Vanished Sisters: The Lycan King's Slave Island Chapter 188

Mordred's POV

"Numbers aren't everything," I said, though even I could hear the weakness in that argument.

"No," Gregor agreed. "But they're something. And Sebastian has more than just numbers. He has momentum. Support. The perception of strength."

"And what do I have?"

"The crown," Gregor said simply. "The bloodline. The legitimate claim to the throne. But Your Majesty..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Legitimacy only matters if you can defend it."

I felt anger rising in my chest, but I forced it down. Losing my temper now would only prove Sebastian's point—that I was unstable, unfit to rule.

"What would it take?" I asked bluntly. "What would it take for you to support me?"

Gregor's eyes gleamed with interest. "Now we're having an honest conversation."

Before he could continue, I heard footsteps approaching. But they were wrong—too fast, too urgent.

A servant burst into the hall, his face pale with terror. "My lords! Something's wrong! Lord Fergus—"

"What about Fergus?" I demanded, standing up.

"He's in the wine cellar, and there's—there's blood, and screaming, and—"

I didn't wait to hear more. I was already running.

---

The wine cellar was in the lower levels of the castle, accessed by a narrow stone staircase. I took the steps three at a time, my heart pounding with a dread I couldn't name.

I could hear it before I saw it—snarling, growling, the wet sounds of tearing flesh.

The cellar door was open, and the smell hit me like a physical blow. Blood. Fresh blood.

I stepped into the cellar and froze.

Fergus was there, but not as I'd ever seen him. He'd shifted into his wolf form—a massive creature of fur and muscle and rage. His muzzle was stained red, his claws dripping.

And at his feet lay a woman.

She was one of the servants, I realized distantly. A maid who'd been working in the castle. Her throat had been torn out, her chest ripped open. She was very clearly dead, her eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

But what made my blood run cold was the expression on Fergus's face—or rather, the lack of one. There was no recognition in his eyes, no intelligence. Only mindless, animal rage.

"Fergus?" I said carefully, my hand moving to the sword at my hip.

His head snapped toward me, and he snarled—a sound of pure hatred and violence.

"Fergus, it's me. It's Mordred. What happened? What—"

He lunged.

I barely had time to shift partially, my own claws extending to meet his. We collided with bone-jarring force, crashing into the wine racks. Bottles shattered around us, red wine mixing with red blood on the stone floor.

"Fergus, stop!" I shouted, trying to restrain him without seriously injuring him. "What's wrong with you? Snap out of it!"

But he didn't respond. Didn't even seem to hear me. He fought with the mindless ferocity of a rabid animal, all technique and strategy abandoned in favor of pure savagery.

I managed to throw him off, and we circled each other in the confined space of the cellar. My mind was racing, trying to understand what had happened.

How could he have gone mad in such a short time?

This wasn't an accident. This was an attack.

Sebastian.

Rage exploded in my chest, and I felt my own control slipping. My body began to shift further, bones cracking and reforming, muscles swelling with supernatural strength.

Fergus attacked again, and this time I met him with equal violence. We crashed through the cellar, destroying everything in our path. His claws raked across my chest, drawing deep furrows. My jaws closed on his shoulder, tasting blood.

"Fight it!" I roared between attacks. "Fergus, I know you're in there! Fight it!"

For just a second, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes. A moment of recognition, of horror at what he was doing.

Then it was gone, swallowed by the madness.

We fought our way up the stairs and into the main hall. Servants and guards scattered before us, screaming. I caught a glimpse of Gregor standing at the far end of the hall, his face pale but his expression calculating, watching everything.

Watching to see who would win.

Watching to see who he should support.

The realization filled me with cold fury. This was exactly what Sebastian had wanted. To make me look weak. To make me kill my most loyal supporter. To turn this into a spectacle that would destroy whatever credibility I had left.

But I couldn't stop. Fergus was trying to kill me, and if I didn't defend myself, he would succeed.

We crashed through a table, wood splintering beneath our combined weight. Fergus's jaws snapped inches from my throat. I drove my claws into his side, and he howled—a sound of pain and rage and something that might have been anguish.

"I'm sorry," I gasped, even as I struck him again. "I'm so sorry, old friend."

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Davelina's POV

I'd only been back at Caelan's estate for two days, but it felt like an eternity.

Natasha was recovering, slowly but surely. The physical damage from her heat was healing, and the terrible vulnerability in her eyes was gradually being replaced by her usual strength. But she still needed care, still needed someone to watch over her.

And I wanted to be that someone. I wanted to stay by her side until she was completely well.

But I couldn't.

Lucy was alone at Ashclaw, trying to do the work of three people. Without Natasha and without me, she was drowning in responsibilities. The poor girl was probably exhausted, probably making mistakes that would get her punished.

I couldn't let that happen. Lucy had been nothing but kind to us. She deserved better.

So this morning, I'd kissed Natasha's forehead, promised I'd return as soon as I could, and made the journey back to Ashclaw Island.