Princess's Revenge: Slave to the Soulbound King Chapter 22

Adelaide

Instinct overwhelmed everything within me. When my consciousness cleared again, I was no longer in the cold stone chamber but had plunged into a vortex of sensations and memories. The stone walls of the Iron Maw dissolved around me, replaced by a vast battlefield shrouded in twilight.

I floated like a specter through this fragment of time from three centuries past, the sight before me stole my breath—hundreds of corpses sprawled across muddy earth, werewolf warriors and vampire remains intermingled in death's embrace. The air hung thick with blood and decay, while ravens circled overhead, their harsh cries echoing across the carnage. The dying sun painted the sky a foreboding crimson, casting this realm of death in apocalyptic light.

At the front of the werewolf army, a towering figure commanded my attention completely. He sat astride a massive black warhorse, silver armor gleaming in the blood-red twilight. Even through the veil of memory, I could feel the overwhelming presence radiating from this man—broad shoulders, a face carved from marble, and those piercing blue eyes that held both wisdom and unwavering resolve.

My heart quickened as I recognized him instinctively: Lycanthar in his prime, before madness claimed him, standing at the pinnacle of his power and glory.

Across the battlefield, the vampire forces maintained tight but noticeably sparse formations, revealing their heavy losses. Their leader Lazarus stood at their head—a gaunt but sharp-eyed elder in elaborate black robes stained with dust and battle.

Lycanthar spurred his mount forward several paces, his voice carrying like thunder across the field: "Lazarus! Your persistence is admirable, but your foolishness is even more remarkable. Look at your army, then look at what remains of your warriors. Will you truly continue this war destined for failure?"

His voice held complete confidence yet maintained respect for his enemy, displaying the bearing of a true leader.

Lazarus laughed coldly, his withered fingers caressing the ruby pendant at his throat. "Lycanthar, your arrogance will one day be your funeral song. Wars are never won by numbers alone, but by wisdom." His voice was low and hoarse, bearing the weight of centuries. "Just wait and see—fate's wheels have begun to turn. Which side the goddess of victory will choose remains unknown."

With that, he gestured to his forces, and the vampire army began a slow retreat, vanishing into the gathering dusk.

Lycanthar watched the enemy depart, his brow furrowed in concern. A much younger Draven rode up beside him. "Your Majesty, should we pursue? They're in a weakened state."

Lycanthar shook his head. "No, let the soldiers rest. Lazarus is no fool—his retreat was too easy. I fear treachery." After ordering the troops back to camp, a shadow of unease crossed Lycanthar's eyes, as if sensing approaching danger.

Night fell over the werewolf encampment, where the main command tent blazed with light. I watched Lycanthar seated around a map table with four commanders discussing tactics. Draven—young and handsome then, his face unmarked by time's scars—stood at Lycanthar's right, confidently analyzing: "Based on current vampire strength, we can annihilate them completely within three days. They've lost supply lines and morale is broken—this is merely the death throes of cornered beasts."

Garrick—younger but with ambition already blazing in his eyes—snorted dismissively. "These pale crawlers attempt to challenge our authority every few decades, always with the same result—total defeat."

Vespera looked troubled, tapping the table with his fingers. "My concern is our own supply situation. After days of continuous battle, provisions and ammunition are running critically low. If the vampires extend the campaign..."

Then the fourth commander spoke—a warrior I realized must be Lycanthar's brother Ragnar, whom I'd never encountered. He resembled Lycanthar but was more robust, his face bearing a hearty smile. "No need to worry—I've reached an agreement with King Valendria. Our human allies' supply convoy arrives tonight, enough to sustain us until final victory." He clapped his brother's shoulder proudly. "This battle is already won!"

Lycanthar smiled and nodded, his gaze moving between the commanders. "As Ragnar says, victory is ours. However..." his voice grew serious, "we must never become complacent. Increase vigilance, especially when the human supplies arrive—inspect everything carefully." He paused, seeming to sense something, then added: "Particularly watch for the eclipse's approach—that's when our power wanes most."

Deep in the night, a piercing howl shattered the camp's tranquility. I watched Lycanthar bolt awake, quickly donning his outer robes and rushing from his tent. Outside was chaos—werewolf warriors running and shouting, fires blazing in the distance, black smoke rolling against the terrifying night sky.

"Your Majesty!" A blood-soaked messenger knelt before him, voice trembling. "The granaries are burning—vampires and human soldiers launched a coordinated attack! Our human allies have betrayed us—they hid vampires within their supply convoy!"

Before he finished speaking, another messenger stumbled forward: "The northern camps have fallen—at least three hundred warriors killed in their sleep by our supposed allies! Scouts report vampire and human forces approaching together—they'll arrive within the hour!"

Lycanthar's face darkened with disbelief and rage as he immediately ordered a counterattack, drawing his sword and charging toward the fiercest fighting. I followed the memory's flow, watching werewolf warriors clash desperately against both vampires and human soldiers fighting side by side, blood staining the earth dark red.

Pushing through the battlefield, Lycanthar burst through the supply tent's flap, and the sight within struck him like lightning—three corpses lay in pools of blood on the carpet. One was a human commander in fine armor, bearing werewolf claw marks across his chest and throat; another was a pale vampire with a sword through his heart. But the third sight destroyed him—his brother Ragnar, an ornate dagger buried in his heart, its hilt bearing the human royal crest of their former allies.

"No! Ragnar!" Lycanthar's anguished roar contained infinite grief as he collapsed beside his brother, trembling fingers touching the already cold face. "Brother... no... wake up..." His voice broke as the full scope of the betrayal hit him—not only had humans broken their ancient alliance, but they had murdered his beloved brother with their own ceremonial blade.

I felt my heart shatter watching this great wolf king cradling his brother's corpse, betrayed by those he'd considered friends.

Draven burst into the tent, his face going deathly pale at the scene. He knelt silently beside Lycanthar, whispering: "Your Majesty... the human-vampire alliance approaches. We must decide immediately."

Lycanthar seemed not to hear, only holding his brother tighter, forehead pressed against his, murmuring: "They swore brotherhood to us... they swore..." Finally, he raised his head, tears dried and replaced by terrible calm and determination. "Prepare for battle." He gently laid down his brother's body, carefully arranging his clothing and closing his eyes, then picked up the human dagger, studying its royal insignia with cold fury.

At the camp's center, werewolf warriors had regrouped but their numbers were halved. Draven reported grimly: "The combined human-vampire forces have surrounded us—they'll launch their final assault in ten minutes." Vespera added: "Worse still, the eclipse has begun. Our strength is weakening. Fighting both our ancient enemies and our former allies... this may be hopeless." Garrick remained silent, his lips pressed together, and an ambiguous glint flickered in his eyes.

Lycanthar surveyed the warriors around him—each face marked by exhaustion, fear, and the bitter sting of betrayal, yet they stood ready for final battle. He drew a deep breath and made his decision: "Organize the troops and prepare to meet our enemies—all of them."

He turned and walked away, his silhouette lonely and resolute in the firelight, the weight of his brother's death and humanity's treachery driving him toward a choice that would doom him forever.