Stolen by the Beastly Lycan King-Chapter 153: Yearning For Death

Rhaegar wiped the bloodstained blade of his sword with the hem of his discarded robe, the crimson streaks smearing across the once-pristine fabric.

Killing Daro brought him no solace. If anything, it had stoked the fire of hatred burning in his chest, awakening a bloodlust he had thought long buried. The desire to kill had returned with a ferocity that clawed at his restraint, demanding more.

I can’t feel her, his inner wolf whispered, its voice trembling with despair. The misery woven into every word cut through him like a blade. All is empty now.

Rhaegar’s jaw tightened as he exhaled a slow, measured breath. His amber eyes flicked toward the distant royal palace, where the faint glow of torches lined the defensive walls.

Night had fully descended, but his beastly vision had already adjusted, sharpening the scene before him with unnerving clarity.

The flickering flames danced against the darkness, their long, orange tongues swaying in rhythmic defiance. The torches were a warning, a signal that the war was no longer at the horizon—it had arrived, enveloping the kingdom in its deadly grasp.

A painful conflict tore at his insides, threatening to split him in two.

His inner beast howled for him to shift, to give in to primal instinct and run toward Erelith with everything he had. He needed to find Lorelai, to bring her back, to hold her in his arms and never let go again. The urgency was suffocating, his wolf’s desperation clawing at his consciousness.

But his human mind, cold and rational, seized control. It reminded him of his duty, his responsibility as a king. And no matter how much his heart and beast protested, his head knew it was the right thing to do.

He forced his hands to still, even as they itched to reach for Daro’s body and tear it to pieces.

You must protect your people first. The thought resonated through him like an unyielding command, anchoring him in place. The Crown Prince’s army, however weak they might seem, posed a threat he could not afford to underestimate. His power could never waver—not now, not while he was king.

Even though my dominance is overpowering, I haven’t been king long enough to grow arrogant, he reminded himself grimly. The beasts will not forgive me if I falter here. The queen’s stolen weapons have already placed them in danger. It is my duty to reclaim them all—to show them that their king will never back down from a fight.

His gaze lingered on the palace in the distance, a faint shadow crossing his sharp features. Duty and love warred within him, each vying for control. But in the end, there was only one choice.

He let out another heavy sigh and bent down to retrieve the sword lying next to Daro’s lifeless body. The muscles in his arms flexed as the King’s Gold in both hands resonated, their hum faint but unmistakable, a reminder of the power they held.

He thought he could defeat me with this, huh? Rhaegar nearly chuckled at the absurdity of it, the corner of his mouth twitching as he thought of Daro’s futile attempt to wield a weapon he had no right to touch. Pathetic.

His eyes briefly flicked to Daro’s twisted expression in death—a cruel irony frozen on his face. Well, it’s for the better. Saves me the trouble of digging up the graves myself.

He shifted his gaze to the twin swords in his hands, their golden sheen catching the faint light of the distant flames. Althea... I will bring these weapons back to you, just like you wanted. But this time, they will be in the right hands.

***

Lorelai dreamed again.

It was strange, almost haunting, how these dreams clung to her like shadows. She could no longer tell how many she had endured—they all blurred together in an unrelenting haze.

Lately, her body had betrayed her. It felt weak, fragile, as though even the act of staying awake required an immense effort. Her mind drifted frequently, slipping into long hours of slumber that offered neither peace nor rest.

It always began with that one dream. That particular dream.

It was her wedding day, she was sure of it. She could picture herself clearly, adorned in a long, flowing silk dress, the pristine white fabric brushing against her skin as she sat before a vanity mirror.

She remembered staring into her own reflection, the faint sheen of pale skin and the cold, lifeless look in her eyes making her chest tighten. Her reflection didn’t feel like her. It stared back mockingly, its hollow gaze digging into her soul.

And then the princess—the reflection—did something so grotesque, so revolting, that it sent shivers down Lorelai’s spine. She drank poison. Her own hands had raised the cup to her lips, and she downed its contents with a calmness that felt utterly wrong.

The act jolted Lorelai awake every time.

She lay in silence now, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath shallow as the bitter remnants of the dream clung to her like a veil.

It’s always the same, she thought, pressing a hand to her forehead as though trying to steady herself. I drink poison and die right away. But why?

Her mind churned with unease, cycling through fragments of the recurring nightmare. Yet deep down, she knew it wasn’t the act of drinking poison that unsettled her the most.

It was something else—something she couldn’t quite place. A strange, unspoken dread that clung to her even after she awoke, leaving her hollow and trembling in its wake.

It was just a split-second occurrence—a fleeting flash of two amber lights right before her dream self died—that her consciousness found so deeply unsettling.

The meaning of her ominous dream stubbornly eluded her. Why would she want to end her own life, even if it was just a dream? She was a royal princess, destined to marry her stepbrother, the notorious King of Erelith.

Lorelai loved him, and Kai loved her. So why did her dream self yearn for death so desperately?