Chapter 174: Echoes of the Rogue King

Hidden in the shadows of the trees surrounding the mausoleum, several figures watched the royal couple and their entourage with undisguised resentment. Their cold, hateful gazes remained fixed on Caleb and Lya—on this union between a powerful Alpha and a dragoness, a bond they saw as a living insult to their fallen cause.

They were outcasts. Exiled lycans. Survivors marked by the humiliation of their former leader’s crushing defeat—Rogue King Ethan. Now reduced to wandering in secrecy, their hatred had festered into a twisted obsession.

For months, their anger had fed off their thirst for vengeance, growing stronger with each passing day.

The whispers of the royal werewolves' arrival had reached them like an irresistible invitation. The sight of Caleb and Lya, standing there so arrogantly, so assured, felt like a deliberate provocation.

A snarl of contempt broke the tense silence.

"So this is the great royal couple…?" one of the lycans sneered, his voice dripping with disgust. "They think they're untouchable, protected by their status..."

Another rogue, his gaze burning with cruel amusement, scoffed.

"They have no idea what's coming."

His eyes slid toward the small boy nestled against the dragoness, then to Caleb, ever watchful.

A slow, twisted smile crept onto his lips as a dark idea took form.

"Losing their son will destroy them," he murmured, his voice thick with bitter satisfaction. "Their reign won’t survive that kind of pain."

His companions exchanged knowing smirks, their expressions dark with vengeful delight.

"They’ll pay dearly for what they did to us," he continued, his tone simmering with contained fury. "And they’ll finally understand what true suffering is."

From the darkness, the rogue lycans stood as silent predators, waiting.

Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Inside the mausoleum, oblivious to the danger lurking in the shadows, Caleb and Lya stepped in with Loric by their side.

A solemn silence settled over the space, amplified by the soft light filtering through the stained-glass windows, casting warm reflections on the stone walls.

Their gazes fell upon the tombs of Jack and Emma.

A deep emotion tightened in Lya’s chest as Caleb’s arm slid around her waist, his silent presence offering steady support.

Loric, sensing the weight of the moment despite his young age, watched his adoptive parents with quiet attentiveness. Then, with a touch of innocent reverence, he approached the tombstones and placed his small hands delicately over each engraved name, tracing the letters with his fingertips.

His voice, soft and barely above a whisper, echoed gently through the still air.

"Thank you for protecting her."

Moved by the boy’s gesture, Caleb wrapped a reassuring arm around Lya’s shoulders, and instantly, a wave of love surged through her. The atmosphere was heavy with emotion but peaceful, as if Jack and Emma’s souls were watching over them, soothed by their presence.

But that fragile peace was violently shattered when Lya finally gave the signal to leave the mausoleum.

“Let’s go, Loric,” she said softly, offering the child a gentle smile.

Eager to rejoin the others outside, Loric didn’t hesitate. With excitement, he dashed toward the exit, running ahead of his adoptive parents, not heeding their call for caution.

That fleeting moment of carelessness was exactly what the ambushing lycans had been waiting for.

From the shadows, two swift and menacing figures lunged forward, grabbing the child before he even realized what was happening. Loric let out a muffled cry, his eyes widening in terror as he desperately reached out toward Caleb and Lya.

“Daddy! Mommy!”

The heart-wrenching scream pierced the air, snapping the royal couple into action the moment they stepped outside.

Lya’s heart froze, paralyzed in horror, while Caleb launched forward, his blue eyes blazing with fury and fear.

“LORIC!” he roared, his voice a thunderous snarl of pure rage, ripping through the silence like a wild beast’s battle cry.

Not far away, Soren—who had been waiting with his entourage—whirled around at the sound, his instincts immediately on high alert. His expression hardened as realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

He had sensed it. He had known something was off.

Without hesitation, he signaled to his warriors to move, a sharp wave of his hand sending them into action as a cold apprehension settled in his chest.

“What’s going on over there?” he barked, his stride quickening as he made his way toward the mausoleum.

In front of the mausoleum, a dozen rebel lycans stood in a tight circle of hostility, forming a shield around their leader—who held Loric in a merciless grip.

The boy struggled weakly, his short breaths shallow, his terrified gaze searching frantically for his parents.

Across from them, Caleb, Lya, Drake, Soraya, and Lina stood motionless, but a storm of fury churned beneath their stillness, the kind of rage that didn’t explode—it erupted.

Inside Caleb’s mind, a deep, guttural growl rumbled through their mental link, vibrating with almost physical intensity.

"They dare lay a hand on our pup?!" Handres snarled, his voice vibrating with a lethal promise. "I want them dead, Caleb!"

Caleb’s burning blue eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening with barely contained wrath.

Across from him, the leader of the rogue lycans—a dark-furred male with eyes seething with resentment—wore a smug grin, his grip on Loric tightening, utterly unmoved by the child’s muffled sobs.

“Well, how does it feel, huh?” he sneered, relishing his victory. “This won’t bring our King back… but it will shatter you. And that, well—that’s satisfying enough for me.”

“Stop this immediately and release the child!” Soren’s voice rang out, sharp as a blade.

The Lycan King had arrived. His Alpha gaze struck like lightning, locking onto the rogue leader with an intensity that could have shattered lesser wolves. But the rebel didn’t flinch. Instead, he let out a low, mocking laugh, baring his fangs in defiance.

“Don’t take another step, you foolish Lycan King!” he spat, his arrogance tinged with desperation. “One wrong move, and this child will be the first to die.”

If he thought he could dictate the rules of this game, he was sorely mistaken.

A second voice cut through the air—cold, unyielding, and laced with an undeniable threat.

“Oh, trust me. The Lycan King is the least of your worries.”

It wasn’t a warning.

It was a death sentence.

Lya stepped forward, Caleb mirroring her movement, their strides perfectly synchronized. They didn’t need to raise their voices. Their fury didn’t manifest in reckless outbursts. No, it simmered in the silence, in the way the air itself seemed to shudder around them.

Then, without a single word, they surrendered to their true nature.

Caleb closed his eyes for a brief second—then let go. He relinquished control, allowing Handres to take over completely.

His body tensed, muscles coiling like steel cables, cracking, reshaping, reshattering and reforming in the span of a heartbeat. His human frame vanished, replaced by the towering figure of a giant wolf.

Handres—both terrifying and magnificent—stood before the rebels, a specter of death incarnate. His black fur, streaked with bluish glints, swallowed the light, rippling like a shifting sea of shadows. His silver eyes gleamed with a deadly intelligence, a predator who didn’t just hunt—he calculated, playing with his prey before the kill.

He was the ultimate Alpha, a force of nature whose mere presence crushed the will of weaker creatures.

And yet, even his transformation paled in comparison to Lya’s.

The air crackled around her, charged with an ancient, untamed power. Streaks of blue lightning snaked over her skin, and an unseen force coiled around her in a vortex of pure, raw energy.

Then, in a blinding flash, she shifted.

Lya, in her dragon form, rose like a titan among the tombstones.

Massive. Colossal. She blotted out the sky itself.

Her black scales, sleek and dense, looked as if they had been forged from the night itself, rippling with shifting hues of blue and silver. Each inhale and exhale of her steady, controlled breath sent a pulse of arcane power rolling through the air.

Her wings—vast, thunderous weapons of war—remained folded, restrained for now, lest a single beat flatten half the graveyard. Yet, even at rest, they shuddered with the promise of unleashed devastation.

And her eyes…

Her once-gentle, familiar azure gaze had transformed into two glacial flames, piercing through flesh, mind, and soul alike.

The rogue lycans—who, just moments ago, had been so cocky, so certain of their victory—now stood ashen-faced, trembling as they truly took in what they were facing.

Their leader, who had been so smugly triumphant, visibly faltered.

Too late.

Far, far too late.

A deep, reverberating growl rumbled through the earth beneath them, shaking the ground itself.

In perfect unison, Lya and Handres advanced.

Their prey had nowhere left to run.

A heavy silence fell over the cemetery.

Soren stood frozen, unable to mask his sheer shock and disbelief. He knew—logically, rationally—that Lya was a dragon. He had always known. But knowing was one thing. Seeing her like this, in her true, titanic form, was something else entirely.

She wasn’t just a dragon. She was a force of nature, an unstoppable storm, embodying a terrifying yet mesmerizing majesty.

His gaze traveled up her massive, jet-black body, lingering on the enormous, folded wings at her back and the glowing blue eyes that promised nothing but destruction to those who had dared lay a hand on her son.

Even his own warriors—hardened fighters who had seen countless battles—exchanged uneasy glances, as if wondering if they would make it out of this alive.

On the other side, the rebels’ arrogance vanished in an instant. Whatever confidence they had—whatever delusions of power—shattered the moment Lya’s shadow loomed over them.

The leader, who still clung to Loric as if the boy was his only lifeline, no longer looked like a triumphant predator.

He looked like a man seconds away from being devoured.

Lina tilted her head, a sharp, predatory grin stretching across her lips as she eyed the trembling rebels.

"Well, well…" she murmured, voice thick with amusement. "Looks like you finally understand just how deep in shit you really are."

Beside her, Soraya crossed her arms, shaking her head with mock disappointment.

"You really should’ve done your research before kidnapping the child of a royal dragoness… and the Alpha King of the werewolves, no less. Bad move. Really bad move."

Drake, having stepped forward, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if seriously considering their predicament.

"Bad move? Soraya, that’s an understatement." His lips curled into a smirk. "I’d call it straight-up suicide."

The rebel leader gritted his teeth, his grip on Loric tightening in one last, desperate show of defiance.

"It’s too late to scare us!" he spat, though his voice betrayed the tremor of fear creeping in.

Lina’s smirk only widened.

"Oh, trust me. It’s not too late."

Because Lya moved.

She didn’t spread her wings. She didn’t roar or charge forward.

She didn’t have to.

The air itself shifted as a pulse of raw, draconic power surged from her body—a cold, unyielding force, making the very atmosphere crackle with energy.

And in the blink of an eye—Loric was gone.

One moment, he was trapped in the leader’s grasp. The next, he vanished into a swirling mist of blue magic, slipping from their reach and reappearing safely in Soraya’s arms.

"What the—?!" the rebel choked, spinning around, his only leverage now gone.

Soraya wrapped her arms protectively around the trembling boy, who immediately clung to her, seeking the warmth and safety she radiated.

And then—Handres struck.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from the massive black wolf.

Then, in less than a heartbeat, he lunged.

No warning. No hesitation. No mercy.

One second, he was still.

The next—he was upon them.

The first rebel barely had time to react before he was slammed to the ground, Handres’ powerful fangs crushing his throat in a sickening snap.

The second tried to run.

Bad idea.

Handres turned with terrifying precision, his black fur glowing faintly with blue energy, and launched himself forward at inhuman speed. His jaws clamped down like a vice, shredding the man’s shoulder and collarbone in a single, merciless bite.

The rebels screamed.

"Kill them!" one of the survivors howled in desperation.

But no one moved.

Because behind them—

Lya finally unfolded her wings.

The movement was slow, deliberate, sending a sharp, whistling sound through the air.

The enormous shadow she cast over the last remaining rebels was enough to strip them of any foolish hope.

They knew.

They were going to die.

One of them—perhaps the only one with a shred of self-preservation left—dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, raising his hands in surrender.

His voice trembled as he looked up at the colossal dragon before him.

"P-Please…" he stammered, his entire body shaking.

"...have mercy."