The Villains Must Win-Chapter 153: Lyander Wolfhart 3

As for me? Who was I?

Well . . . I was Liora Moonweil, a nymph.

And no, Liora wasn’t even my real name. My actual nymph name sounded like someone sneezed mid-incantation and swallowed a pinecone. Completely unpronounceable.

So I stuck with Liora—it was easier on the tongue and a lot less embarrassing when introducing myself to mortals.

A nymph, by the way, was basically nature’s part-time magical intern. Minor female deities from ancient Greek myths, we were tied to rivers, forests, winds, flowers—you name it. We weren’t immortal like the big gods, but we lived long enough to develop strong opinions about trees, drama, and emotionally unstable mortals, including werewolves who couldn’t chill.

People often thought we were graceful, enchanting, mysterious. Some stories had us helping heroes or falling in love with gods. Others had us cursing travelers for peeing on the wrong trees. Honestly? Both versions were accurate. It just depended on the mood.

I was forest-aligned, which meant I could make trees whisper, control vines, summon fireflies for dramatic effect—the usual. But I had one major problem.

According to the ancient laws of nature, I wasn’t allowed to meddle in mortal affairs.

That included werewolves. Especially werewolves. Tampering with their fate could throw off the entire balance of the world. And the consequence? Death. Or worse . . . being reborn as a human.

Tragic, I know.

But there was one tiny loophole. If the balance of the world was threatened—or if my life was in danger—I could act. Just a little. Casually. Strategically. You know, subtle divine interference.

Which worked out perfectly, because the fate of this world hung by a twelve-year-old thread named Henry Nightingale.

Yes, the final boss. The villain of the entire werewolf saga. The scary, powerful, destroyer of worlds . . . was barely out of middle school.

And I wasn’t about to let him become a villain.

See, Henry wasn’t born evil. He was just a kid who got left behind. Rhett—our tall, brooding alpha male with a world domination checklist—had annihilated Henry’s pack and slaughtered his people. He didn’t just break the boy. He shattered him.

So Henry did what any traumatized twelve-year-old would do: he sold his soul to demons and became the first lycanthrope—something stronger, darker, more cursed than any alpha. His goal? Revenge. His ending? Death. At the hands of Rhett and his destined Luna, Talia—the miracle girl blessed by the Moon Goddess herself.

But not this time. Not on my watch.

I had one year before everything went downhill. One year to make sure Henry didn’t turn into the monster the story said he would be. The problem? I had no plan. No allies. And barely any power. Just a forest spirit with gamer instincts, fanfiction dreams, and a dangerously high dose of misplaced confidence.

Also, I couldn’t stay in human form for long. I was basically a glowing green energy blob most of the time, and shifting into a physical body drained me fast. Think Cinderella’s carriage—except instead of turning into a pumpkin, I collapsed dramatically in flower beds to recharge.

Still, I had to find a way to reach Henry. Earn his trust. Be the support system he never had. His mother. His sister. His friend. His weird magical aunt if necessary.

And the quickest way to win over a grieving, vengeful boy?

Look exactly like his mother.

Risky? Definitely. Ethically questionable? Probably.

But in a world where witches hunted nymphs to grind us into potions, and werewolves considered us shiny trinkets of power, I couldn’t afford honesty. My survival depended on secrecy.

So. Step one: infiltrate.

Step two: protect the boy.

Step three: don’t die.

Step four: don’t get caught.

Step five: maybe—just maybe—rewrite the ending of this tragic werewolf story.

"Alright, I had everything organized now. Let the game begin."

A familiar voice echoed suddenly in my mind, smooth and cold like a whisper through cracked glass. "Remember, host— the villains must win."

=== 🖤 ===

Liora floated through the forest like a glowing wisp, trailing specks of soft light behind her as she drifted between ancient trees and glowing mushrooms.

It was nighttime—prime mischief hour for the nymphs and all the other fairy-like creatures that called the woods home. Laughter echoed in the distance. Somewhere, someone was definitely getting turned into a frog. Classic Tuesday night.

But not for her.

She had a mission. A greater purpose than turning lost mortals’ boots backward or braiding their hair with thorns while they slept. Liora was on a divine quest to stop a child from becoming a world-ending villain. You know, the usual nymph duties.

To do that, she had to travel through Fimnson Valley—also known as "Death Valley but with more mosquitoes"—and get to the Bloodhowl Pack’s territory faster than a bullet.

Well . . . that was the idea.

In reality? She swirled through the air like a dramatic ballet dancer stuck in slow motion. Graceful? Yes. Fast? Not even close. It was the kind of pace that begged to get caught by witches, wolves, or one of those cursed squirrel cults she kept hearing rumors about.

After several nights of travel, dodging patrols, magical snares, and the occasional drunk banshee, she finally arrived at the Bloodhowl Pack.

And to her surprise?

It wasn’t half bad.

Honestly, for a twelve-year-old kid who lost both his parents and was probably traumatized beyond belief, Henry Nightingale was holding his own. The territory looked stable, the wolves looked well-fed with their massive muscles in display in broad daylight and shirtless, and the training grounds were . . . impressively brutal.

Liora hovered discreetly behind a moss-covered oak, watching with wide eyes as two teenage werewolves sparred like they were born to break bones. ƒrēenovelkiss.com

Smartly, she only stalked the territory during the day. At night, the wolves were active and on high alert, and while Liora didn’t have a scent (thank the Moon Mother), even her presence could be detected if she wasn’t careful.

Luckily, she had a special talent—blending in. Trees, grass, flowers, even rocks. She could melt into the forest so completely she once got peed on by a deer and it didn’t even notice her.

For several days, she watched from the shadows, learning the routine of the pack, searching for her opening.

And then—on the fourth morning—she saw him.

No not Henry Nightingale but someone she could sin with.