The Villains Must Win
Chapter 181: Lyander Wolfhart 31

Chapter 181: Lyander Wolfhart 31

"You okay?" Liora asked, stepping into the breeze.

"Yeah . . . just thinking about the war. There’s no going back now."

They stood in silence, the wind tugging at their clothes. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.

The campfire had long since burned low, its once-golden light reduced to a faint red shimmer of coals. Most of the camp had fallen asleep, scattered in tents and resting under the sheltering arms of the forest.

The distant howls of night patrols echoed faintly through the trees, but here, at the edge of the overlook where pine needles softened the earth, the world felt still.

Liora sat with her knees pulled close, the rough wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders doing little to keep out the cold.

Beside her, Lyander sat shirtless, steam rising from his skin where sweat still clung to his body after a late-night training session.

She swallowed hard—none of the thirsty werewolves in her steamy otome games had prepared her for this. Those pixelated alphas always came with smirks and six-packs, not bloodstained scars and haunted eyes. This was real, raw, and far more terrifying than any fantasy she’d ever tapped through.

The air between them was quiet—comfortable, if slightly taut.

She watched him in profile for a long time, her eyes tracing the strong lines of his jaw, the shadow beneath his cheekbones, the way his hair fell damp over his brow. But mostly, her gaze lingered on the scar.

It ran from just beneath his collarbone, jagged and raised, curling faintly down toward his ribs like lightning caught in skin. Not new, but not ancient either. Faintly silvered now, but still angry-looking under moonlight.

She tilted her head, her lips curling with mischief. "Alright, you going to tell me how you got that thing, or do I have to come up with something absurd and romantic to fill in the blanks?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just continued to look out over the treetops, his expression unreadable.

Liora nudged his arm with her elbow. "Come on. Let me guess . . . sword duel with a jealous Alpha? Secret mission to rescue a noble’s daughter? Oh—wait—let me see, you were protecting a puppy from a burning tree."

Still no answer.

She leaned closer, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. "You’re just being dramatic now, aren’t you?"

At that, he huffed a short breath—part scoff, part amused sigh. "You wouldn’t believe me if I told you."

"That’s not a no."

"It’s not a yes either."

"You’re terrible at stories," she said with a grin, starting to rise. "Alright then, broody werewolf, I’ll leave your tragic mystery intact. I’m going to grab some—"

"It was her, my mate."

Her foot stopped mid-step.

Liora froze, breath catching in her throat.

She turned slowly. "What?"

Lyander still didn’t look at her. His eyes were locked on the horizon, where the trees blurred into night. The moonlight cast cold silver over his skin.

"My scar," he said, voice low. "It wasn’t a battle wound. Not from the war. It was . . . from her."

Liora blinked. "Her?"

"Our mate," Lyander said, finally turning to face her.

Silence stretched between them, long and brittle. Liora’s breath caught in her throat, tangled between disbelief and something deeper—something that stung.

"She gave it to you?" she asked.

How could that be possible? Isn’t the mate bond supposed to be the strongest force among werewolves? How could she have hurt him so badly that the scar didn’t even heal?

He nodded once. His eyes were darker than usual, not with anger, but memory. "I was going to kill her father. He was the Alpha who destroyed my old pack. Who gave the order to execute my parents. The man who claimed he was uniting the northern clans, when really, he was carving a throne out of blood."

Liora lowered herself to the ground again, knees drawn in, but this time not from cold. Her skin prickled, and not from the wind.

"She stood in my way," Lyander continued. "Begged me to stop. To walk away. Said vengeance would only make me like him. And when I didn’t . . . she tried to stop me. Physically. I didn’t think she had it in her." He gave a breathless, bitter laugh. "But she did. She was fast. Stronger than I remembered. She used her blade. I didn’t move in time."

He dragged two fingers down his chest, following the jagged line of the scar.

"She didn’t kill me," Lyander said, his voice low, almost distant. "But she meant to stop me. And she did. For a time."

The firelight cast sharp shadows across his face, but it couldn’t hide the tightness in his jaw or the storm behind his eyes.

"Big mistake," Lyander continued, his voice low but sharp with bitterness. "Because I killed her. With my own blade. All for the name of revenge."

The words fell like stones in the clearing.

Liora didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Her breath caught in her throat, but she held it—fighting the instinct to recoil, to flinch, to react too quickly.

Instead, she kept her gaze steady, watching the man in front of her as if each word he spoke cracked open another piece of his armor.

Lyander’s expression didn’t waver. He wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He wasn’t even sure if he deserved to speak this aloud. But something in her silence gave him the space to keep going.

"She got in the way," he said. "I didn’t know she would. I didn’t think she’d actually choose him. But she did. She stepped in front of him without hesitation. Like I was the monster."

He exhaled through his nose, a breath like a broken sword sliding free of its sheath.

"I’d spent years tracking him—her father. The Alpha who ordered the killing of my parents. Who tore apart my family to make an example. I was a boy when it happened, but I never forgot the smell of blood. Or the way my mother screamed when the fire reached our den. I was young at that time, but they hunted me to kill me."

His hands had curled into fists, the knuckles pale and strained. Liora noticed how his shoulders were hunched—like the memory physically weighed him down.

"I thought I was ready," he said quietly. "Ready to finish it. I thought I could do it clean. Quick. I didn’t expect her to be there. I didn’t even know she will protect him so fiercely. I felt betrayed."

Lyander’s emotions, long severed—sang like a distant echo. Not dead. Just buried under years of pain and silence.

"She didn’t scream," Lyander continued. "Didn’t cry. She just stood between us, looked me in the eye, and said one word."

He paused. His jaw clenched.

"’Stop.’"

The fire crackled softly beside them. An ember popped, and the sound made Liora jump.

"I told her what he did," Lyander said. "Told her everything. But she already knew. She knew the truth and stayed loyal to him anyway. Said it wasn’t her place to choose sides between blood and bond. That vengeance wouldn’t bring back what was lost."

His voice tightened, rough around the edges. "And then she stabbed me."

Liora inhaled sharply. "She—?"

"Right in the side," he said. "Fast. No hesitation. She said if I took one more step toward him, she’d kill me."

His fingers brushed against the scar at his ribs, half-hidden beneath the edge of his tunic.

"I didn’t listen," he said. "I couldn’t. I was too far gone. The moment she raised her blade, she stopped being my mate and became something else in my eyes. An obstacle. A threat."

His voice was quiet now. Hollow. "So I did what I came there to do. I struck. I didn’t aim for her. But she moved."

Liora closed her eyes. Her throat burned.

"I realized too late," he said. "She didn’t even cry out. Just looked at me. Her lips moved like she wanted to say something, but no sound came out. And then she fell crossing her blade across my chest."

The pause that followed wasn’t silent—it was full. Full of the weight of what had been said, and everything he hadn’t.

"I caught her," he whispered. "Held her. I thought I could stop the bleeding. That I could call someone. Anyone. But she was already gone. The bond snapped before her body even hit the ground."

Liora felt tears sting the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.

"She died—right there, in my arms. And I killed her."

He looked down at his hands—calloused, scarred, weathered from a lifetime of fighting. "I thought I’d feel relief. That maybe she’d betrayed me by choosing him. But all I felt was . . . cold. Like something inside me had been carved out and thrown away."

His voice cracked, just once. Barely. But it was enough to send a shiver down Liora’s spine.

"Since then," he murmured, "my wolf and I . . . we haven’t been right. He stopped speaking. Refused to shift.

For months, I felt like half a man. Maybe less. Like something in me died with her, and the rest just didn’t know how to keep breathing."

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