The Villains Must Win-Chapter 193: Lyander Wolfhart 43

Liora placed her hands over his heart and summoned her power. Earth stirred around them. The wind thickened. Life responded.

Roots curled beneath the floorboards. The scent of soil filled the air. And from her palms, warmth flowed into Henry—deep, ancient magic drawn not from rage or duty, but from something else.

Something real and magical.

She didn’t stop until his breathing steadied. Until his color returned. Until she felt the faintest flicker of strength reawaken in him.

Only then did she let herself breathe, whispering to him with a small, warm smile, "I won’t let you die. We still have a war to win."

Henry was barely conscious, his breaths shallow as his blood-soaked body lay motionless on the makeshift cot. The pain had dulled into a strange warmth, and in the haze between sleep and death, he thought it was all just a dream. His eyes fluttered closed as a soft light enveloped him—warm, gentle, and undeniably real.

Liora stepped back, her hands trembling as the last of the healing spell faded from her fingertips. The energy had cost her dearly. Her legs were weak, her spirit nearly drained, and yet she stood tall.

Then she felt it.

The shift in the air.

A storm of footsteps thundered toward the cabin. The shamans had felt it. Not just them—the entire forest seemed to pulse with the residue of her magic. Even other nymphs would have sensed it. There was no hiding what she’d done.

There was no going back now.

The door burst open with a crash.

"I knew something was wrong with you!" an elder barked, his voice like a whip crack across the room. He strode in with the shamans at his heels, their faces pale with shock.

"You’re a sprite, aren’t you?" the elder growled, his accusing finger pointing directly at her.

More werewolves poured in—Alphas and Betas from every pack. Their eyes glowed with suspicion and hunger, nostrils flaring at the scent of raw nature magic still lingering around Liora’s fragile form.

Liora lifted her chin, refusing to flinch. "I’m a nymph," she said clearly. "And you’re welcome. I just saved your Alpha’s life."

The room buzzed with tension. One of the shamans stepped forward, voice laced with disdain. "A nymph," he repeated coldly. "Your kind don’t belong here. You certainly don’t heal werewolves. What game are you playing?"

Nymphs were mysterious, elusive beings rarely seen by others. When they did reveal themselves, it was almost never out of kindness.

Stories told of their playful, sometimes dangerous mischief—leading travelers astray, tricking shamans, or stealing offerings left for forest spirits.

They were creatures of whimsy and wild nature, not known for compassion or healing. Which made Liora’s act all the more shocking and suspicious.

She hadn’t come to play games or cause trouble—she had saved Henry’s life. And that defied everything the werewolves thought they knew about her kind.

More wolves entered, drawn by the commotion, their stares locking onto her like predators circling prey. The essence of her power still shimmered faintly around her—beautiful, wild, and unmistakably unnatural.

Liora’s heartbeat thundered in her ears.

This is bad.

She was exhausted, dangerously so. She wouldn’t be able to outrun them—not the wolves, and definitely not the shamans who could bind her with a word. Her legs could barely hold her and any minute she would turned into a ball of deflated energy.

But she didn’t beg. She didn’t plead. She only stood, bracing herself.

If this was the end, so be it. At least, she saved Henry’s life and made sure that Lyander was there to protect him if Rhett came knocking on his pack.

"A nymph’s a powerful creature," one of the wolves whispered with a greedy grin. "More so if used as an ingredient."

Another voice, darker and more guttural, chimed in. "Some say if we drink her blood and eat her flesh, we’ll become invisible. Unstoppable."

A shiver ran through the crowd.

Eyes gleamed. Jaws clenched. The pack began to advance—slow, calculated, hungry.

Liora’s breath caught in her throat.

Then—

"Liora is MINE!" a voice roared.

The temperature dropped. The growl was feral, unrelenting. The crowd parted instinctively.

In a blur of motion, Lyander appeared, stepping in front of her. His eyes blazed with fury, claws already out. He stood like a wall between Liora and the mob, muscles taut with rage. fгeewebnovёl.com

"Touch her," he snarled, "and you’re dead."

Gasps echoed through the room. Some wolves halted. Others hesitated, confused by the defiance of one of their own.

"What are you saying, Lyander?!" one of the Alphas barked. "She’s our answer! If we devour her power, we could destroy Rhett and end the war!"

"No," Lyander snapped. "You fools. Look at her. She saved Henry’s life. She didn’t owe us anything—she could’ve let him die. But she risked herself. Burned her spirit to bring him back."

He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping the room. "She’s not our enemy. She’s been our ally since the beginning. You were just too blind to see it."

Silence fell. All eyes went to Liora, who stood pale and swaying but with an undeniable glow of power still clinging to her skin like dew on petals.

Lyander stepped closer to her and gently reached for her arm. "I won’t let anyone hurt her," he said, voice quieter now but still edged with steel. "Not while I still breathe."

The tension crackled in the air.

Liora looked over at him, a quiet ache blooming in her chest. She had expected loathing—reproach for keeping her identity a secret, for hiding what she truly was. But Lyander didn’t ask questions. He didn’t throw accusations or cast judgmental glances her way.

Instead, he stood protectively in front of her, shielding her from the wrath of his own kind. He had defended her—not with words, but with his presence, his stance, and his willingness to risk everything.

No hesitation. No fear. Just unspoken loyalty. And that, more than anything, touched her deeply.

The pack, for the first time in a long while, hesitated. Not because of fear—but because Lyander’s conviction stirred something they didn’t expect.

Doubt.

And in the heart of that silence, Liora finally let herself breathe.

As the last thread of magic left her fingertips, Liora crumbled to the floor, her vision spinning into stars. The world around her dimmed, and before anyone could react, her body dissolved into radiant wisps of light.

She shimmered—then vanished, leaving behind only a soft trail of glittering energy that lingered like morning mist.

She was drifting.

Weightless, timeless, and free.

Liora felt like a feather caught on a summer breeze, spinning gently through the invisible. Her senses dulled, her thoughts scattered like petals in the wind.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she expected the usual: a harsh scolding, perhaps a flying slipper, and the ever-annoying voice of the bunny spirit who served as her game supervisor.

She’d be told she botched the mission, that healing a werewolf was reckless, that she had sacrifice her life again. Again.

But none of that came.

Instead, when her awareness slowly returned, she felt cool moisture wrapping around her—a gentle current, not air but water. Her essence pulsed softly, still in its energy form, as her surroundings gradually came into focus.

Not a field. Not a forest. Not even a spirit realm.

A lagoon.

She hovered just above the surface of the most breathtaking place she had ever seen.

The lagoon glowed faintly beneath a star-filled sky, its waters a mirror of the heavens above. Lilypads shimmered with bioluminescent petals, and soft waves kissed the stone edges of the shore.

The air smelled like moonlight and night-blooming flowers. Trees framed the clearing with silvery leaves, and fireflies floated lazily among their branches.

She blinked—or at least, the energy equivalent of it.

Was she dreaming?

Her glowing orb-like form hovered uncertainly for a moment before dipping gently into the cool, welcoming waters.

The contact grounded her. Her form pulsed, responding instinctively to the nature surrounding her, drinking it in. This place . . . it wasn’t just beautiful. It was safe.

"You awake?" came a voice—low, familiar, and roughened at the edges like a stone smoothed by time.

Liora turned, startled, and found Lyander sitting beneath one of the trees, his broad back resting against its trunk.

Of course he was shirtless. His bare chest gleamed faintly under the moonlight, damp from a recent swim or perhaps just the humid night air.

A few shallow scars traced his skin—faint reminders of battles long past. But the deep one slashed across his chest, the mark left by his mate, was the most haunting.

It had once been raw and angry, a wound that refused to heal. Now, it was finally beginning to fade, as if time—or something else—was slowly washing away the pain that came with it.

Lyander’s expression, however, was calm—watching her with something between relief and curiosity.

"You’ve been asleep for a week," he added, voice quieter now.

Liora’s glow flared in surprise. "A week?!"

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