The Betrayed Princess Rising Chapter 116

3rd Person's POV

A guttural snarl tore through the ward.

“Argh! You piece of shit! How dare you!” Alexander roared, his voice shaking the very walls.

He thrashed violently, trying to wrench himself free, but Yorik had already locked him down with the brutal efficiency of a seasoned fighter. The old wolf had wrapped his legs around Alexander’s neck, cutting off his air with a chokehold that spoke of instinct and long-forgotten battlefields.

“You’re nothing but a pup playing in a playground,” Yorik rasped, his eyes blazed with feral fury, the wolf within them flashing through the frailty of his body—old, wounded, but far from dead. “What did you think you were doing, huh?” His grip tightened. “You tried to kill me!”

“N-no-"

Alexander’s protest strangled in his throat as the pressure tightened.

“Yorik, please stop!” Gwyn cried out, panic cracking her voice.

The old wolf’s gaze swept across the room like a predator assessing a threat. Then it halted.

On Lylah.

The fury in his eyes faltered.

Something softer—something almost reverent—flickered there. “You…”

His grip slackened.

Alexander seized the chance instantly, twisting free and scrambling to his feet.

He retreated behind Gwyn with hurried steps that did little to hide the arrogance hardening his face.

“Is that stray rabid or something?” he spat. “Why the hell did he attack me?”

Gwyn shook her head quickly. “No, he isn’t. But… Yorik’s wolf is aggressive. It will take over if he feels threatened. His wolf was always stronger than his human side—even after the illness.”

She paused, a realization slowly dawning across her face.

“Yorik used to say he was from Whitepine..." she murmured. “That he fought beside his Alpha… and Commander Ivar. He claimed he slaughtered dozens of rogue tribes in his youth...”

Alexander’s eyes flicked sharply to the frail old man, then back to Gwyn.

Whitepine?

And beside Ivar—the war god of Vedanth?

His gaze darkened with sudden understanding.

That half-mad, sickly stray…

“He was a warrior,” Alexander said hoarsely.

In the next second, his hand shot out, fisting Gwyn’s collar.

“Then why the hell didn’t you tell me?” he snarled. “You wanted to humiliate me, didn’t you?!”

“N-no." Gwyn stammered, startled. “We never believed it! Yorik always rambled about his past—we thought it was just the illness talking…”

Their argument faded into the background.

Because Yorik was no longer looking at them.

His eyes were fixed entirely on Lylah.

The storm in them had faded, replaced by something deep and aching.

Lylah took a slow breath and stepped forward.

“My lady…” Yorik whispered, his voice trembling. “By Selene above… you’ve returned… you’re here…”

Lylah frowned slightly.

“I may be old… and my mind may wander,” Yorik continued softly, “but my wolf remembers. He will always remember the one who first taught us to bare our claws and fight with fang.”

His head bowed low in reverence.

Behind Lylah, Alexander scoffed harshly. “For fuck’s sake! The old stray’s lost his damn mind again.”

But Lylah barely heard him.

Understanding struck her like a sudden bolt of lightning.

Whitepine.

A warrior.

A comrade of her parents.

Yorik had fought beside them.

And now… he was mistaking her for someone else.

Her mother.

Vala Stillward.

“Yorik,” Lylah called gently.

The old wolf straightened instantly, spine rigid with instinctive discipline.

“Yes, my lady,” he said, voice firm despite the frailty of his body. “I am at your service.”

Alexander frowned, confusion flickering across his face.

A faint smile curved on Lylah’s lips.

“Then will you go exactly as I say?"

Without hesitation, Yorik bowed his head. “Yes, my lady.”

Lylah knew precisely what she was doing.

“Then lie back please,” she said softly. “And stay calm.”

Her gaze held his—steady, reassuring.

“I need you to trust me… just one more time.”