Deal with the werewolf king

Name: Deal with the werewolf king
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

PerfeectedbyMel

Werewolf | Ongoing

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She was sold like cattle. Chosen by the Moon. Hunted by gods. Seventeen-year-old Elara never expected to survive the auction block-let alone be dragged into a world of bone castles, feral kings, and prophecy etched in blood. Taken by a monstrous ruler cloaked in shadows, she's told she's not a prisoner... but a vessel. A sacrifice. A tool of ancient magic. But Elara is no lamb. In a kingdom where the moon speaks and wolves wear crowns, she must navigate rituals steeped in cruelty, haunted forests, and rival princes whose teeth are as sharp as their lies. One wants her power. The other might want her soul. Neither cares what she wants. But she does. Because somewhere between the cage and the crown, Elara decides to burn it all down. Darkly lyrical and unflinchingly brutal, Deal with the Werewolf King is a blood-soaked fairytale of survival, rebellion, and the hunger to reclaim your name-even if it means becoming the monster they fear.

Suspense Fantasy

Chapter 9 The Betrayal Pact

The day before yesterday 10:24

Chapter 1 The Auction

The air reeked of sweat and sawdust, the low buzz of human commerce made filthy by the undertone of something older, darker. Not a market, though it masqueraded as one-a pit, a stage of fear where flesh was currency. Seventeen-year-old Elara didn't cry when they dragged her from her cage. That had been beaten out of her weeks ago, along with the instinct to beg. Her wrists were raw, a bracelet of scabs ringing pale skin, and her eyes-once the bright green of spring grass-were now the color of bruised glass. Dull. Shattered. She was sold to the highest bidder in under three minutes.

The man who paid for her never spoke a word. He simply stepped out of the shadows, wrapped in a black fur cloak that seemed to ripple with life, and laid down a pouch heavy with silver. Not coin. Raw silver, like it had been dug from the earth just that morning, still clinging with the stink of death and old magic. The slaver who ran the auction, a gaunt man with a voice like a dying flute, hesitated just once before gesturing for the guards to hand Elara over. He didn't meet her eyes. No one did. She was bundled into a cart. No windows, no questions. The journey into the mountains blurred into a nightmare of bumps and darkness. When the cart stopped, it was night-too dark to see-and the wind howled like something wounded. "Out," said a voice, and it wasn't human. She stumbled out. The forest rose up around her like a cathedral built from rot and shadow. Trees with bark as black as blood clotted in snow. No birdsong. No moonlight. Just the stink of fur and old bones. He was there, standing under the bone archway that marked the entrance to his lands. The Werewolf King. Tall. Too tall. His hair was long and wild, eyes the color of amber lit from within by wildfire. He didn't smile. He bared his teeth. "You're mine now." Elara didn't answer. Her throat closed. Behind her, the cart turned and vanished down the path. No one looked back. The King's castle wasn't made of stone. It was built from bones. The ribs of great beasts formed arches; skulls lined the hallways like trophies. It reeked of damp fur, rotting meat, and magic too old for names. Servants didn't speak. They weren't human. Elara couldn't tell what they had once been, only what they were now: half-shapes that skittered in corners, eyes too large, mouths sewn shut. The King gave her a room with iron walls. Not for her protection-she was the one being contained. "You were bought," he told her later that night, seated on a throne carved from the skull of a giant elk. "Not for pleasure. Not for pity. For prophecy." She didn't understand. He didn't care. "You'll be changed," he said. "The Moon chose you. She whispered your name in blood." When he touched her cheek, claws brushed her skin. "You'll either survive," he said, "or you'll feed the pack."

Jkl