His Father’s Luna : The Betrayed Warrior’s Return

Chapter 3

Lyra’s POV

The blizzard was a living thing, howling through the cold tundra and trying to consume me. The knee-high snow slowed me to a crawl, as did the fatigue seeping into my muscles. Water had turned my leathers stiff and cold. Blood, the same blood I’d left on those assassins in the petrified woods, still smeared my body.

And yet stopping now was impossible.

Through the haze of blinding snow, the looming obsidian walls of Northwitch finally came into view. Massive iron gates had been slammed shut against the storm, flanked by two watchtowers, manned by Vanguard elites.

I staggered toward the towering metal portcullis, the edges of my vision already wobbling.

“Halt!” a voice bellowed over the screaming winds. There was the distinct shing of swords drawing, and then four armored men stepped out from either side of the gatehouse. Their spears and steel swords were pointed at me.

But instead of running or drawing the blood-soaked dagger strapped to my hip, I simply let myself fall to the ground.

With a heavy groan, I collapsed into the knee-deep snow, directly in front of the gates, with my blood-soaked hands raised above my head.

“I surrender,” I said, voice weak. I hoped the words carried, though I was sure Lycans would pick up on them easily. Reaching for my dagger with my right hand, I held it aloft before tossing it helplessly onto the ground in front of them. “I surrender to the justice of the Warlord.”

There was a pause as they stared at me, bewildered.

“You were ordered by my heir to never return to this keep, Lyra. On pain of death.” The lead guard gestured to me with his spear, which had been lowered to just above my neck.

“I didn’t betray the pack,” I said, voice soft. Tears filled my green eyes as I forced myself to whisper. “Those were assassins. Selena sent them to hunt me in the woods, and I came back here to face a proper execution. Please.”

There was another pause, as if they considered my words. But when they noticed the blood on my hands and shoulder, their expressions turned murderous.

“Bring the traitor to the Warlord,” the lead guard ordered. “Tie her up. Take her to the holding cells. This will be handled personally by the King himself.”

Again, there was a difference compared to what Commander Torin had done to me in my room. Maybe it was the sight of my blood, or the sheer fact that I’d come back of my own free will. At any rate, I wasn’t thrown against the wall or beaten senseless with metal fists.

They picked me up and tied my hands with iron shackles, then pulled me up to the small postern door within the main gates.

Once inside the keep, I was marched past the torch-lit courtyards until we reached the dungeons below the fortress. The air became musty and chilling as we descended a few dozen stairs, heavy with the scent of damp earth, old iron, and desperation.

With a slam, they threw me into one of the dungeon cells, with thick iron bars separating me from the cold. The lock clicked shut, and the guards left, taking the torchlight with them.

Trapped in absolute, frigid darkness, I sat down on the stone floor of my cell. Pulling my legs into a fetal position, I curled up in a ball, shivering uncontrollably. My teeth were chattering, and my injured shoulder burned with the sickening heat of a wound, but none of this stopped me from thinking about what would happen next.

Selena and Anton thought me dead. They would expect the day after my execution to be quiet. In reality, the very woman they’d condemned was in their keep, pleading her case before the king himself.

But I couldn’t wait until the next morning. I needed the apex predator to hear my tale before dawn arrived.

Fortunately for me, I didn’t have to wait long.

Within less than an hour, the heavy wooden door at the top of the staircase creaked open.

The aura that followed the opening of the door was suffocating—a predator prowling its lair. It filled my tiny cell, and my inner wolf instantly pressed herself down in submissive terror at the sensation of it.

The King of Lycanthropes, the apex predator of Northwitch, the greatest Warlord the continent had ever seen, Warlord Fenrir himself, had come for me.

Silent as a predator, he descended the stone stairs, flickering light from a single torch in his massive, scarred hand. When he stopped in front of my iron bars, his towering physical presence was enough to make me take an involuntary step backward.

At thirty-nine, Warlord Fenrir was an intimidating force—a giant warrior with broad shoulders, endless scars, and feral power. Clad in dark leathers and carrying a large broadsword on his back, he was the perfect killing machine. A magnificent pelt of pure black fur was draped over his broad shoulders. Golden eyes locked onto me from his powerful face.

There was no mistaking his unique scent—the rich aroma of pines, fresh winter snow, and the intoxicating smell of dominance. The very air seemed charged with a promise of authority and obedience.

"My guards reported that you walked into my fortress, bleeding, and said assassins were hunting you,” the Warlord growled, voice echoing in the stone dungeon chamber. It was a dark, rumbling sound, a deep baritone.

I stayed sitting on the stone floor, knees pulled to my chest, allowing myself to shiver, looking up at the alpha through the mess of my frozen red hair. Green eyes were wide and vulnerable.

“My King…” I whispered, voice hoarse.

“Get up,” Fenrir ordered, softly but firmly.

I slowly got up using the wall, and with the movement of my wrists, the heavy iron shackles clinked against each other. Hunching, I exposed my vulnerable neckline.

“I’m innocent,” I whispered. “On the Goddess, my King, I didn’t kill anyone. I don’t know anything about court politics. They framed me, and I have nothing left but my innocence and your justice.”

Fenrir moved closer to the bars, golden eyes surveying me, assessing my blood-covered clothes, exhausted face, and wounded shoulder. “If you’re innocent,” he muttered, frowning in his usual Alpha manner, “then why did your mattress contain wolfsbane? Why did my daughter say she caught you in the royal wing of the castle?”

“And the assassins?” Fenrir’s golden eyes narrowed slightly. “What happened to them?”

“They found me in the petrified forest,” I whispered, curling into a ball. “Three of them, all wearing masks. They told me I had to die tonight. I fought them off, but where would I go? Even if I fled, I would always be pursued as a traitor. That’s why I’m here, begging for your mercy. You can execute me. I’d prefer that to dying as a betrayer in a dark, cold forest.”

For a long while, Fenrir didn’t respond. He stared at me through the bars, as if trying to discern the truth from me. The flickering torchlight played over his rugged features, casting shadows around the war-worn warrior.

This was the ruthless alpha, this terrifying Lycan. He ordered executions for breakfast and killed men with his bare claws.

But as he stared down at the bloody, shaking woman, a profound change happened in the air between us.

He became less the calculating Warlord and more the fierce alpha, protective and territorial of his pack members.

A low, menacing growl hummed through the air. Flicking the torch to the sconce in the wall, Fenrir reached into the belt and unlocked the iron bars.

“Come here,” Fenrir growled, stepping into the small dungeon cell, the weight of his physical presence overwhelming. Crouching against the wall, trying to make myself appear like an innocent and frightened maiden, I watched with half-closed eyes as the massive man approached.

He didn’t draw a sword. He didn’t raise a fist.

Instead, Fenrir took the enormous pelt from his shoulders and gently laid it over me. With the heat of his fur against me, I felt comfort for the first time since leaving the safety of Northwitch. Golden eyes watched me from the corner of my vision.

“You’re freezing,” Fenrir growled, his voice softer than before, a hint of caring in it. “You’re bleeding. You’ll remain in this cell until tomorrow.”

I didn’t protest.

“Tell me,” Fenrir interrupted, golden eyes narrowing as they examined the s***h on my shoulder. He was angry. His jaw clenched, the vein jumping in his scarred face, and I sensed that the beast was enraged. His thoughts were not entirely rational. Something about someone hunting one of his wolves, especially such a seemingly vulnerable and loyal one, had set him off.

“You said you’d protect everyone in the pack, ” I whispered, meeting his gaze. “You’re my king. They can’t hurt me in this castle.”

Fenrir growled, stepping forward. “No one executes her without my permission.”

He drew me to him, holding me by my shoulders, his hands large and calloused. “You’re bleeding.”

He turned to me, thumbs soothing the fur at my collarbones as he looked into my green eyes, trying to see the truth.

“I need my fur cloak…” I whispered.

“Do you need any more protection?” Fenrir asked, tightening his hold on my shoulders in an obvious possessive gesture.

“I…” I leaned against him, letting him feel how dependent I was on him. My gaze met his, vulnerable.

“No one hunts in my woods, and you are one of my wolves,” Fenrir said, stepping away from me, allowing the cold air to seep into the cell. “Tomorrow, you’ll tell them everything you told me.”

“They won’t listen to me,” I whispered.

" I am the King of the Crimson Moon,” Fenrir growled. His golden eyes were bright and burning with authority.

He exited the cell, locking the thick bars behind him and leaving the heavy smell of pine trees in his wake.

Sinking to the floor, I buried my face in his fur, allowing myself a smirk in complete darkness.

The apex predator had taken the bait.

Now I had to spring the trap.