The Werewolf King

He Is Here

Chapter Two

Sorren Nightfell.

A name that sent shivers down the spine of anyone who heard it.

Dangerous.

Callous.

Emotionless.

That was Sorren Nighfell—the King of Werewolves.

In the Grimmoon Crownlands, leadership wasn’t given. It was taken, bled for, earned by tooth, claw, and death. The land was ruled by three terrifying Alphas, each unmatched in brutality.

Kyran Frostbane — Moonset Leader, ruthless strategist of the northern snows.

Rhett Nightclaw — Eclipsed Moon Leader, savage warrior of the Hollow Woods.

Sorren Nightfell — Grimmoon Crownlands’ Supreme King, the most powerful of them all.

Parents warned their children never to wander near Grimmoon’s borders. “Do not mingle with their people,” they said. “Do not look into their eyes. Do not linger in their shadows.” Because Grimmoon wolves were nightmares wrapped in human form—just like their king. Sorren was known across kingdoms for satisfying his darkest fantasies by capturing human princesses and turning them into slaves. Any kingdom he raided never recovered. Lands withered. People fled. Hope died.

And he never went alone. His brothers—Kyran and Rhett—followed him into every raid, every conquest, every blood-soaked victory.

Unfortunately, Blacklily had just become one of the kingdoms unfortunate enough to host Sorren as a guest… even though no one had invited him.

No one sensed his arrival. No scent. No aura. No whisper of danger.

But that was his style: silent, sudden, and suffocating.

The grand hall, decorated with silver lanterns in celebration of Princess Sarayah’s eighteenth birthday, went cold the moment he entered with his brothers. The music died mid-note. Conversations fell into frightened silence.

Those who recognized him whispered—not because of the scars or symbols he bore, but because of his unmistakable hair. Sorren’s long hair was a deep, unnatural purple, falling over one side of his face like a curtain. Only one half of his face was visible, revealing a sharp jaw, a cold cheekbone, and an expression that promised nothing but ruin.

Kyran’s silver-white hair gleamed like ice, while Rhett’s black mane swept his shoulders like a raven’s wing. The three brothers were unmistakable. Unavoidable. Unwelcome.

“Isn’t that the werewolf king?”

“What is he doing here?”

“Oh no… we’re doomed.”

King Cedric and Queen Mirabel exchanged a nervous glance before forcing confidence into their posture. They couldn’t show fear. Not on such a night. Not in front of their people.

King Cedric straightened his crown and began walking toward Sorren.

“Cedric…” The queen grabbed his wrist, her voice trembling. “Don’t.”

But he pulled away. He was the king of Blacklily. If he cowered, what message would that send? Weak. Vulnerable. Prey.

He stepped forward. “To what do I owe this visit?”

Sorren didn’t acknowledge him—not a look, not a blink. Instead, he tilted his chin toward Kyran.

Kyran stepped forward, smirking. “Don’t waste time with pleasantries. You know why we’re here. You can do this the soft way or the hard way, Cedric.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Cedric.

Only the werewolf brothers were bold—or foolish—enough to call a king by his name.

Princess Lucia, bold and fiery as always, shoved past the guards and positioned herself before Kyran.

“And how dare you address the King by his name?” she snapped. “You might be a tyrant with no manners, but you will not bring your barbaric disrespect here! He is old enough to be your father!”

The word echoed.

Father.

Father.

Father.

It slammed into Sorren’s mind like a hammer. His eyes—usually a haunting antique gold—shifted to a chilling white. The air tightened, thickened, as if the entire hall had been dropped into frozen water.

Kyran chuckled darkly. “You shouldn’t have said that, Princess.”

Before anyone could stop him, his hand struck Lucia across the face. The slap echoed like a whip. She stumbled, blood immediately welling on her lip.

“Lucia!” her mother cried.

Guards rushed toward her, catching her before she fell. Lucia’s cheek blazed red, but her eyes—full of fire—never dimmed. Even bleeding, she glared at Kyran.

Princess Sarayah, who had spent her life hidden from the world by tradition and royal decree, felt horror twist inside her chest. She had never witnessed such violence. Never seen blood drawn so casually.

“Why are you doing this?” she burst out, her soft voice trembling but loud enough to be heard. “Please… leave us alone.”

The room froze.

Slowly—terrifyingly—Sorren lifted his gaze and looked at her.

And Sarayah’s world stopped.

His cold white eyes locked onto hers, piercing through her like a blade. She felt the chill seep into her bones—deep, consuming, terrifying. It was like someone poured ice water into her veins. She tried to breathe, but his gaze held her in place like chains.

Sorren took one step forward, then another. Every footstep echoed like thunder. Conversations stopped. Even his brothers turned to watch.

“Who,” Sorren murmured, voice low, “is she?”

Kyran answered with a dark grin. “The youngest princess. The one turning eighteen today.”

Sorren’s gaze sharpened with unreadable interest. “Eighteen.”

Something in his expression flickered—dark, dangerous, curious—then vanished.

King Cedric immediately stepped in front of Sarayah, shielding her with his body. “Stay away from her.”

Sorren finally looked at Cedric for the first time. His lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. It was a warning.

“You know the rules of Grimmoon,” Sorren said quietly. “You know why I am here.”

Cedric swallowed. “You can’t have her.”

“Oh?” Sorren tilted his head. “Can’t I?”

He flicked his fingers. Rhett and Kyran immediately flanked him like shadows ready to tear the room apart.