Chapter 339: Wolf’s Bane

The shout was loud and well aimed.There could never have been a proper time for such a thing, even as whispers filled the hall—low at first, uncertain, before steadily growing louder and more insistent. They moved like a living thing, crawling from one end of the temple to the other, feeding on fear and curiosity alike.

What was even more surprising was the fact that the guards—who should have instantly entered to dispatch the intruders—seemed to be missing.

Their absence did not go unnoticed.

The thugs, seeing the chance laid plainly before them, refused to let it slip away. They shouted one after the other, their voices rough and desperate, cutting through the heavy air of the hall.

"Rip off the spy’s veil!"

"Wolf’s bane! Nothing like pain to reveal the face of a traitor!"

"Burn the traitor!" another shouted with fervor, his voice cracking with excitement.

They were all humans, which would have been almost laughable if not for the sharp alarm and vicious certainty in their voices. That certainty began to infect the crowd, stirring something dangerous. The whispers grew louder, some nodding along, others murmuring in agreement.

A crowd that slowly—but surely—began to turn.

Especially since no sane person would fail to understand that barging into the temple and making such accusations without proof was the fastest way to die.

"Wolf’s bane is fine," someone whispered nearby. "If she’s human like we were told, nothing will happen."

The words spread quickly, passed from mouth to mouth, mutating as they went until they became a chant demanding confirmation of her humanity.

"I hear that werewolves can keep their identity hidden by concealing their ears," another voice loudly whispered. It came from one of the nobles seated along the hall, their jeweled rings flashing as they gestured dramatically.

Rymora stood ramrod straight at the altar.

It took everything she had to stop her legs from shaking beneath the heavy folds of her gown. Her hands were clenched so tightly at her sides that her fingers ached, nails biting into her palms.

She did not dare lift her head.

She did not dare meet Lord Drehk’s gaze.

The moment I do, she thought desperately, is the moment he will know.

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the edges of the hall even as she fought to keep them from spilling. If they discovered who she truly was, then even the king himself might hand her over—burned alive simply to satisfy the blood-hungry roar of the crowd.

It was law.

Werewolves were forbidden from entering the vampire realm, and vampires were forbidden from entering werewolf lands—unless invited.

Her heart roared in her ears, drowning out the whispers, the accusations, the sound of her own breathing.

Then she saw it.

Lord Drehk moved.

He descended from the altar slowly at first, his steps deliberate and heavy against the stone. There was nothing rushed about him, nothing hesitant. Every movement carried unmistakable purpose.

The whispers did not fade immediately—until he moved again.

It was too fast for Rymora to fully comprehend, her vision clouded by tears. One moment he was there, and the next—

The men who had been shouting were dead.

Their heads rolled across the polished floor, torn cleanly from their shoulders. The force was unmistakable. No blade had been used. No weapon drawn.

Only his bare hands.

Blood splattered violently, coating his silk red tailcoat and staining the inner jacket beneath. His hands were slick, glistening with gore—shiny and viscous with what could only be the remains of their skulls and flesh.

The sheer brutality of it shattered the hall into silence.

Whispers died instantly.

The nobles went rigid, suddenly aware that being vampires did not grant them immunity. The king was not the only one who could kill without consequence. The lords could do the same—and they would answer only to the king.

And their king was not bloodthirsty.

He would not even bat an eye.

Lord Drehk turned and walked back toward the altar.

His steps were no longer vigorous, but measured and calm. His face was mostly neutral, composed, yet there was no mistaking the anger burning beneath the surface—contained, controlled, and lethal.

The hall remained silent as he ascended the stairs.

Blood dripped slowly from his fingers onto the stone floor, dark and heavy. He did not bother to wipe his hands clean.

Many expected the messenger to reprimand him for spilling blood within the temple.

Instead, she smiled.

"All liars in the temple deserve to lose their lives," she declared solemnly, her voice unwavering.

She lifted her chin and continued with clear authority, "By the power given to me, I hereby proclaim you two eternal partners in this life under the light of God."

She gestured toward Rymora.

"You may now kiss the bride."

Drehk did not hesitate.

He reached for her veil and ripped it away in one swift motion, pulling her close before she could even gasp. His grip was firm, possessive, as he crushed his lips against hers.

The kiss was fierce—almost brutal—as though he were declaring to everyone present that she belonged to him.

Only him.

Rymora barely registered the tears sliding down her cheeks. The scent of blood clung to him thickly, metallic and sharp, yet it did not repulse her in the slightest.

She kissed him back just as fiercely.

They pulled apart only when the hall erupted into applause.

The tension slowly faded—or rather, it was buried beneath forced smiles and clapping, the crowd knowing better than to let fear linger on Lord Drehk’s grand day.

Rymora smiled weakly, her eyes threatening to spill tears once more. She held them back with effort as Drehk’s hand closed firmly around hers, grounding her as he led her down the stairs.

They approached King Zyren and Lady Aria.

"Congratulations!" Aria beamed, embracing Rymora warmly.

Rymora returned the smile, her body still trembling faintly.

Zyren nodded once at Lord Drehk, who responded with a respectful bow.

Soon they exited the hall, followed by well-wishers who tossed flowers and soft trinkets at their feet.

Rymora’s mood remained heavy, but slowly it lifted when no one questioned her. No accusations followed. No whispers reached her ears.

Her courage returned bit by bit as the food festival began at Lord Drehk’s villa.

Food and wine flowed endlessly. No one—noble or common citizen—was turned away without being fed.

Before she realized it, Rymora was laughing, wine warming her veins, listening to jokes from actors and guests alike. Even Aria laughed beside her, the two of them drinking merrily.

For the first time in a long while, Rymora thought everything was well.

Until night fell.

Until the guests departed.

Until she returned to the room alone with Lord Drehk.