Vanished Sisters: The Lycan King's Slave Island Chapter 202

Natasha's POV

"Burn the witch!"

"Kill her!"

The chants overlapped now, a cacophony of hatred and fear that seemed to come from all directions at once.

Fergus and Gregor's soldiers moved to intervene, forming a protective barrier around us. But the crowd didn't back down. If anything, they pushed harder, and I saw the first scuffles breaking out—civilians grabbing at soldiers, soldiers shoving them back.

"Stop!" Mordred's voice rang out, commanding and absolute. "Soldiers, stand down!"

The soldiers hesitated, looking uncertain.

"I said stand down!" Mordred repeated.

Reluctantly, the soldiers backed off, though they remained close, ready to intervene if things turned violent.

Mordred guided the horse to a stop, and the crowd surged forward, surrounding us completely. I could feel their hatred like a physical force, pressing in on all sides.

"Listen to me!" Mordred called out, his voice carrying over the noise. "I understand your concerns. I understand your anger. But she has been granted a trial. Three days from now, she will face judgment before all the people and all the Lords."

The crowd quieted slightly, though the anger on their faces didn't diminish.

"If she is found guilty," Mordred continued, his voice steady despite the tension I could feel in his body, "she will be punished according to our laws. I will not show her favoritism. I will not protect her from justice. Even if she is my mate."

The last word sent a ripple of shock and disgust through the crowd.

"You're not going to take her to your bed tonight, are you, Your Majesty?" a woman's voice called out, dripping with contempt. "Going to fuck the human whore before she's condemned?"

Laughter and jeers erupted from the crowd.

"Put her in the dungeons!" someone shouted.

"Lock her up where she belongs!"

"She's a criminal! She should be in chains!"

The chants started again, louder and more vicious than before.

"Put her in the dungeons!"

"Hang her!"

"Burn her!"

I felt Mordred's entire body go tense, felt him struggling with the decision. I knew what he wanted to do—take me to his chambers, protect me, keep me safe.

But I also knew he couldn't. Not without losing his people completely.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he gave a single, sharp nod.

He didn't say anything. Didn't look at me. Just nodded.

The crowd erupted in cheers and shouts of approval.

Soldiers moved forward to take me from the horse, and I felt Mordred's arms tighten around me for just a moment before he released me.

I was pulled down roughly, my bare feet hitting the cold cobblestones. The cloak slipped, nearly falling off completely, and I had to clutch it desperately to maintain some semblance of modesty.

The crowd pressed in, shouting, jeering, some even spitting. I kept my head down, trying to block it all out, trying not to cry.

We moved through the streets like a grotesque parade—me stumbling along in the center, surrounded by soldiers, flanked by an angry mob that screamed for my death.

Finally, we reached the dungeons.

The entrance was a dark, yawning mouth in the side of the citadel, leading down into the earth. Stone steps, worn smooth by centuries of use, descended into blackness.

I was pushed forward, nearly falling, but strong hands caught me. Mordred's hands.

He'd dismounted and followed us down.

We stood at the entrance to the dungeons, the crowd still shouting behind us, and for a moment we just looked at each other.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't have a choice right now. You'll spend the next three days here. But please... trust me."

I looked into his eyes and saw genuine anguish there. He didn't want this. But he was trapped, just as surely as I was.

The tears came again, hot and bitter.

"I never had a choice," I said, my voice breaking. "When I was captured and made a slave, I had no choice. When I was brought here and my freedom was taken, I had no choice. And then, as if that wasn't enough, my own body betrayed me. I went into heat, and I had no choice in that either."

I took a shuddering breath, trying to get the words out through my tears.

"I never wanted any of this. I just wanted to be a normal woman. To have a normal life. But I couldn't, because I'm an Endurer. And worse than that, I belong to you. You were forced into this bond, and so was I. Neither of us chose this. Neither of us wanted this."

Mordred's face was a mask of pain, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Natasha—" he started, but I shook my head.

"It's okay," I whispered. "I understand. You have to do this."

The guards were waiting, impatient. One of them grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the stairs.

I looked back at Mordred one last time, memorizing his face, the way the torchlight cast shadows across his features, the anguish in his eyes.

"Wait for me, Natasha," he said, his voice barely audible over the crowd's continued shouting.

Then I was pulled down into the darkness, the stone steps cold and rough beneath my bare feet.

Down, down, down we went, until the sounds of the crowd faded to a distant murmur, until the light from above was just a faint glow.

The dungeons were exactly as I'd imagined—cold, damp, reeking of mold and human misery. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, a steady, maddening rhythm.

The guard unlocked a cell—just a small space carved into the rock, with iron bars across the front. There was nothing inside except a pile of filthy straw in one corner and a bucket in the other.

"In you go," the guard said, shoving me forward.

I stumbled into the cell, barely catching myself before I fell. The guard slammed the door shut, and I heard the lock click into place with a sound of terrible finality.

Then he left, taking the torch with him, and I was alone in the darkness.

I sank down onto the pile of straw, pulling the cloak tight around myself, and finally let myself break down completely.

I cried for everything I'd lost. For my family, dead or scattered. For my freedom, taken from me. For my dignity, stripped away piece by piece.

And I cried for Mordred, trapped between his duty and his heart, forced to choose between his kingdom and his mate.

*Three days,* I thought. *I have three days left to live.*

Because I had no illusions about how the trial would end. The people had already decided I was guilty. They wanted my blood, and they would get it.

Unless Mordred could find a way to save me.

But how could he, without losing everything?

I curled up on the straw, shivering in the cold and the dark, and tried to remember what hope felt like.

But I couldn't.

All I could feel was despair, cold and heavy, settling over me like a shroud.

*Wait for me,* he'd said.

So I would wait.

What else could I do?