The Villains Must Win
Chapter 199: Lyander Wolfhart 49

Chapter 199: Lyander Wolfhart 49

After a few weeks, the war had finally came.

The battlefield stretched out beneath a darkening sky, its flat, cracked earth trembling under the weight of approaching war.

Wind swept through the tall banners of both armies, whipping them violently as if nature itself anticipated the blood to be spilled. Thunder rumbled in the distance—not a storm, but the march of thousands.

And at the head of one army stood Rhett.

Clad in deep silver armor that gleamed like starlight, Rhett was the picture of sovereign strength. His long crimson cape snapped behind him, each fold catching light as if it had been soaked in flame.

His jaw was set, his dark eyes cold and focused, unreadable. He didn’t shout, didn’t wave his arms. He simply stood, tall and sure, like a pillar carved from stone.

Around him, werewolves straightened. Hearts steadied. Fear ebbed. There was no uncertainty in his presence—only inevitability.

Beside him stood Talia.

She wore no armor, only flowing white robes that danced around her like petals in the wind. But make no mistake—she was no mere figure of beauty. The silver threading shimmered like moonlight, and a sword hung from her hip, its handle worn from months of use.

Her hair was braided back into a crown, adorned with delicate pearls and sharp pins that could easily double as weapons. She looked like a lotus blooming in a lake of fire—serene, untouchable, and deadly.

Together, they looked like prophecy incarnate.

On the opposite rise, Henry’s army appeared—less ornate, but no less disciplined.

A tide of warriors stretched back for miles, dressed in darker hues of war-hardened metal and leather, dust clinging to their boots and armor. They had not come to dazzle. They had come to win.

And at the head of them stood Lyander.

Where Rhett was regal and poised, Lyander was wild and untamed—a beast barely caged by discipline. His black armor bore fresh claw marks and deep scars from battles past. His shoulders rolled with strength; his every movement promised violence.

The air seemed to hum around him with pent-up energy, like a storm waiting to break. His ember eyes flickered like wildfire, and the soldiers behind him drew courage from his confidence.

By his side stood Liora.

Graceful, calm, radiant—she was the perfect counterbalance to Lyander’s force. Draped in silver and sea-green, her dress hugged her form like mist clings to morning trees, layered with filigree armor that shimmered in the low light.

Her hair was bound in loose curls, her eyes steady and unreadable. She looked like a goddess descending for judgment—serene, but not merciful. Though she stood quietly, the wind seemed to bend for her. The earth quieted beneath her bare feet.

The two couples—warriors and consorts—faced each other across the battlefield, like chess pieces arranged by fate.

A hush fell.

Then, from Rhett’s side, a golden-blazoned banner was raised—a sign of parley.

Lyander’s eyes narrowed, and after a moment, he raised a single hand.

Two riders broke rank and met in the center of the field. Then the world held its breath as Rhett and Lyander stepped forward, closing the distance.

Their gazes met, a clash of two mountain peaks.

Rhett’s voice cut through the silence like a blade—measured and precise.

"You still have time to surrender."

The words hung in the air, deceptively calm. Behind them, both armies tensed. Bows creaked, weapons were gripped tighter. The wind stilled. Time slowed.

Lyander didn’t move at first. Then a humorless smirk crossed his lips.

"If surrender was your goal, you should’ve asked months ago—before blood was spilled, before promises were broken." His voice was rough, deep, the echo of a wolf’s growl. "There’s no more talking, Rhett. This ends today."

The silence after his words felt like a fuse, burning down to the inevitable.

Then Rhett replied, quieter now. "So be it."

He stepped back.

Lyander turned.

The horns sounded, loud and thunderous, shaking the sky. And war broke.

The first wave hit like a tidal surge—fur crashing into fur, claws tearing, jaws snapping. Howls cracked through the air as bodies collided mid-leap, the sound of bone against flesh echoing like thunder.

The fading sun vanished beneath a storm of churning dust, limbs, and war cries. Earth shook under the stampede of hundreds of paws.

Lyander was at the front, leading like a storm in full rage. His wolf form was massive—silver-gray fur streaked with darker markings, his golden eyes burning like twin suns.

He didn’t hesitate. He ripped through the enemy with ruthlessness, fangs crushing throats, claws raking deep. His movements were raw violence, honed by instinct and years of battle. His growls were commands, and his allies followed without question, sweeping forward with a singular focus: destroy.

Beside him, Liora was the eye in the storm.

She wasn’t furred like the others. She wasn’t born of the moon or blood rites. She was light. A nymph in a battlefield of monsters. Her skin glowed faintly, untouched by the filth of war.

Her movements were impossible to follow—fluid, silent, terrifying in their clarity. She didn’t tear or ravage. She redirected.

When wolves leapt at her, they found themselves thrown aside by invisible forces, limbs locked, breath stolen from their lungs.

Nature bent around her, answering her will. Vines cracked from beneath the earth, wrapping like serpents. The wind bent under her touch. Water in the ground lifted in sharp shards when she moved. She didn’t roar—she whispered. And the battlefield listened.

Across the scorched field, the enemy gathered. The air shifted.

Rhett emerged like a shadow born from firelight—huge, black-furred, his body covered in ritual scars that glowed red beneath the surface of his skin. His wolf form moved with brutal calm, eyes fixed, unflinching.

He didn’t run. He marched. Wherever he went, the enemy dropped. He was a machine of ancient rage, every step a declaration of war. No wasted movement, no unnecessary violence—just the exact amount of force needed to kill.

Talia kept to his right flank. She was striking in a way that made the air shimmer. Her wolf form, unlike the rest, bore golden streaks through her red coat, and her paws left faint glowing trails with every bound.

Magic rolled off her in waves. She struck with claw and spell, lightning lacing her teeth, wind coiling around her limbs. Where she went, the earth cracked open. Enemies ignited without warning. She danced like fire across a dry field, untouchable, unforgettable.

And between the chaos, the two alphas finally found each other.

Lyander’s blood-slicked fur bristled as he saw Rhett, just as Rhett’s crimson eyes narrowed the moment their gazes locked. They moved through the carnage like predators chasing prey—except they were each other’s.

The field split around them as both packs gave them space. No one dared get between them.

Their clash was inevitable.

Lyander launched first, a blur of fury, slamming into Rhett with enough force to crater the ground. They tore into each other without hesitation, jaws snapping, claws ripping, blood flying in great arcs. They didn’t speak.

Their wolves were Alphas and there was no stopping them. Only one would come out from this alive. Every bite was personal. Every tear a memory. They slammed into the earth, rolled, snapped, collided again.

Rhett fought like a stone wall—impenetrable, calculated, brutal. Lyander fought like the storm—wild, fast, relentless. They were opposites, and perfectly matched. Neither yielded.

Not far away, Liora and Talia had clashed as well.

Where Lyander and Rhett were violence, Liora and Talia were art.

Talia struck first, bounding high with flames sparking from her fur. Liora didn’t dodge—she raised her hand, and the air thickened, slowing Talia mid-leap like gravity had multiplied.

Talia twisted, lightning arcing from her paws, and slammed into the ground with a howl. Liora glided across the field, wind and nature rippling at her heels. Her hair fluttered, glowing with pale magic, her eyes focused, unfazed.

Talia snapped, launching fire with every slash, but it bent around Liora like it had forgotten how to burn her. The ground cracked open beneath the nymph, but vines surged up to catch her. She didn’t fight like a wolf. She didn’t need to. She fought like the world itself had chosen her.

Still, Talia was no fool. She shifted tactics, going closer, claws gleaming. She bit, tore, tried to overwhelm with speed and magic.

Liora responded in kind, sending her flying with bursts of compressed air, then wrapping roots around her limbs mid-flight, slamming her to the ground. They were locked in a rhythm of chaos and balance, flame and wind, destruction and conservation.

The battlefield was descending into madness.

Henry’s forces were losing.

Outnumbered and overwhelmed, their formations broke. Wolves were falling fast—dragged down beneath claws, caught in traps, consumed by summoned beasts. Cries of retreat rang out, but there was nowhere to run.

In the heart of the fray, Henry stood frozen, watching the disaster unfold. Blood matted his fur, and three of his betas were already down.

Though Liora poured everything she had into healing their wounded, her efforts were beginning to falter.

Across the battlefield, Talia moved like wildfire through her own ranks, restoring fallen wolves with a grace and speed Liora couldn’t match. For every soldier Liora saved, Talia saved two.

It wasn’t just exhaustion—Liora needed mana, and she was spent. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her skin pale beneath the flickering battlefield light that she was about to return to her spirit ball form.

Their army now leaned heavily on two pillars: Liora and Lyander. If either of them fell, the line would break. The war would be lost.

And the truth weighed heavy: not even a nymph like Liora could hold her ground against Talia. Not when Talia’s magic burned so fiercely, not when she moved with such terrifying speed.

Was she really the moon goddess’s chosen?

Lyander still held his own against Rhett. Blow for blow, they were equals. But if Talia turned her focus to him—if she reinforced Rhett, even for a moment—it would all be over.

Panic gnawed at Henry’s resolve. His father’s words echoed in his ears: "Never use it unless there’s no other choice. If you do . . . you’ll never come back."

But there was no other choice now.

Henry reached into the pouch around his neck and pulled out the black egg.

It pulsed faintly. Not like light—but like hunger. It was alive. Older than his bloodline. His parents had told him it had been passed down for generations—sealed, hidden, forbidden. No one had ever used it. No one knew exactly what it would unleash. Only that once it was consumed, there was no undoing it.

He opened his jaw.

The egg hovered.

He closed his eyes.

And that’s when a hand—not a paw—snatched it from the air.

Liora stood in front of him, human again, her pale skin dusted with soot and blood, her eyes calm.

"No," she said simply.

Henry staggered back, stunned. "You don’t understand—"

"I do." Her voice cut through his words like wind through fire. "You think this will save them. It won’t. It will devour them. And you."

The egg pulsed once in her palm, reacting to her touch. She didn’t flinch.

"Give it back!" he growled, stepping forward. "You don’t have the right—"

"I have every right," she whispered, her eyes glowing brighter now. "Because I’m the only one here not ruled by instinct."

He leapt for her.

The vines moved faster.

Roots burst from the ground and wrapped around his limbs, slamming him to the dirt before he got halfway. He snarled and thrashed, but he couldn’t break them.

Liora tightened her grip on the black egg and turned away from Henry, shielding it with her body. He mustn’t consume it—because if he did, his fate would be sealed, and there would be no turning back.

But the truth was bitter on her tongue.

They couldn’t win this war. Not now. The tide was shifting, the weight of it pressing down on her chest like stone. She could feel the end creeping in—slow, inevitable.

Against both the male and female leads of this world, standing together in perfect, destructive harmony, victory would demand more than strength.

It would take sacrifice.

She had no choice.

Liora stared at the black egg in her palm, her fingers trembling. She didn’t know what swallowing it would unleash—what kind of twisted pact it would force upon her.

A nymph making a deal with a demon . . . it would be ugly. It would ruin her, corrupt everything she was.

But to win this game, to survive this world, to save Henry—she had to do what needed to be done.

Her hand rose slowly. The egg was cold against her lips as she placed it in her mouth, heart pounding with dread.

But before she could swallow down, a blur of shadow streaked across her vision.

Her hand was empty.

She turned, startled—but it was already too late.

Lyander stood before her, his throat moving in a hard swallow, his eyes locked on hers. The black egg was gone.

He had swallowed it.

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