You Wish For Death

Kaelia

The freezing bite of steel pressed against my throat.

That was how it always started.

I knelt in the mud, my breathing ragged and shallow, the sharp edge of a broadsword resting just beneath my chin. The blade bit into my skin, drawing a thin, hot line of blood that trickled down my collarbone, a stark contrast to the freezing rain washing over the battlefield. I didn’t need to look up to know who held the weapon. The overwhelming, suffocating pressure of his aura gave him away long before my eyes met his.

Alpha Zaric of the Ironclad Pack. The most dangerous man I had ever laid eyes on. A warlord forged in brutality and bloodshed.

My chest heaved with every desperate gasp for air. My right hand was clamped hard over the deep, jagged wound in my stomach. Hot blood pulsed through my fingers, thick and unrelenting, trying to spill my life out onto the trampled earth. I pressed harder, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, desperate to keep my insides from spilling out.

All around me, the sounds of war had died down, replaced by a haunting, hollow silence. The battlefield was a graveyard of broken banners and severed limbs. The only noises left were the wet crunch of boots in the mud, the steady downpour of the rain, and the pathetic, gurgling groans of dying men. My men. The warriors of the Moonflare Pack. All of them gone. Slain to the last man.

And here I was. Defeated. Broken. Waiting for the final strike.

I knew exactly what was coming next. The sword would pull back for a fraction of a second, then slice clean through my flesh. Blood would erupt from my neck, spilling over my chest as the world tilted and faded to black. I would draw my last, rattling breath, drowning in my own blood.

I knew this because I had died nine times before.

And every single time, it had been by his hand.

You might wonder why, if I had lived through this nightmare nine times, I didn’t stop it. Why I didn’t try a different tactic, forge a different alliance, or run away before the war even began. Why couldn't I change the ending?

The truth was a cruel, twisted joke played by the Goddess. I remembered nothing. My mind remained a blank slate, living the same tragic life over and over, until this exact moment. The memories of my past lives only ever unlocked when Zaric’s blade pressed against my throat.

Right now, in a violent, sickening rush, it all crashed back into my skull. The nine previous timelines. The nine distinct, agonizing deaths. My life flashing before my eyes on an endless, bloody loop.

In the first timeline, I fought him head-on, my claws extended, a furious scream tearing from my throat. He beheaded me before I even blinked.

In the fourth timeline, I tried to negotiate a surrender, offering my territory in exchange for the lives of my pack. He listened with dead eyes, then drove a spear through my heart.

In the seventh, I turned and ran, fleeing into the woods like a coward. He hunted me down, his massive wolf tearing my throat out under the moonlight.

No matter what I did, no matter how hard I fought or begged or bargained, the outcome never changed. The scene always reset to this miserable patch of mud, his cold blue eyes pinning me down.

I slowly lifted my head, ignoring the sting of the blade against my neck. Zaric towered over me, a colossal figure of muscle and dark armor. His plates were slick with the blood of my people, dripping crimson onto the ground, yet there wasn't a single scratch on his actual body. He was untouched. Untouchable.

His face was a mask of stone. Blank, emotionless, empty. Those piercing, icy blue eyes sliced into me without a single ounce of pity. He looked at me the same way a hunter looks at a maimed rabbit just seconds before snapping its neck to put it out of its misery. He was a cold-blooded monster, and he was about to end my life for the tenth time.

"Aww," a mocking voice jeered from the crowd of Ironclad soldiers forming a circle around us. "Look at her. She is still fighting to live. Holding her little stomach wound. How sad."

The faceless soldier’s taunt sparked a ripple of cruel laughter among the ranks. These were men who thrived on slaughter, men who had just butchered my entire army and were now looking for entertainment in the aftermath.

Another soldier laughed, the sound harsh and grating. "Sad indeed. The mighty Luna, marching out here in the mud, leading her people into a slaughter. And where is her glorious mate? Sitting safe inside his warm castle, drinking wine and fucking his pleasures while she bleeds out in the dirt. How dumb is she?"

The mention of my mate sent a dull ache through my chest, though it was quickly swallowed by the overwhelming numbness of my exhaustion. They were right. While I led the frontline defense, my mate was safe behind fortified walls, burying his face in the necks of his mistresses. I was fighting a war for a man who didn't even care if I lived or died.

A third voice chimed in, stepping closer. The stench of sweat and stale blood wafted off him. "Do we even need to kill her, Alpha? Look at her. She’s beautiful beneath all that grime. We could take her back to the camp. Keep her as our slave. Imagine that, the proud Luna of Moonflare on her knees for us, warming our beds every night."

Filthy, degrading words rained down on me. Slurs and threats of what they wanted to do to my body echoed across the clearing. My fists trembled against the mud. My nails dug so hard into my own palms that the skin broke. My throat ached with a raw, primal scream, and my breath came in ragged, jagged gasps.

On any other day, in any of my past lives, this was the moment I would have snapped. I would have spat a mouthful of blood right into their grinning faces. I would have cursed their bloodlines, challenged them to a fight to the death, and defended my honor. I was a Luna. I was a warrior. I did not allow anyone to insult me or treat me like a piece of meat.

But I had learned.

In my second life, I spat at a soldier for calling me a whore. Zaric cut my tongue out before driving his sword through my skull. In my fifth life, I lunged at the man who threatened to rape me. Zaric caught me by the throat and snapped my neck in front of his cheering army.

Every single time I rose to defend my pride, Zaric cut me down faster, and the pain was always worse.

And Goddess, I was so tired.

My bones felt like lead. My spirit was shattered into a million irreparable pieces. The fight was gone. The fire had burned out.

So, I stayed silent. I kept my chin tipped up, letting the cold rain wash the grime from my face, and let them speak. I let them drag my name and my dignity through the filth. I didn’t raise my eyes to glare at them. I didn't waste the last few ounces of strength I had left on worthless anger.

My utter lack of reaction seemed to infuriate the soldiers even more. They wanted a show. They wanted me to cry, or scream, or beg. My eerie silence was denying them their victory lap.

Heavy boots crunched against the blood-soaked ground as one of the soldiers broke rank and stormed toward me. His face was twisted in a vicious sneer.

"Who the fuck are you to ignore me, you stuck-up whore?" he barked, his voice echoing in the dead air.

He marched right up to my kneeling form and lifted his heavy, gauntleted hand, pulling it back to strike me across the face. I didn't even blink. I just stared at the mud, waiting for the impact.

But before the soldier's palm could fall, Zaric turned his head. He didn't speak. He didn't raise a weapon. He simply shifted his gaze from me to the advancing soldier.

The man froze instantly. It was as if he had slammed into an invisible brick wall. The color drained from his face, leaving him pale and terrified. His raised hand dropped to his side at once, his fingers twitching in fear. He took a hasty, stumbling step back, lowering his head in immediate submission.

Not even Zaric's own men dared to defy him. A single look from the Alpha was enough to command absolute, unquestioning obedience. The circle of soldiers fell dead silent, the mocking laughter dying in their throats.

I kept my hand pressed tight against my stomach wound. The blood flow had slowed, not because the wound was healing, but because I was running out of blood to bleed. The cold was seeping into my core, numbing my extremities.

I lifted my gaze just enough to look at the terrified soldier, then dragged my eyes up the length of Zaric’s dark armor, stopping at his broad chest. I still refused to look into his eyes.

My voice came out quiet. Barely more than a whisper, rough and scraped raw.

"Kill me."

Silence.

A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the battlefield. The rain seemed to fade into the background. The soldiers standing in the circle shifted on their feet, exchanging wide-eyed, bewildered looks.

One of them muttered, his voice thick with disbelief, "Did she just… ask us to kill her?"

Another scoffed, sounding uneasy and rattled. "She was fighting like an absolute demon moments ago. Tearing through our front lines. Why the sudden change? Is it a trick?"

Through all the murmuring, Zaric remained perfectly still. His sword didn’t waver from my throat. Not even a millimeter. But I saw the slight tilt of his head. The subtle shift in his posture.

Curiosity.

For the first time in ten lifetimes, I saw a flicker of something other than dead apathy in the Alpha of the Ironclad Pack.

"You wish for death?" Zaric’s voice rumbled through the air. It was deep, smooth, and chillingly calm. There was no anger in it. No malice. Just a dark, almost amused curiosity. "Why?"

I didn’t answer right away. My gaze stayed locked on the ground, staring at the dark puddle of blood pooling around my knees. It was mixing with the rainwater, spreading out in a macabre halo.

"Why, Luna of the Moonflare Pack?" Zaric pressed, his tone dropping an octave, demanding an answer without needing to shout.

Why?

Because I was exhausted down to my very soul. Because every life, every desperate struggle, every frantic attempt to outsmart fate, had always led me to this exact patch of dirt. I was tired of clawing for survival only to have my fingers smashed. I was weary of fighting a predetermined destiny just to meet the same brutal end. I wanted the loop to break. And if the only way to break it was to just let go and stop fighting, then I was ready.

I swallowed dryly. The movement made the blade nick my skin again. My lips trembled, betraying the sheer terror still hiding inside my body, but the truth slipped out anyway.

"Because I’m tired of fighting," I whispered. My voice cracked, brittle and weak. "You’re going to end it. No matter what I do, no matter what I say… you’re going to kill me. So just be quick with it. Please."

I felt his intense gaze burning a hole into the top of my head. I didn’t dare look up. If I saw his icy blue eyes right now, if I had to face this monster while I was in this pathetic, broken state, I would despise myself even more for being so weak.

The heavy steel blade pressed closer to my throat. The pressure increased, forcing my chin up slightly.

I swallowed hard, my pulse racing against the metal. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead.

Goddess, I was terrified.

Despite my exhaustion, despite my surrender, the primal, animal instinct inside me screamed in horror. I didn’t want to die again. I remembered the blinding, suffocating pain of my past deaths. I remembered the feeling of steel grating against my bones, the panic of drawing a breath and only inhaling blood. My body shook involuntarily. I was petrified.

But what choice did I have? There was no escape.

I squeezed my eyes shut. *Please,* I prayed to whatever deity was listening. *Let it be a clean strike this time. Don't let me choke on it. Every other time hurt too much.*

I waited for the swing. I braced my shoulders for the familiar, devastating weight of the sword tearing through my neck.

But the strike didn't come.

Instead, the weight of the steel vanished from my skin.

I heard the distinct, metallic scrape of the broadsword lowering.

My eyes flew open. My breath hitched in my throat. I froze, my hand still clutching my bleeding stomach.

*Huh?*

I blinked against the rain, staring at the empty space where the blade had just been.

Around me, the soldiers were completely silent. The Ironclad warriors were just as confused as I was, their heads whipping back and forth between me and their Alpha.

Zaric stood there, his massive sword resting casually at his side, the tip buried in the mud. His face was still cold, still unreadable, but the heavy, murderous intent that usually radiated from him had vanished.

"W-what are you…?" I stammered, my voice shaking uncontrollably as I finally forced myself to look up at him. I stared at his face in sheer disbelief. This wasn't right. This had never happened before. In nine timelines, the sword had never lowered.

Zaric’s piercing blue eyes narrowed as he studied my face. He took in my trembling lips, my wide, terrified eyes, and the way my body shook in the cold rain.

"You want to die?" His lips curled upward, but it wasn't a smile. It was a predatory, fascinated smirk. "That is rather amusing. The look in your eyes right now… you are utterly terrified of death. Your body is shaking with the fear of it, yet your mouth begs for the end. I’ve never seen anyone quite like you before."

I swallowed again, my throat feeling like sandpaper. I couldn't form a sentence. My brain was short-circuiting.

Zaric tilted his head, watching me with the intense focus of a scientist examining a bizarre, fascinating insect. He stood in silence for a long, agonizing moment, the rain pounding against his dark armor.

Then, he spoke.

"Very well. I will give you a chance to live. If you can survive today, you will keep your life."

My heart stuttered in my chest. A violent jolt of shock ripped through my system. I stared at him, my mouth slightly open. I wasn't sure I had heard him right over the roaring in my ears.

Did he just say… a chance?

Zaric didn't wait for me to respond. He turned his head slightly toward his men.

"Caleb," he called out, his voice cutting through the rain.

"Yes, Alpha," replied a striking man stepping out from the front line. He had sleek blonde hair plastered to his forehead and a lean, muscular build. The Beta of the Ironclad Pack.

"Hand me my bow."

"Right away." Caleb obeyed swiftly. He reached over his shoulder, unslung a massive, terrifyingly large recurve bow, and placed the weapon directly into Zaric’s waiting hand.

Zaric grabbed a long, black-fletched arrow from Caleb's quiver. In one smooth, fluid motion, he nocked the arrow, drew the thick bowstring back with horrifying ease, and leveled the sharp steel tip directly at my chest.

The string groaned under the immense tension.

"Here is your chance, Luna," Zaric said, his voice deadly serious, his blue eyes locked onto mine down the shaft of the arrow. "I will give you exactly one minute to run. After sixty seconds, my men and I will draw our bows and fire. If you can outrun the arrows and escape the battlefield, you win. We will not hunt you down. You keep your life."

The silence shattered. The Ironclad soldiers erupted into raucous laughter. Their eyes lit up with sadistic delight. Hands reached for bows. Quivers were pulled forward. To them, I wasn't a Luna anymore. I wasn't a fallen enemy commander.

I was prey.

It was a hunt. A game for their amusement.

My chest tightened until I felt like my ribs were cracking. Panic surged through my veins, hot and blinding. Every rational instinct inside my brain screamed at me to stay down in the mud. I was bleeding out. My muscles were torn. I had a gaping hole in my stomach. Running was suicide. Staying down and taking a swift sword to the neck would be infinitely less painful than being feathered by fifty arrows while I tried to drag my broken body through the mud.

My mind told me to give up. To reject the cruel game and let it end here.

But… this had never happened before.

Not once. In nine bloody, miserable lives, Zaric had never spared me. He had never paused. He had never offered a game, a head start, or a way out. He had always just killed me.

This was a deviation. This was a crack in the loop.

My body shook violently. I was in agony. But somewhere deep, deep down inside the darkest, most broken part of my soul, a tiny spark ignited.

Hope.

A desperate, agonizing, clawing surge of hope.

I didn't want to die. I wanted to live. I wanted to see tomorrow. I wanted to survive long enough to walk away from this slaughterhouse and never look back.

Zaric’s head tilted slightly, his blue eyes glinting behind the drawn arrow.

"If I were you," he murmured, his voice carrying effortlessly over the laughter of his men. "I would start running."

My teeth sank so hard into my bottom lip that I tasted fresh blood. I forced my hands into the thick mud. My arms trembled violently as I pushed my weight up. Pain exploded in my stomach, radiating through my nervous system like liquid fire, but I ignored it. I gritted my teeth, planting my boots on the slippery ground, and forced my heavy, battered legs to straighten.

I stood up. I turned my back on the monster holding the bow.

And I ran.

Behind me, Zaric's voice started counting down, slow and rhythmic.

"One... two... three..."

I sprinted toward the distant tree line. My boots slammed into the mud. Every step sent a shockwave of torment through my wounds. My lungs burned. My vision blurred. I kept one hand pressed against my stomach, trying to hold myself together as I tore across the ruined battlefield.

I heard the soldiers counting with him. A choir of fifty men chanting my remaining seconds of safety.

"Fifty-eight... fifty-nine... sixty."

"Fire."

A massive, terrifying sound ripped through the air—the collective *twang* of dozens of bowstrings snapping forward at once.

A split second later, the air above me whistled. A deadly hail of steel descended.

I didn't look back. I didn't dodge. I just pushed my legs harder.

An arrow slammed into the back of my right shoulder. The impact threw me forward. The sharp steel tore through my flesh, grating against the bone. A scream ripped from my throat as white-hot pain seared through my entire body. Hot blood instantly soaked the back of my tunic.

Another arrow grazed my thigh, slicing a deep gash through the muscle.

I stumbled, my knee nearly hitting the mud, but I caught myself. I didn't stop.

Even as the arrows tore into my flesh, even as the agony threatened to rip my consciousness away, I kept running. I embraced the excruciating pain, letting the burn in my muscles and the fire in my wounds drive me forward.

I ran faster than I ever had in my entire life.

I ran, because for the first time in ten lifetimes, I actually had a chance.