The Villains Must Win-Chapter 192: Lyander Wolfhart 42

Henry’s camp was quiet.

He stood alone near the edge of the lake, the moon’s reflection shimmering across the water like the shattered pieces of a future he could no longer hold.

His thoughts were heavy. His chest, heavier.

Too many had left. Too many had chosen her. Not him.

"What am I going to do?" he whispered. "This doesn’t looking good for us . . ."

And in that moment of stillness, the betrayal struck. ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com

An arrow hissed past his face, grazing his cheek.

Then—

Chaos.

Figures rushed from the trees—wolves in human and beast form, their eyes gleaming with desperation.

Henry dodged the next blow, barely. His sword was half-drawn when three blades met it. He fell backward, rolled, came up bleeding.

"Talia sends her regards," one of them sneered.

But Henry only snarled. "Traitors!"

"You’re the traitor," said another, raising a serrated blade. "How dare you defy the moon goddess’s will!"

"She’s not the moon goddess!" Henry barked back.

Meanwhile, Lyander felt the shift in the wind before the first cry.

He had been patrolling the western perimeter with Liora—both of them alert, but neither expecting the betrayal to come from within.

Then it hit him. That metallic scent. That blood-wrapped roar.

Henry.

He didn’t hesitate.

"Liora," he growled, already shifting mid-run.

She rode astride his massive wolf form, her fingers tangled in his thick fur as they tore through the night—wind in her face, urgency in every pounding stride. Their only goal: to reach Henry before it was too late.

They reached the lakeside just as Henry was brought to his knees, one hand over a stab wound in his ribs, another trying to block the blow meant for his throat.

And Lyander collided with that blow, fangs tearing into the attacker’s arm.

Blood sprayed. Screams followed.

"TRAITORS!" Liora’s voice cracked the night like lightning. "You call this loyalty?!"

"They’re wolves without a spine," Lyander spat, knocking another assailant into a tree.

Henry coughed blood but rose. "They think they serve the Moon."

"No," Liora said sharply, her eyes blazing. "Talia isn’t the Moon Goddess incarnate. She’s just one of the many wolves favored by the goddess. Nothing more."

"Watch your mouth!" the wolf spat. "Or I’ll rip that tongue out, human!"

Lyander was on him the next instant, a blur of fury and fangs, tearing through his lungs before the threat could become action.

The ambushers faltered. Not from guilt. From calculation.

This wasn’t the clean kill they’d planned.

One of them shouted, "Fall back! We’ll say he fled—"

"No," another hissed. "We bring the head!"

They surged again, and this time, Lyander’s wolf went feral.

His claws found throats, his teeth found bone.

He moved like winter storm and firelight, his roar drowning out screams.

And Liora—she commanded the earth itself, coaxing the grass to shift beneath her with subtle precision, careful not to draw attention.

Henry, though wounded, held his ground.

The Moon hadn’t chosen him. But he would not die a coward.

"Rhett won’t thank you," he spat, driving his blade through a traitor’s heart. "He’ll gut you because you’re a traitor!"

"We don’t serve Rhett. We serve the goddess!" one muttered, before being silenced by Lyander’s paw through his chest.

When it ended, the grass was soaked red.

Half the attackers lay dead. The other half ran—wounded, confused, without glory.

Henry fell to one knee.

Liora caught him. "We need to get him to a healer. Fast!"

He looked up at the moon, and for a fleeting moment, thought only of one thing . . . his parents. Then his body collapsed, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Was this the end? Was he going to die now?

"Don’t, Henry! Don’t you dare die!"

Liora’s voice ripped through the haze clouding his mind, anchoring him to the edge of life and death. It was the only thing holding him there—until something else joined it.

A warm sensation, like a breeze kissed with spring, drifted into his chest. It wasn’t touch, not exactly. It was something deeper. Something alive.

It felt like magic.

Unfamiliar. Strange. But gentle—like the sun breaking through storm clouds. And for reasons he couldn’t understand, it kept his heart beating.

Henry was rushed inside the pack house, bloodied, barely clinging to life. Warriors cleared the halls as his body was carried in, blood staining the floor with every step.

The healers moved quickly, working in unison—binding wounds, whispering incantations, pouring energy into him with glowing hands.

But his injuries were too deep, too unnatural. Something had torn through him, not just physically, but spiritually.

When the healers began to falter, the shamans were summoned. Cloaked in ancient robes, they circled his bed with herbs and smoke, chanting in the old tongue. Their power was deeper, older . . . but even they couldn’t pull him back fully.

What had happened to Henry was kept quiet. Only the highest-ranking wolves knew the truth: the young Alpha’s life hung by a thread.

Whispers filled the corridors—some saying he’d never wake again, others suggesting the unthinkable.

"Offer him to Rhett," one of the elder betas said in a tense meeting. "Let Talia heal him. If she truly is the Moon Goddess’s chosen, she won’t let him die."

But Lyander stood firm, eyes burning with fury. "You think Rhett would accept that? He’d sooner kill Henry himself than let his Luna save him. And Henry would never want that. He would rather die than surrender to Rhett. We don’t surrender."

Despite his words, even Lyander knew the pack was unraveling. So he did what Henry would’ve done—he moved. He rallied the elders, met with alphas and betas of the allied packs, giving bold reassurances that Henry was recovering, that he would lead them again soon.

But it was a lie.

While he was gone, the halls of the pack house fell silent again. And Liora—who had remained quiet all this time—slipped into Henry’s room.

No one stopped her.

She stood over him, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. His skin was pale. His breath weak.

Something in her cracked.

She no longer cared about hiding, about the danger of being discovered. The secrecy, the politics, the posturing—they meant nothing.

Keeping him alive meant everything, or she would fail this game.

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