LAYLA
There are monts where you think the worst has already happened, that the storm has passed and left nothing else to take from you. And then, as if the universe isn’t quite finished, you’re reminded that things can still get worse.
I chuckled bitterly, the sound dry and humorless as tears trailed down my cheeks. So, this would be how I die.
Not even at the hands of the Lycan King, as I had once thought. No dramatic end, no poetic justice. Just this—weak, broken, and cursed by the goddess. It was almost laughable.
I had been in bed for days, too weak to move. My body was hot and feverish, a fire raging beneath my skin, but no amount of blankets or cool cloths could soothe it. Every breath felt labored, and sotis, out of nowhere, a pain so sharp and sudden would strike that it stole the air from my lungs entirely.
The first ti it happened, I thought it would kill . My chest tightened, my vision blurred, and all I could do was clutch at the sheets and wait for it to pass. It always did, eventually, but each ti it left feeling more drained, more hollow than before.
I knew the goddess despised . It had always been obvious, hadn’t it? From the very beginning, there was no rcy for , no grace. Only pain, loss, and now... this.
Cursed.
That much was clear. This was my punishnt for so sin I didn’t even know I had committed.
Could this be that I was being punished for existing?
The thought was logical and ridiculous at the sa ti.
Another surge of pain ripped through , and I bit down on my lip to keep from screaming. It didn’t matter; the sound escaped anyway, a strangled, broken cry that echoed through the empty room.
The pain was worse this ti, sharp and relentless, like claws tearing through my chest. My hands clawed at the mattress as I writhed, my body shaking uncontrollably.
And then, just as swiftly as it had started, the agony vanished, replaced by an all-consuming darkness.
I was sowhere else.
The room, the bed, the pain—all of it was gone. Instead, I stood in an endless field of nothingness, an oppressive darkness stretching out in every direction.
"Hello?" I called out, my voice trembling as it echoed back to .
There was no answer. Only silence.
And then, faintly at first, I heard it—a low growl, guttural and nacing, growing louder and closer with every passing second.
I turned, my heart pounding as my eyes searched the darkness for the source of the sound. And there, just on the edge of my vision, two glowing eyes stared back at .
"Who’s there?" I demanded, though my voice shook.
The growl deepened, reverberating through the suffocating silence, as the glowing eyes crept closer. The shadows parted, unveiling a massive wolf. Its fur was as dark as the abyss, its bared teeth gleaming like knives under an unseen light.
"It was because you were weak," it snarled, its voice low, guttural, and dripping with accusation. Each word sliced through the void, cutting straight to my core.
"I didn’t—" I stamred, but the wolf cut off with a sharp, growling retort.
"I’m dead because you were weak," it growled, stepping closer, its movents slow and predatory.
"No," I whispered, trembling as I instinctively backed away. My voice faltered, weak even to my own ears. "That’s not true."
"You failed," it hissed, the venom in its words striking like a whip. Its glowing eyes locked onto mine, filled with relentless fury. "And now, you’re alone. Forever alone."
The weight of its words crushed , the truth—or the fear of it—lodging in my chest like a shard of ice.
The wolf lunged, its jaws snapping toward , and I scread—
I woke with a start, gasping for air as the nightmare faded. My body felt heavier than before, and my head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache.
The first thing I noticed was the warmth—soft, steady, and enveloping like a gentle embrace. It wasn’t the feverish heat that had plagued before, but sothing else entirely.
And then I heard voices.
"She can’t take much more of this," a familiar voice said, tight with worry. Sabastine.
"It doesn’t matter," another voice replied, quieter but no less determined.
The warmth intensified for a mont, pulsing through like a heartbeat, and I realized with a start that it wasn’t coming from —it was coming from him.
Whoever "he" was.
"Your Majesty," Sabastine said, his voice low but urgent, "sharing your mana so frequently is dangerous. It’s affecting your health."
"If I don’t do it, she will die," the other voice snapped, and I knew instantly who it was.
The Lycan King.
My heart twisted painfully in my chest, a mixture of disbelief and sothing else I couldn’t quite na. Why? Why was he doing this? Why would he risk his health for ?
I tried to speak, to ask, but my throat was dry, and all that ca out was a weak croak.
Imdiately, the warmth receded, and I felt the weight of his gaze on . "You’re awake," he said, his voice softer now, but still carrying that edge of authority.
I blinked up at him, my vision blurry but clear enough to make out the worry etched across his face. "Your Majesty, Why..." I started, but my voice broke, and I had to swallow hard before trying again. "Why are you... doing this?"
For a mont, he remained silent, his gaze sharp and unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and laced with dark amusent.
"Because you are my bride," he said, each word deliberate, carrying a sinister weight. "If you were to die, it would be by my hands. So, no, darling—you can’t die. Not yet. I’m nowhere near finished with you."
Strangely enough, I felt relieved—relieved that he wasn’t doing this out of care or concern. Because if he had, it would’ve made hating him a little bit harder.
"I hate you," I let out as I closed my eyes again, the exhaustion pulling under once more. The last thing I felt was his hand brushing against my hair, and for the first ti in days, the darkness didn’t seem quite so suffocating.
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