The Substitute Hostage

The Werewolf King

The woman who stood before her in the mirror was unrecognisable, especially the reflection of her irises. The shining purple that was swirling around and fighting with the pureblooded red her eyes used to be was distasteful. The blue puffy dress with beautiful artistic designs at the bottom didn't fit her. Her arms and shoulders were exposed and it pushed her ample bosom up exposing them in a lewd way. If her mother saw her now, she would stake her through the heart while performing that shrill scream she did from time to time. Villard couldn't see a semblance of herself even staring back at her with her straight silver hair flowing down to her back. She looked like an Alvarion. This was her role now. To be an Alvarion fake. 

 Villard reached forward and touched the mirror's surface and trailed her fingers down like she was touching her features. She wanted to reach through the glass and choke whoever this was because it wasn't her. It looked too much like those filthy things. Walking and flaunting themselves in this very castle, as if they owned it. Villard remained stationary regardless of the haunting desire in her soul to see blood spilt on every white surface in her vicinity. She had to pay prices for accepting this deed and anger wasn't needed, yet. She knew her mother was rolling over and cursing her in that makeshift grave she made to bury her in. Her bones must be rotting away now in that very same place where she was unfed, thirsty and broken. Villard clenched her fingers into a fist and stepped back from the mirror. She schooled her expression, like a true puppet on strings and forced a smile to her lips but she failed. Her menacing face stared back at her. 

"Do you think he's going to s*******r us all?" came hushed voices from the maids outside the room. They all clattered out in fear when the announcement went up into the air. She understood their panic. She had never met a man-beast before but she was sure they were nothing pretty. Her mother told her legends of their cruelty, their bloodthirsty nature and how they would slice an Elf's head clean off for fun. 

They were pretty much savages compared to the prim and proper elves who fainted at the sight of blood. They barely touched others if it does not deem them to. They never fought with their bare hands. That was for magic-inept scorns like werewolves. 

Villard could feel the tension in the castle, embedded in the offensive magic that was circling around the castle. The guards that were all over the palace were a testimony to the caution they were taking if anything went wrong with their deceptive plans.

Elves and Werewolves were complete opposites in every fathomable way so how did this conclusion even come to be? 

Villard moved her hands from the mirror and stepped back to rest her fingers on a small mahogany table that stood in the middle of the room next to a lone chair.  

Villard was not shaken by the news of the wolves arrival even though she was walking straight into their den with her own two feet. She wasn't scared of some wolves. They were the least of her concerns. What she was scared of was her own kind. It wasn't the wolves that were willingly voiding a contract that must have been done in faith but the elves. 

Her mother would thread her hands through her hair in that dark place when she wasn't in hysteria and tell her stories about the various species. Villard had listened intently and she never forgot how her mother looked her in the eye and said,

"Werewolves are violent but honest creatures, sweetheart but Elves are snakes, especially those backstabbing Alvarians".

Vilard brushed her fingers down the wood of the table leaving a trail of white flowing magic inside of it. Her fake purple eyes gleamed slightly.

"I'm so glad the princess refused to go but I'm still scared. What if he figures it out the moment he sees that criminal?" 

"Shut up, what can we do? We're just maids!"

A loud horn vibrated through the air tearing through the magic barrier that was tightly wrapped around the castle like it was paper. Villard tensed when a coil of danger trailed down her back like a claw pierced through her flesh. She clutched the end of the table. The atmosphere plummeted and the horn permeated, insisted and informed. They were here and they came to take. An oppressive presence intruded with the sound of galloping hooves and it crushed the looming enchantment of light inside the castle too, like a suppressing immune entity now prescinded over the land.

Villard straightened her back and turned to walk to the window, moving the large blue dress that covered her silver-coloured heels. She was high up in a small room in the castle. The height could kill any wolf if they ever fell from it. She reached in front of her with her bloodless fingers and touched the wall. There was only one window on the right side of the room and it was slightly open. Villard stared down at it and drew in a breath when she saw men covered in fur, a lot of beast's fur marching through the palace's inner gate. She wouldn't dare to count how many. It was like they were raiding the Elvalian territory for the King's throne. This was an army, not an escort team.

A large man slowly trudged on a white horse in front of them all. He sat leisurely at the top of it like it wasn't an enemy homeland he was riding into. His presence felt haunting but it drew her attention like she was on a hook. She could barely his face but his silhouette was exuding authority, a man that ruled with his fist. His long black hair flowed behind him like dark matter in the wind. Villard could barely describe it. Dominating. A true leader.

A werewolf.

Villard's lips settled into a thin line. 

The wolf came to a stop at an elf's feet. The elf took a step back then bowed. From her awkward angle, Villard could feel the hostility secreting from both parties as more Elves lined up behind the other to receive them. The wolf stared down at the elf like he was an ant he could just crush under his feet. Villard knew he could if he so desired to. There was a reason why Elves and Werewolves were at such odds but why Elves dare not cross the path of a wolf. They were immune to magic and gifted in the prowess of combat. They could singlehandedly m******e an Elf army that was heavily reliant on magic instantly.

The wolf slowly unmounted his horse and his feet slapped the ground. He moved forward elegantly like he was walking on the very air they breathed with his head high but his hands clenched into fists. He suddenly came to a stop and turned his head and looked up in her direction. Villard clutched the window sile hard digging her nails into it. She stared back into colourless eyes from distance so far but yet too close. 

Another horn came ripped through the air and the Elvalian King stepped out into the majestic clearing. There wasn't an ounce of fear in his movements and his shining white garments fluttered around him like wings.

Even Villard could hear his grating voice from where she was.

"Welcomes my new friends! Tell me, isn't a great day to have a wedding?"