Lychos Cycle

Chapter 2: Palace Of The Wereking

The back of the massive building offers better climbing routes and more private entry, one of which I carefully covet, to my own quarters. I race around the side, paws chilly as the dew catches the first hint of frost.

It's simple to skirt the handful of wereguards patrolling the grounds, not that they would dare stop me. But I use these moments as training, a reminder I refuse to grow soft in my skills if not in my heart. While it's probably silly to think I need to maintain the abilities I gained growing up as a bodywere, there is comfort in the old ways and I pride myself in maintaining my fitness as well as my particular talents.

I pause by a dark bush as two guards move past, close enough I could trip them if I so chose. I frown into the night, reminding myself to mention this to my grandfather. We aren't at the same level of alertness we used to be, but I fear our people grow casual about our safety and that I will not allow. The pride of the werenation demands nothing but our finest effort at all times.

They move on and I'm alone again. I spin toward the building, sprinting for the towering stone. The front façade is polished and shining but the back of the palace, facing the massive interior courtyard as the horseshoe shape engulfs the grounds, is rougher stone. Perfect purchase for fingers and toes, and even for wolf claws.

The first floor deck trestle leads to the old stone-work downspout and across to the thick, climbing vines and to my own balcony. My claws make clattering sounds on the stone as I bound over the edge and through the half-open glass door.

My body aches as it reverts to human form, wolf eyes locked on my reflection in the full-length mirror as I shrink, fur retreating, muzzle collapsing into my face. It hurts like an old, dead tooth wanting to be pulled, but in a good way, too, muscles well used for fine purpose. When I'm done, I stare, not at a wolf-shaped woman, but at a slim and pale-skinned girl, blonde hair wild around her face, my blue eyes the last to reshape into more normal irises.

My hand slides over my left shoulder, across the wolf-head tattoo I dared to have inked on my skin. Oleksander had nearly imploded when he saw it, but I adore it, mostly because my small rebellion is the first time I don't feel guilt over doing something I wanted to do just for me.

And, because of him. I shiver in the cold breeze coming through my door and turn to shut it with a solid thud, the gauzy curtains, far girlier than I am, settling to puddle their hems on the marble floor. The tattoo was his idea, and the artist, a friend he knew. Sage of the sea-green eyes and dark hair, with his strong hands and powerfully trained body. A warrior with the heart of a healer and the body of a god.

I will not think of him, not now. Maybe not ever again. I must let him go, my normal love, no matter how he makes me feel.

Smiling green eyes flash in my mind regardless of my wishes, and I smother Sage's handsome face with a litany of duty, honor and pride as I turn to my wardrobe and begin to dress. The opulence of the room around me is lost, wasted on a warrior who struggles to adjust to being a princess. I would be just as happy in a plain, small room, without the accoutrement of wealth and position. But I have no choices now, as I had none when I was a slave to the Black Souls, trading one loss of freedom for another.

The wardrobe door vibrates as I slam it shut, biting back my bitterness. I have a duty to my grandfather, to my people. I am free, but I will never be me.

My eyes meet my own gaze in the mirror and I draw a breath to settle myself. A few more and I've released my emotion, drawing on years of protections against the stirrings of my heart. When I'm done, I've succeeded in at least dulling both my physical and emotional aches to a distant throb.

Soft carpet muffles my long strides, carrying me quickly from my quarters and to the broad staircase leading down to the main floor and the throne room. I register and return the nods and greetings of the weres who pass me, wondering if they feel as out of their element now as I do. Yes, Syd did us a massive favor by healing us and giving us our freedom. But I can tell from the feel of my fellow weres, the sometimes awkward way they act, their hesitancy when faced with their own decision making instead of being directed, they, too, are still adjusting to not answering to anyone but other werewolves.

I think that is why most have stayed close to the palace. Not that we don't have room for the Ukraine weres in the massive building. But the need to serve is so ingrained in us, even I find myself looking to Oleksander, my king before he is my family, for guidance and the familiarity of order.

The closer I come to the throne room doors, the more my eagerness returns. I've missed my dear friend-my former пов'язаний, my bonded one-with a pain I often marvel at. Her perceived loss is still agony to me, the severance of our bond one of the most painful memories I will ever bear. She tells the story as though I had a choice to return from death, when the gunshot I took for her laid me low.

She still has no idea I had no choice but to come back to her. None at all.

The weres guarding the doors bow to me as I glide past, my focus now on the two figures at the far end of the long room. I no longer see the elaborate décor here, either, if I ever did, raised to it as I've been since childhood. The Faberge egg appearance of the overdone palace has become blasé and invisible to me. But every once in a while, I notice again and find myself standing, staring, in wonder how far my people have come to have taken this place from the evil that created us and made it our own.

My memories of living here as a small child are hard to chase away. Every time I walk this stretch of carpet to the throne, I recall the day I was given to the Dumont family, along with six other children of the werenation. And the memory still churns bile in my stomach. The ghostly, smiling image of Odette Dumont and her vile son, Andre, his eager anticipation terrifying me even then, winks into existence and out again as I banish the vision with a surge of raw hate.

But the sight of smiling Ethpeal shatters the old pull of fear and loathing and warms me with the fire of her love. This is my new life and I willingly hurry toward it.

***