I Left The Wolf King Who Loved Me For The Dragon King Chapter 10

I Left The Wolf King Who Loved Me For The Dragon King Chapter 10

## Third-Person POV

Shortly after Draekon regained his clarity on the mountain peak, Ulvarr awoke in a sterile hospital room back in the wolf-keep.

The moment his eyelids fluttered open, Bryony’s striking, perfectly sculpted face filled his vision.

She was pouting, her arms crossed as she immediately began to whine. “Finally, you’re awake! What on earth is wrong with you, collapsing out of nowhere like that? Anyway, I have wonderful news—I don’t have to marry that wretched Dragon King anymore.”

Ulvarr’s mind was still groggy, his senses muddled from the sudden blackout.

Of course you don’t, he thought to himself, a trace of his usual calculated arrogance returning. He had orchestrated the entire decoy strategy with meticulous precision; Aylin was supposed to be forced into the carriage as Bryony’s substitute.

There was no way Bryony would ever leave his side.

But her next sentence shattered his lingering drowsiness, hitting him like a bucket of ice water.

“I have no idea what went through Aylin’s thick skull, but she actually volunteered to take my place,” Bryony scoffed, twirling a lock of her golden hair. “Is she completely brainless? Agreeing to marry a dying dragon… honestly, it’s pathetic, but it saves me the trouble.”

A sharp, stabbing pain flared behind Ulvarr’s temples.

Right. He remembered now. Just before he lost consciousness, his commander had reported that Aylin hadn’t been bound or dragged away. She had walked into the carriage willingly.

How could his flawless strategy have unraveled so completely?

Sitting on the nearby armchair, Grimm let out a heavy grunt, reaching over to tap his favored daughter’s forehead playfully. “Don’t go calling her stupid just yet, sweetheart. To get her to cooperate, I had to sign over the three sacred lunar statuettes to her.”

Grimm adjusted his collar, a dismissive wave of his hand masking his internal unease. “She got exactly what she wanted. Besides, marrying into the dragon lords isn’t the worst fate. Those lizards sit on mountains of gold and gemstone; she’s probably living a life of absolute luxury right now.”

The more Grimm spoke, the more he convinced himself of his own logic, using the rationalization to dull the persistent ache of guilt in his chest.

Ever since that final conversation with Aylin in his study, he hadn’t been able to eat or sleep properly. The cold, unyielding defiance in her eyes kept replaying behind his lids.

For the first time in winters, Grimm found himself wondering if he had truly been too monstrous to his firstborn. He couldn’t remember the last time she had reached out to tug at his sleeve, looking up at him and calling him Father.

As Grimm drifted into his quiet guilt, Ulvarr’s ragged voice abruptly dragged him back to the harsh reality of the room.

“She married the Dragon King?” Ulvarr blurted out, unable to mask the sudden, violent shock fracturing his composure. “Then… what about me?”

Grimm cleared his throat, an awkward, defensive look crossing his features. “Aylin insisted on keeping the substitution an absolute secret from you—she threatened to cancel the arrangement if we breathed a word.”

“I didn’t realize she could be so heartless, leaving without even a farewell to her betrothed. You’d best just forget she ever existed, son.”

Grimm offered a placating smile. “As recompense for your trouble, I will grant you a permanent, high-paying commission within the Selwyn elite guard.”

“Father, let’s not keep Ulvarr too close to the manor,” Bryony interrupted sharply, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the simple leather tunic he wore.

“You seem to have forgotten that the Alpha King himself has petitioned for my hand. It would be a disaster if His Majesty misinterpreted my connection with a common vanguard scout.”

Grimm’s posture stiffened, his expression turning solemn. “Right. I almost lost sight of the grander alliance. Ulvarr, once your legs recover, I will grant you a substantial purse of gold coin. You will take it and leave our territory permanently.”

“A purse of coin?” Ulvarr whispered, a dark, freezing chuckle leaving his throat.

Looking at the two aristocrats before him, his mind unspooled, involuntarily pulling him back to the very first time he had opened his eyes to see Aylin.

That day, he had also awakened in a cramped, unfamiliar room, his body broken from an ambush.

But Aylin hadn’t spent her breath complaining or demanding things from him. She had sat beside his cot in silence, carefully dipping a cotton swab into clean water to gently soothe his cracked, parched lips.

Bryony hadn’t even bothered to pour him a single cup of water since he woke up.

Aylin’s happiness had always been so beautifully simple. She had never interrogated him about his lineage, his estate, or his wealth.

He had been forced to invent a web of lies, claiming he was a stray from a shattered, destitute vanguard pack, stripped of his coin and hunted by rogues. He remembered the raw, agonizing heartache that had flooded Aylin’s eyes when he spoke those words.

She was so pure, so pathetically naive, that she had believed every single syllable without question.

After that, all it took was for him to speak a few empty, comforting words whenever Bryony slighted her, pretending to take her side against the family, and Aylin had looked at him as if he were her entire universe.

Ulvarr had commanded and discarded countless women in his rise to power. But none of them possessed a heart as soft, as unblemished, and as fiercely sincere as the wolf-less hybrid he had thrown away.

He had to get her back. He had to drag her out of the dragon’s caldera. They needed to have a conversation—on his terms.

Having finalized his strategy, Ulvarr forced a tight compliance onto his features and dismissed Bryony and Grimm from the room.

The moment the heavy door clicked shut, his face dropped into a murderous mask. He barked for his vanguard commander, who was waiting in the shadows of the corridor.

“Explain my legs,” Ulvarr commanded, his voice dangerous, dropping an octave. “Why is there still no circulation? Are the healers in this pathetic pack entirely incompetent? They can’t even mend a basic strain?”

The commander swallowed hard, his skin turning a sickly, translucent white. “My King… the diagnosis… it’s…”

“Speak!” Ulvarr roared.

The suffocating premonition of ruin surged back into his chest, his obsidian eyes locking onto his subordinate with enough lethal intent to tear the man in two.

The commander’s entire frame trembled violently under the pressure of the Alpha aura. But knowing there was no escape, he braced his spine and spat out the high healer’s verdict in a single, breathless gasp:

“Your Majesty… the high healer states that the nerves and flesh within your thighs have completely necrosed. The damage is absolute… there is no magic in the realms that can restore your legs.”