THE PRISONER WHO WORE A CROWN

Chapter 8: THE PRICE OF MERCY

Just as Corvin was about to answer, ready to fight even though he knew he would die, Draven spoke again. His eyes returned to Liora, and his tone changed—still cold, but with an edge of something else.

“However,” he announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I am not without mercy. I will not slaughter innocent lives. I will spare your pack. I will leave your homes standing and your people alive.”

Relief washed over the crowd, but it was short-lived as Draven pointed directly at Liora.

“This is my condition. She comes with me.”

Corvin spun around to look at his daughter, horrified. “Liora? No! You cannot take her! She has done nothing!”

“She is the price,” Draven declared firmly. “She belongs to me now. My prisoner. My property. The spoils of war. Take her, or we burn everything to ash. Choose, Alpha.”

Corvin looked at his people—at the women, the children, the elders who would all die if he refused. He had no choice. He looked at Liora with tears in his eyes, shame and sorrow written on his face. “I… I agree.”

Liora felt as if the ground had opened beneath her feet. Sold. Traded. Given away like an object. But as she looked at Draven, she understood. This was his way of saving her pack, and taking her where he could protect her. She walked forward slowly, her head held high, refusing to cry in front of everyone. She stopped before him, lifted her chin, and spoke softly so only he could hear.

“You said you would return. You didn’t say it would be like this.”

Draven did not look at her, only reached down and pulled her up onto his horse behind him. “Hold on,” was all he said, cold and distant. But as she wrapped her arms around his armored waist, she felt his hand cover hers for just a second—warm, familiar, and trembling.