Princess's Revenge: Slave to the Soulbound King Chapter 91

Thalia

The crystal chandeliers lit up the great hall as I stood in the shadows, watching Draven and Princess Zaroka. Even though he had already refused her marriage proposal, seeing them together still hurt. Her loud laughter filled the room, and Draven, ever the diplomat, responded with polite smiles and attentive conversation.

He has to do this, I reminded myself, for the alliance, for his people. But knowing the political necessity didn't ease the pain in my heart. Draven's careful attention to Zaroka, his respectful listening, and his warm responses were all appropriate for a commander securing vital alliances. Yet each gesture reminded me of what I could never be: a partner he could acknowledge publicly, a woman who would strengthen, not threaten, his position.

I was the secret he had to keep, the love that could only exist in the shadows. If anyone discovered that the First Legion Commander's heart belonged to the daughter of Eldoria's High Priest—the enemy who had prophesied their destruction—it would shatter the fragile trust he'd built with his people.

The servants' whispers echoed around me: "They make such a perfect match—both strong, both leaders their people can be proud of." While I remained what I had always been: a deception wrapped in love, a danger masquerading as devotion.

Unable to watch him navigate the political dance that my existence made necessary, I turned and slipped away from the banquet hall. My long dress trailed across the marble floor as I retreated into the corridor's darkness, my heart heavy with the knowledge that loving him meant burdening him with an impossible secret.

Back in my room, I collapsed onto the bed, letting the tears I'd held back finally flow. The moonlight streaming through the window felt cold and judgmental. "I thought love would be enough," I whispered to the empty room. "But how can love flourish when it must always hide in darkness?"

I don't know how much time passed before the door lock clicked softly, and familiar footsteps made my heart race. I didn't turn around, pretending to sleep.

"Thalia?" Draven's deep voice carried concern. "Are you feeling any better?"

Hearing his caring voice, I could no longer pretend. I spun around and threw myself into Draven's arms, my tears soaking his elegant formal attire. Draven gently patted my back, nervously asking, "What's wrong? Are you feeling unwell?"

"I watched you with Zaroka tonight," I said through my tears. "I know you refused her proposal, but seeing you maintain that diplomatic facade... I realized how much of a burden I must be to you. You can never acknowledge what I mean to you, never show the world who holds your heart."

Draven pulled me closer, his voice heavy with his own pain: "I cannot face you, Thalia. Your identity makes me feel betrayed, but not in the way you think. My loyalty to my people and my heart are waging war against each other. I haven't avoided you because I was busy—I've hidden from you because I'm afraid of looking into your eyes and being forced to choose between duty and love. I feared I might make the wrong choice... or worse, that there is no right choice."

My tears flowed even harder: "Then perhaps it would be better if—"

"No." Draven interrupted, his voice fierce. "I've spent these days in torment, trying to convince myself I could walk away from you, from us. But after I refused Princess Zaroka, I realized I've already made my choice. I made it the moment I first held you in my arms."

I wiped away my tears, searching his eyes: "But the consequences—"

"Let me worry about the consequences," Draven said firmly. Then, unexpectedly, I rose on my tiptoes and kissed his lips. My fingers nimbly began unbuttoning his outer robe. "I just need you, Draven. I need to feel you, to confirm that despite everything, you're still mine."

Draven gently grasped my wrists: "Thalia, your body hasn't fully recovered..."

"I'm well enough," I said firmly, determination and desire flashing in my eyes. "I want you, Draven. Tonight, right now, right here."

Draven's breathing quickened, and finally he whispered, "I want you too, I always have."

His lips covered mine again, this time with undisguised passion. When Draven finally entered my body, I felt my anxious heart had finally found its home. In this moment, all worries, misunderstandings, and fears were cast aside, leaving only the pure, burning connection between us.

---

Garrick

The private drinking hall of Nightfang Fortress reeked of strong ale and suppressed discontent. After the formal portion of the banquet ended, I had skillfully drawn a number of tribal leaders with close ties to me to this place, far from Lycandor Keep, under the guise of "old friends catching up."

"To the great Wolf King and his human bride!" I raised my goblet, sarcasm nearly spilling over the rim. I drained a large gulp, dangerous light flashing in my eyes. "Did you all see tonight's banquet? That human girl actually sat above all of us!"

Solgrim—leader of the Ice Ridge tribe—slammed down his goblet heavily: "Truly absurd. Even if she is a Moon Bride, she shouldn't be elevated above pureblooded werewolves."

"For three hundred years," my voice gradually rose, "humans have slaughtered our kin, branded us as monsters, and now our Wolf King wants to make a human girl our queen!"

Ulrich—leader of the North Wind tribe—nodded grimly: "Not only that, the Wolf King's recent decisions have been far too merciful. The human border villages should have become our slaves, but now they're allowed to farm freely, only required to pay regular tribute."

"Weakness!" I struck the table violently, ale splashing from jumping goblets. "Lycanthar has been bewitched by that human girl! Our warriors need blood and flesh, not some peaceful coexistence!"

The atmosphere in the room gradually heated as more leaders began expressing their dissatisfaction. I keenly observed each person's reaction, and when the timing was right, suddenly lowered my voice: "Gentlemen, why should we endure this betrayal? Why should we let a Wolf King bewitched by humans continue ruling us?"

I surveyed the room, my gaze sharp as a blade: "I propose we unite, overthrow Lycanthar, and reclaim Silverhowl's glory! Then we'll mobilize our full force to attack the human kingdom and avenge three centuries of blood debt!"

As my words fell, the room plunged into deathly silence. The leaders exchanged nervous glances, no one daring to be the first to speak.

Finally, Solgrim cleared his throat: "Commander Garrick, your ideas are too... radical. The Wolf King is, after all, the legitimate bloodline chosen by the Moon Goddess, and don't forget—it was his sacrifice three hundred years ago that saved our entire race."

Ulrich also shook his head uneasily: "Moreover, the Wolf King's power is unmatched. Do you remember the last military exercise when he single-handedly defeated thirty elite warriors? Challenging him would be suicide."

"Exactly," another leader chimed in. "Even if we're dissatisfied with some of his decisions, direct confrontation? Too risky."

Watching their cowering expressions, my knuckles turned white from clenching. But I quickly adjusted my demeanor, raising my goblet: "You're right, gentlemen. I was momentarily carried away. Come, another drink!"

The atmosphere reluctantly eased, but the gathering's enthusiasm had evaporated. Soon after, the leaders began making excuses about the late hour and took their leave, leaving only me alone in the empty room.

After confirming everyone had departed, I furiously hurled my goblet against the wall, the shattering sound deafening: "Cowards! All of them cowards!" I kicked over the table, my fist slamming into the wall until blood quickly stained my knuckles.

"It seems our plans need adjustment." Morgana's elegant voice drifted from the doorway. She glided in gracefully, her red dress flowing like liquid blood. "They fear the Wolf King's power—that's only natural."

I turned to her, my voice carrying a suppressed growl: "Then tell me, what should I do? How can I make these spineless fools see the truth?"

Morgana smiled as she approached, her fingers lightly caressing my bleeding knuckles: "The werewolf clans need a catalyst—something that can inflame contradictions and tear apart their pretenses."

"What catalyst?" I asked urgently.