The Silver Wolf's Last Breath

I was nailed to a shattered altar.

Not metaphorically.

Real nails—silver spikes driven through my shoulder blades, pinning my bones in place so thoroughly I couldn't even self-destruct.

Thousands of mages formed ritual circles around me. Elven bowstrings sang in unison, their arrows not meant to kill, but to pin me down like a bleeding vessel.

When the vampires' forbidden ritual activated, I heard the sound of my own blood being drained.

Like a river flowing backward.

"Bleed him dry," someone laughed outside the formation. "Lord Viktor wants an empty shell to terrorize the wolf packs."

They took my left arm first.

Clean cut. The stump was immediately sealed—no mercy of a quick death for me.

Then my right leg. A bone hammer, crushing it section by section.

A ninth-tier werewolf's bones are harder than steel. Breaking them requires patience—and they had all the patience in the world for torturing me.

I watched someone collect the bone fragments in a silver box, like gathering trophies.

"Keep them as souvenirs," the elven leader said coldly.

I didn't howl.

Werewolf pride wouldn't let me turn pain into begging.

Besides, this was always meant to happen—blood contracts can only end with "sacrifice."

As long as I died thoroughly enough, the shackles would break, and the Silver Wolf King's ancient power would awaken in my corpse.

That was the only hope I'd clung to all these years.

When they drained the last drop of blood, my vision went black.

My body's weight left me, consciousness dragged into a bottomless abyss.

Only the crisp sound of cracking bones remained, like chains snapping link by link.

Just as I lost the last spark of life—

Crack.

Not bone.

Something deeper, colder—a binding that had been severed.

The sound was crisp, like metal tearing apart in the depths of my soul.

I understood. That was the core clause of the blood contract: to die for one's destined mate.

I'd once thought "destined" meant inescapable, that I had to love her, protect her, bear everything for her.

But when that chain snapped, I realized for the first time—I'd fulfilled a contract, not love.

Serena's face flashed through the darkness.

Crown, red lips, eyes that looked down on everything.

She'd once leaned against my chest and said, "You're my only shield." She'd also coldly declared in court, "Werewolves are nothing but tools."

In that moment, my last trace of old affection for her died like a flame doused with ice water.

I didn't hate her.

Hatred would mean I still cared.

I simply decided—from now on, her life, death, glory, and disgrace had nothing to do with me.

Darkness churned, and the next second, my consciousness was yanked by blinding blood-red light—like someone dragging me from the abyss and shoving me into another reality.

The magnificent vampire castle.

The Blood Moon Festival in full swing.

The dome was encrusted with obsidian and precious metals, the music ostentatious, the wine sickly sweet.

Purebloods raised their glasses in laughter, treating others' fresh blood as toast.

I "saw" it all, yet couldn't make a sound.

Like a soul forced to observe.

Serena sat on her throne, her gown spread out like a blooming flower.

Her fingertips traced her goblet filled with warm human blood.

She listened to flattery, naturally enjoying every prostrating gaze.

Viktor stood at her right, his cloak immaculate, his smile gentle as a blade hidden in sleeves.

Since Viktor's return to the vampire court, Serena had barely spared me a glance.

Of course. Viktor was a vampire after all, Serena's childhood friend—trust came naturally.

"Your Majesty," he raised his glass with a light sigh, "Caleb is absent again. Such a grand celebration, yet he's always missing at crucial moments. Don't you think... he's building his own power base?"

My name dripped from his lips with deliberate contempt. He knew damn well I was fighting the elves for the vampire cause, but that didn't matter to him.

Serena looked up, lips curling.

"Him?" She sounded amused. "Just a dog. No matter how strong, he's merely a weapon in my hand. Weapons shouldn't have ambition."

Viktor leaned in conspiratorially: "There are plenty of wolves. If he won't obey, we'll just replace him."

The purebloods below erupted in laughter, like mocking a mud beast that had crawled into their banquet hall.

I watched coldly.

So the kingdom I'd bled to protect was just their birthright.

So in her eyes, I was nothing but a dog.

Laugh away.

BANG—!

The doors exploded open, cold wind rushing in with the stench of blood.

Music cut off abruptly, candle flames flickering in unison.

A wolf scout tumbled in, half his body shredded, abdomen split open.

He dragged himself forward with his remaining arm, clutching a broken flagpole. The banner was torn and blackened, soaked in blood—the Wolf Guard battle standard.

My flag.

He crawled to the center, throat sounding like it was stuffed with broken glass, tears and blood streaming down together.

"Commander... Lord Caleb..." his voice was so hoarse it barely formed words, "died in battle!"

After brief silence came even louder laughter.

The nobles exchanged glances like watching a cheap play.

Viktor shook his head with theatrical regret: "Werewolves truly are crude. To get Her Majesty's attention, they'd even joke about their commander's death."

Serena didn't even stand. She looked at the bloodied flag like it was a dirty rag.

"You're saying he's dead?" She rose slowly, her crown gleaming coldly under the blood moon. "Caleb is a ninth-tier werewolf, invulnerable to blades and bullets. How could he die in battle?"

The scout trembled, voice breaking: "It's true... forbidden blood drain, bones were—"

"Silence." Serena descended the steps, her heels clicking on marble like blade points. "He's just playing dead for attention."

She approached the bloody flag, looking down like judging defective tribute.

"Tell him to stop pretending," her voice wasn't loud but commanded the entire hall. "Get back here immediately and kneel for forgiveness."

Then she lifted her foot.

Her sharp stiletto came down hard on the center of the banner—on the darkest bloodstain.

My blood.

One stomp, then another. Like grinding the wolf clan's faith into dust. Like treating years of my endurance and sacrifice as a joke.

"See clearly," Serena raised her head, eyes cruel. "In my presence, wolves belong on their bellies."

My soul felt nothing.

True pain didn't come from her foot, but from having once believed she would understand.

Now I only found it laughable—that I'd ever believed she would understand.

The scout's eyes burned red.

His fingers clawed at the carpet, nails breaking, blood seeping between them.

"You're stepping on the king's blood..." A beast-like whimper rolled from his throat. "He took the blow for you—"

Viktor stepped forward with a gentle smile: "Took a blow for Her Majesty? A wolf dares speak of loyalty? You were born to be sacrificed for purebloods."

Laughter exploded again.

That laughter snapped the scout's last nerve.

He roared and lunged at Serena, his broken body like a dying torch.

He never reached her.

Guard spears pierced his chest from both sides, pinning him to the ground.

Viktor flicked his fingers, blood magic descended, and the scout's head exploded instantly, blood mist splattering the white carpet.

The white carpet turned red, celebration perfume overwhelmed by metallic sweetness.

The nobles frowned but quickly resumed smiling, as if they'd merely stepped on a bug.

The scout wasn't quite dead, his remaining throat vibrating out a final curse, using his life to nail these words into the palace:

"You parasites... will pay for your arrogance! The king's blood... will not be spilled in vain!"

The voice died in the pool of blood.

Serena stepped back half a pace, frowning in distaste, then returned to her throne and raised her glass again.

"Continue," she said flatly. "Don't let one wolf's tantrum ruin the Blood Moon's mood."

Music was forcibly resumed, like draping silk over carnage.

But the wind didn't stop.

The gale outside suddenly intensified, as if something approached through the night. Candle flames twisted, blood moon reflections on stained glass trembling slightly.

A guard stumbled into the hall, face pale as death, dropping to one knee with a shaking voice:

"Your Majesty... the surviving escort has returned from the front."

Serena was irritated: "What now?"

The guard swallowed hard: "They... brought back a black steel coffin. Inside... Commander Caleb's remains."

The hall's laughter died instantly.

Viktor's eyes flashed shadow, but he quickly adopted his gentle tone: "Your Majesty, this is obviously more of his theatrics. Using a coffin to force your hand."

Serena sneered, blood in her goblet catching the light.

"Fine." She rose, cloak sweeping dramatically, as if to personally crush the lie. "I'll expose him myself."

Her heels echoed through the corridors like a countdown.

I "followed" her, coldly observing.

In my soul's depths, I heard another deeper crack—like a door opening.

The Silver Wolf King's power was returning to me.

The black steel coffin sat in the castle's outer courtyard, cold mist rising from it, frost forming on the ground.

The escort knelt in a row like souls drained of life.

Serena approached the coffin, palm pressed against the sealing runes.

"Open it."

Runes flared, the coffin groaning. The lid slowly slid open, bone-piercing cold rushing out, carrying scents of blood and metal.

Serena kept laughing, laughing down from her height.

"Caleb," she whispered like granting charity, "I've seen enough of your performance."

The lid opened completely.

My broken body lay quietly inside—limbs missing, chest cavity split open, bones shattered like crumpled porcelain. Blood long drained, leaving only cold emptiness and jagged edges, horrifying to behold.

Serena's smile finally froze.