Ruined Kings and Their Queens

Into The Wolves Den

Chapter Seven

Lue

Mystic Falls.

The name alone feels like a cosmic joke—mystic, as if the supernatural doesn't lurk behind every corner, seeping into the cracks of this quaint little town like rot beneath polished floorboards. I growl under my breath, my boots pounding against the cracked asphalt as I cross the town's invisible border. The air here feels different—thicker somehow, as if the trees themselves remember every drop of blood spilled under their watchful gaze.

I had to run all the way back here because of a certain witch. Lucy fucking Bennett. She's dumped a problem in my lap so big it should come with a hazard sign. As if I didn't already have enough on my plate with Originals, doppelgängers, and ancient curses looming over my head like storm clouds. No, now I have to literally hunt down the big bad wolf—if the legends are to be believed.

Slowing to a brisk walk, I let my senses stretch out, tasting the familiar cocktail of pine, damp earth, and faint traces of vervain lingering in the air like an afterthought. Mystic Falls hasn't changed. It's still that pretty little facade wrapped around something dark and hungry.

I veer off the road, drawn by the faint roar of rushing water. The Falls. They call to me like an old song I've forgotten the words to, and without thinking, my feet carry me toward the sound. The closer I get, the more the noise swells—a deep, rhythmic crash that drowns out everything else. It's like the water doesn't just fall; it devours, pulling at the edges of the rocks, carving history into stone with patient, merciless hands.

I stand there for a moment, letting the mist cool my skin. The view is breathtaking—sunlight slicing through the canopy, scattering across the water in a prism of golds and blues. The river below churns like liquid glass, fierce and untamed, reflecting the sky's indifference.

It's almost magical.

Almost.

But magic has teeth, and I've been bitten enough times to know better than to romanticize it.

After a few minutes, I shake off the moment like a bad dream and head back into town. The hum of civilization grows louder with each step—cars, voices, the occasional heartbeat thudding too fast. I rent a car from some forgettable guy at a dusty little lot. He tries to flirt; I don't even bother compelling him. Too easy. Compulsion is a cop-out most of the time, a shortcut for people who can't get what they want the old-fashioned way—through wit, charm, or, when necessary, brute force.

Driving through Mystic Falls feels like slipping into a well-worn jacket—familiar, but still suffocating. The streets are too clean, the houses too neat, like no one wants to admit what really happens here after dark. I pull up to the bed and breakfast I've kept on retainer, thanking whatever twisted part of me was smart enough to keep the payments going. Just in case.

And this is definitely a just in case moment.

I don't waste time. A quick shower—just enough to wash off the sweat and grime from the road—and I'm out, tugging on a pair of black jeans and a leather jacket that's seen more blood than the town coroner. No frills. No distractions.

Time is a luxury I can't afford.

I stare at myself in the cracked mirror for a second longer than necessary. The woman looking back isn't the same girl Katherine turned in the '20s. She's sharper now, edges honed by nearly a century of running, fighting, surviving. But there's something else in my eyes—something I can't quite shake.

Focus, Lue.

There's a wolf to find.

And an Original to deal with.