Stolen by the Beastly Lycan King-Chapter 130: The Ultimate Revenge

Althea slowly raised her head, her dark lashes fluttering as she blinked away the haze of exhaustion. Her eyes, hollow and bloodshot, burned with a dangerous glint, the only sign of life in her otherwise wan expression.

Since the moment she’d learned of Lorelai’s kidnapping, she hadn’t allowed herself a single moment of rest. Nights bled into days as she poured every ounce of her being into her witchcraft, her obsession driving her to the brink of madness.

The evidence of her efforts lay scattered around the throne room, macabre trophies of her relentless pursuit.

The mangled corpses of animals and men, the remnants of charred herbs, and broken vials of strange substances littered the space like grotesque offerings. In the center of it all sat the half-dead king slumped on his cold, golden throne, his once-regal figure reduced to a pitiable husk.

"Just a little more," Althea whispered, her dry, cracked lips curling into a faint smirk. Her trembling fingers deftly sliced into the man’s vein, watching as his sluggish, dark blood oozed over his white skin. Her dark eyes gleamed with an unnatural hunger. "A little more, and it will all be over."

The queen was unraveling. The toll of her efforts clawed at her sanity, yet she couldn’t stop.

She had become addicted to this torment, knowing that at the end of her suffering lay the prize she had been yearning for: ultimate power.

And revenge. Sweet, absolute revenge.

Her gaze flickered to the mess around her, to the chaos she had wrought, and her lips twisted into a bitter sneer. "If only Kai hadn’t fixated on that wretched girl..." she muttered under her breath, her voice hoarse and sharp with frustration.

Lorelai should have been dead by now. The unruly, defiant princess had been a thorn in Althea’s side for far too long, an unpredictable variable that constantly disrupted her carefully laid plans. And yet, the crown prince––foolish, lovesick Kai––had to ruin everything with his inexplicable obsession with her.

Yes, she was beautiful. Yes, she was intelligent. Yes, she possessed that inexplicable charm that made everyone drop their guard in her presence. Lorelai could become the perfect queen. But not for Althea. Not for the world Althea was trying to create.

The queen let out a long, shaky exhale, wiping the cold beads of sweat gathering beneath her hairline with the back of her trembling hand.

With careful precision, she dipped her slender finger into the open wound on the king’s vein, dragging it along his pale, almost translucent skin to draw a series of arcane symbols.

"This should work," Althea muttered under her breath, a flicker of desperation flashing in her dark eyes as she traced the final symbol on the king’s bony knee.

Her voice was brittle, yet edged with bitter satisfaction. "The family bond is always the strongest. How ironic... The very man who sold her and her mother for his cravings and lust now summons his blood to come back and save him."

Her lips curled into a twisted smile, a grotesque expression of both triumph and madness. She raised her blood-stained hands above her head, the crimson glint on her fingertips catching the faint torchlight. And then, suddenly, a piercing laugh erupted from her throat––loud, maniacal, and utterly horrifying.

The sound reverberated through the vast throne room, bouncing off the cold stone walls like a cacophony of thunder.

Althea’s chest heaved as she laughed uncontrollably, her body convulsing with the force of her hysteria. Her eyes rolled back beneath her eyelids, and her bloodied fingers twitched as though they had a life of their own. She had crossed the threshold into madness long ago, and now, at last, she allowed herself to embrace it fully. It was liberating in its own perverse way.

***

Despite the warmth of the sun-drenched meadows of the Beast Kingdom during the day, the nights brought an eerie chill.

The darkness here felt almost oppressive. Even the moon, a large silver disc nearly complete in its transformation into full form, seemed distant tonight. Its light struggled to pierce through the thick veil of shadows blanketing the land.

Lorelai lay wide awake, unable to sleep.

The distant chattering and muted sounds of Rhaegar’s men working tirelessly to erect the altar for their wedding gnawed at her nerves.

Despite the lycan king’s assurances that the witch’s potions would keep her calm, Lorelai couldn’t shake the restless energy coursing through her body. Fatigue weighed heavily on her, but the growing nervousness overshadowed it, leaving her mind in disarray.

In desperate need of fresh air, Lorelai draped one of Rhaegar’s robes over her shoulders and stepped outside the tent. The night’s chill greeted her with an unforgiving gust of wind, making her shudder as it bit at her exposed skin.

They’re almost done, she thought, her gaze falling on the massive altar standing under the open sky, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight.

Its presence was commanding, almost ethereal, as if it were a magnet drawing the moon itself closer, anchoring its cold, luminous light to that one sacred spot.

The structure was breathtaking in its grandeur. Its intricate carvings shimmered faintly under the moon’s rays, and Lorelai couldn’t help but marvel at its magnificence. Her heart raced as the realization sank in: this monumental altar, this otherworldly setting, had all been created for her.

"Your Highness?"

Lorelai flinched, startled by the unexpected voice breaking the stillness. It crept out of the shadows, sharp and sudden, sending a shiver down her spine.

The princess slowly turned around, her lips instinctively curling into a somewhat guilty smile. Naveen stood before her, her long, delicate fingers idly twirling a dark green tobacco pipe between them.

Silently, the witch regarded Lorelai’s startled expression, her sharp eyes studying every detail.

She raised the pipe to her lips, concealed beneath the flowing veil of her mask. Even as the wind danced around them, tugging at fabric and hair, the mask held firm, refusing to reveal even a sliver of the witch’s hidden face.

With a snap of her fingers, a small flame appeared at the tip of Naveen’s index finger.

She brought it to the pipe and took a series of shallow puffs, coaxing the tobacco to life. Once it ignited, she drew in a deep inhale, exhaling a plume of bright blue smoke with a sound of weary relief.

"Are you hurting too?" Lorelai blurted, the question escaping before she could stop herself.

Embarrassed by her boldness, she slapped a hand over her mouth, as if that could take it back. She had learned that Rhaegar smoked herbal cigars to manage his pain, so it was natural to wonder if others in his circle did the same. Still, it felt intrusive to ask.

Naveen didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she took another slow draw from her pipe, the tobacco burning faintly in the dark. This time, she held the smoke in her lungs, her glowing eyes fixed on Lorelai. In the dim moonlight, they seemed to blaze with an otherworldly blue fire, both mesmerizing and intimidating.

"A lot of us do," the witch finally answered. She stepped closer to Lorelai, the space between them narrowing until their bodies were almost aligned. "In one way or another."