

As I guided him to the cold stone floor, stripping away my garments, I felt strength returning. Not the essence Lazarus had stolen, but something equally vital—the knowledge that even powerless, I could still bend others to my will.

I positioned myself above him, watching his face remain blank as I took him inside me. No desire flickered in those dead eyes, no recognition of pleasure. He was merely a tool, and I wielded him with the skill of centuries.

Each movement was an assertion of control, each thrust a reminder that I remained a force to be reckoned with. The shadows deepened around us as I rode him with increasing intensity.

"You belong to me," I breathed against his ear. "Your strength, your body, your soul—all mine to command."

"Yes, mistress," he replied mechanically, hands gripping my hips with inhuman strength.

I lost myself in the dark euphoria of absolute power. This was what I lived for—not mere survival, but dominion. The rush of controlling another completely, reducing a proud warrior to flesh and function.

When I finally reached my peak, convulsing above him with a cry that echoed through the hall, it felt like reclaiming myself. Garrick lay beneath me, unmarked by our coupling, already returning to empty vigil.

I remained astride him, catching my breath and planning. Lazarus thought he had made me weak, but he underestimated the strength that came from commanding loyalty. Even stripped of accumulated power, I still held this kingdom through my puppet.

"Rise," I commanded.

As we dressed—he with robotic efficiency, me with renewed purpose—I gazed out at moonlit Silverhowl. Soon this would all be ours officially. But perhaps there were ways to ensure more favorable distribution of spoils.

Lazarus expected complete loyalty, but loyalty was a commodity. And I had learned that power flowed to those bold enough to seize it.

"Increase the patrols," I told Garrick. "Find Draven and the children. Capture them alive—they'll be useful for controlling the Moon Bride."

"As you command, mistress."

I watched him go, then turned to the approaching dawn. Two weeks until the Blood Moon. Two weeks to gather strength while appearing to serve. And when the ritual was complete, when vampire rule was established...

Kings could fall as easily as commanders.

I smiled at the moon, already plotting the downfall of the one who thought himself my master.