Chapter 89: Well this is just f*cking great

Sebastian POV

The dungeon smells like iron, rot, and wet stone. A scent that settles into the lungs and lingers there long after leaving.

And tonight, it feels almost comforting, like stepping into a place where truth is stripped down to bone and lies have nowhere left to hide.

Torches burn low along the walls, their flames bending in restless drafts that slither through the corridor like unseen fingers, casting long shadows that stretch and twitch across the floor as if eager to witness what is about to unfold.

The guards drag the servant between them, their boots scraping harshly against the stone as his heels leave smeared streaks of blood across the floor, his head lolling forward from where Luther’s earlier strike cracked bone and rattled sense loose inside his skull.

He groans as they force him into the iron chair at the center of the chamber, chains rattling as wrists are bound tight against thick metal rings hammered into place decades ago.

They were forged in a time when mercy was considered weakness and pain was treated as language.

I step forward slowly, letting my boots echo against stone with deliberate weight, each step measured, controlled, designed to let fear build before a single word is spoken.

The servant blinks through swollen eyes, struggling to focus as blood trickles down his temple in slow, sticky lines that catch the torchlight like wet paint.

“Wake him fully,” I order.

Luther does not hesitate.

He steps forward and drives his fist hard into the man’s ribs, the crack of impact echoing off the walls like thunder trapped underground.

The servant jerks violently against his restraints as air explodes from his lungs in a choking gasp.

Pain sharpens awareness faster than kindness ever could.

The servant wheezes, coughing wetly as consciousness claws its way back into place, his eyes snapping open wide enough to show whites rimmed with terror.

Recognition hits him like a falling blade.

“M-my King,” he rasps, voice shredded raw.

I do not respond.

Instead, I circle him slowly, like a predator testing the edge of prey too stubborn to fall quietly, letting silence stretch until it tightens around his throat harder than the chains binding his wrists.

“You ran at my Queen with steel in your hand,” I say at last, voice low and even, carrying the quiet weight of restrained violence. “You spoke of prophecy as if it were law written into the marrow of the world.”

He swallows hard, throat bobbing against the smear of blood staining his collar.

“I was saving us,” he croaks. “Saving everyone.”

The words earn him my fist.

I strike without warning, my knuckles slamming into his jaw with bone-splitting force that snaps his head sideways and sprays blood across the floor in a violent arc. Bright red splashed against ancient stone already stained with the memory of countless interrogations.

His body jerks violently, chains rattling as the impact reverberates through muscle and bone, and for a moment he slumps forward, barely conscious again.

Lycan blood runs strong through my veins, and restraint has never been my strongest virtue when fury coils tight beneath skin.

“Saving us,” I repeat, voice quieter now, colder. “By murdering your Queen in front of my court.”

He coughs again, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth as damaged tissue begins the slow, unnatural knitting that marks our kind and those who serve us long enough to share diluted strength.

“Prophecy,” he whispers again, desperation clawing into his tone like nails scratching wood. “It was written long before any of us were born.”

Luther shifts beside me, arms folded tight across his chest as he watches the servant’s healing flesh with calculated patience.

I step closer, gripping the man’s jaw hard enough to force his head upright despite broken bone and swelling flesh, holding his gaze in place like pinning an insect beneath glass.

“Tell me everything,” I say quietly. “Or I will tear you apart piece by piece until truth falls from your mouth whether you wish it to or not.”

His breathing quickens, shallow and panicked, but fear does not silence him.

It loosens him.

“I served her,” he blurts suddenly. “Before this castle. Before this life.”

The words catch my attention like a blade glinting in shadow.

“Her,” I repeat.

“A witch,” he whispers.

The word drips into the chamber like poison spilled into water, spreading slowly but thoroughly into every crack and crevice of thought.

Luther stands still beside me.

“A name,” I demand.

His lips tremble, hesitation flickering like a candle about to die.

I answer that hesitation with another strike, fist crashing into his ribs with enough force to crack bone and send him gasping into a scream that echoes brutally through the chamber.

“Name,” I repeat.

“Morvella,” he gasps. “Her name was Morvella.”

The sound settles into my thoughts like a stone dropped into deep water.

Morvella.

An old name.

One whispered decades ago in stories meant to be dismissed as madness. There’s no way he served her. She’s long gone.. has been for decades.

“You’re lying. She’s dead. Give me the name,” I order.

He coughs again, breath rattling through healing lungs as blood drips from split lips and shattered teeth, his body struggling to repair what my fists continue to destroy faster than nature intended.

“I swear it was her. Morvella. She used magic to keep her alive. And.. S-She kept books,” he says hoarsely. “Ancient ones. Older than kingdoms. She searched for signs. For bloodlines.”

My mind sharpens.

“Signs of what,” I press.

He hesitates again.

Luther moves this time, stepping forward and driving his elbow down hard into the servant’s shoulder with enough force to dislocate the joint in a sickening snap, and the man screams loud enough to rattle the torches along the wall.

“Of the hybrid,” he shrieks.

The word lands heavier this time.

No longer rumor.

No longer fear whispered in shadows.

Now it carries history.

“She said it was written long ago,” he continues, voice trembling violently now. “Back when the first king began losing his mind.”

Images from half-forgotten history crawl into memory like long-buried bones rising through soil.

The First King.

A name carved into legend and warning alike.

“What about him,” I demand.

The servant shudders violently against his restraints, breath hitching as his body struggles to keep pace with the relentless destruction forced upon it.

“He wanted power beyond death,” he gasps. “Wanted strength no enemy could defeat. He tried to create a child unlike any before.”

A chill slips beneath my skin despite the heat of rage simmering inside my veins.

“A hybrid,” I say quietly.

He nods weakly.

“Yes. Wolf and vampire. Something forbidden. But he failed. Every attempt ended in death or madness.”

The torches flicker harder now, as if the air itself reacts to the weight of what is being uncovered.

“And the prophecy,” I press. “Speak it.”

His voice lowers, trembling with a mix of terror and reverence that churns my stomach with growing dread.

“She found it in an ancient book,” he whispers. “Hidden deep beneath layers of ink and time. It said that one day, when the bloodlines crossed correctly, a true hybrid would be born. A descendant of the first king.”

His gaze lifts toward me, wild and glassy with fear.

“And that hybrid,” he continues shakily, “would bring the end.”

Silence settles thick as mud around us.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just heavy enough to suffocate reason.

I strike him again, harder this time, sending his head snapping backward against iron with a sharp crack that leaves blood splattered across the wall behind him.

“End how,” I snarl.

“I don’t know!” he screams.

The words tear free like flesh ripping from bone.

“Kingdoms would fall. Thrones would burn. Bloodlines would die.” He cries.

My chest tightens, fury twisting into something colder, sharper, more dangerous than rage alone.

“And the witch,” I demand. “What did she want with this prophecy.”

The servant trembles violently now, sweat mixing with blood as his body fights desperately to remain conscious.

“She never really told me, but I heard her talking about it,” he whispers. “Years. Decades. Watching bloodlines. Searching for signs.”

My pulse pounds harder.

“Why?” I growl. I’m tired of him beating around the bush. It’s pssing me off.

“For the hybrid. A hybrid is the most powerful being on the earth.” he cries.

The answer echoes off stone walls like a death sentence spoken aloud.

“And when she found one,” I push, voice dropping into lethal quiet, “what then.”

His lips shake violently.

“She believed the hybrid would bring the end, so she wanted to find it an eliminate it,” he whispers.

The words crawl beneath my skin like ice.

“Eliminate,” I repeat.

His eyes widen, terror swallowing whatever fragments of sanity remain.

“And The First King,” he gasps. “The most powerful ruler to ever live. She said his death was not final. That with the right blood, the right ritual, he could rise again.”

My stomach turns cold.

“And he would end the world alongside his descendants ,” the servant continues, voice cracking under the crushing weight of his own confession. “Not just kingdoms. Not just thrones. Everything.”

Silence follows.

Not empty.

Heavy.

Alive with implication.

I stare at him, blood dripping slowly from my knuckles onto stone below, the steady rhythm sounding like a ticking clock counting down toward something inevitable.

Above us, somewhere far beyond stone and shadow, Amara breathes beneath the same roof that now feels thinner than it should.

More fragile.

More vulnerable.

The servant sobs weakly, body trembling as healing flesh struggles to keep pace with damage inflicted faster than nature allows.

“I was protecting us,” he whispers again. “Stopping it before it began.”

I study him in silence, weighing truth against madness, history against fear, prophecy against flesh-and-blood reality.

Then I step back, wiping blood from my knuckles slowly against a cloth offered by Luther.

“Did you help get the Queen kidnapped?”

He looks at me with fear in his eyes. “I knew she was the one. The witch kept visiting me in my dreams. She told me to.”

“Keep him alive,” I order quietly. “Break him again if needed. I want every name, every location, every whisper that witch ever spoke about my mate.”

Luther nods once, expression carved from cold resolve.

“As you command, my King.”

I turn toward the stairs leading back to the surface, torchlight stretching my shadow long across the dungeon floor like a dark omen clawing toward the future.

Well this is just fcking great.