Luna of the Beastly Lycan King

Chapter 1. A slave

DANIKA

The abyssal shroud of night enveloped me like a cloak of inky blackness as I raced through the thicket of the forest. The nocturnal shadows, akin to a marauding pack of lycans, clawed at my skin—branches snagging my clothes and scratching my flesh like the claws of those monstrous beasts. Those monsters!

My breathing ragged—Tahlia!

Run!

Run! She had said, so I continued.

Warm moisture trickled into my wounded ear, trailing down my neck. With each step, each push, the ache intensified, burning. Aching. More—thick, warm streams followed—blood, spreading as if my ear had been torn off by those brutal talons.

Yet, I dared not touch, not to feel, only to run and run. I flee.

My desperate flight steered me toward the Eastern border, where the nearest werewolf pack lay miles away. If I could but reach them in time, perhaps, just perhaps, the werewolf brethren might summon the strength to confront the lycans and rescue our pack ...Yet, Tahlia's image haunted my every thought. It clung to me like a shadow. Guilt chewed at me, regretting, hating the moment I had abandoned her. I cursed myself for obeying her command to run, leaving her alone in the chaos.

My eyes burned—for her, for everyone, for Regulus—brother! Gods, Regulus, so unyielding, not one to shy away from a fight, not one to fear his enemy, not one to see terror and retreat. Unlike me, the weakling, always needing saving. I hated my fragility, despised how feeble I was in such dire times. They fought, striving against the Lycans, and I fled. I fled! No matter how I masked it as seeking aid from another pack, my heart betrayed the truth—I feared returning more than anything. I was a coward, truly. Bitterly. Perpetually weak.

Calling for help was my only recourse, yet even that taunted me, the fear of what may be our reality should I fail, should she fail to restrain the beast. If only the heavens would hear my cry, this once.

My breaths ragged in the cold night air—anguish gripped me as a thorn cruelly impaled my bare foot. A piercing cry and I stumbled onto the muddy ground, witnessing blood mingling with the soil.

Shuddering at the sight, I gaped at the lone thorn protruding through my foot, goring the top like a jagged sentinel. My breath hitched, eyes ablaze; this time, tears streamed. For an ephemeral moment, my senses dulled. I had only silence in my head. Only silence, as I began screaming. Screaming and screaming as the onslaught of more pain struck.

Pain.

Pain.

So much pain.

Trembling hands reached for my leg, cradling my foot, then, with closed eyes, I extracted it from the thorn, entangled with a tree root that sprawled across the sludgy dirt. The gash ran deep—wide enough for a finger to slide through, blood gushing forth.

Each of my breaths was like having claws dragged through my inside. Unbearable.

I tore at the edge of my gown, shakingly fashioning a long ribbon from it, and began to bind it around my bloody foot, watching the cloth quickly gouge in blood.

With grit, I rose to my feet, forcing myself to continue despite the searing pain in my injured leg. Limping forward, each step burned, my bare leg sinking into the muddy ground as I dragged it across. The darkness seemed to press in on me, and my breaths came in ragged gasps.

I barely made it far when a sudden impact from behind sent me sprawling to the ground. Groaning, I clutched my injured leg, pain surging through my body.

"Ain't you going to rise, lass?" A male voice grunted from behind, deep and resonant with anger, as if despising how frail I cried. I loathed it too. The pain was overwhelming, so much that I wished to feel nothing, even if only for a moment, if the gods would grant me that favor.

"Hey!"

"Grab her."

The command barely echoed before a robust hand roughly seized my arm, yanking it from my foot as he hoisted me upright, pulling my hair so hard I feared my flesh ripping off. I bit my lip to keep from crying out more than I did already—bit it hard enough to draw blood as rivers of fire exploded inside me, as my head swam, and all my senses narrowed down to the pull of my hair. Every tug burned—so intensely that collapsing seemed a merciful option.

My head tilted to see a large figure, tears causing him to appear somewhat blurry, and as he approached, his brown ragged beard and mustache came into focus, full and barely revealing his lips. Another wielded a flaming torch, casting warm light on one side of the bearded man's face, where a scar, like the savage aftermath of claw marks, marred his right eye. Perhaps done by the likes of him. No wolf could inflict such brutal claw marks that ran down his right side.

The scar lent him a terrifying air, and with every breath, my insides quivered.

“The gods must have created you on an ill-fated day to venture this far from your Pack, lone wolf."

I shuddered, barely able to stand, whimpering as I observed him drawing near. I hadn't considered the peril that might befall me, never looked in the direction where fleeing might cost me my life until now, as I watched the lone hazel eye pierced through me, a gaze so vicious it sent chills down my spine. Hateful.

“Please," I murmured, as his rugged fingers sought my chin, turning my face to inspect my wounded ear. His nose twitched in repulsion as he pivoted my face, scrutinizing every inch of me. With a huff of breath, he released his grip.

I watched. Waited. Mired in confusion, unsure of the impending fate that loomed over me. The irony that I had fallen into the clutches of Lycans while fleeing from Lycans mocked me from within. My knowledge of them was a void. I knew nothing. That emptiness terrorized me.

“Please. Please let me go.”

He motioned to the man holding me from behind, the one whose face I had yet to see, or perhaps it was to another, and in a swift motion, a cloth covered my eyes. By another, I could tell.

Panic surged through me, and just as I sought to plead—plead for my release, for mercy, yearning for this to all be a mere nightmare, for me to wake up to the aroma of cooking soup, the very one Regulus made every morning... I felt a swift, punishing blow against my head, and I feebly surrendered to the all-encompassing darkness.

☆☆☆

I must have been knocked out because I awoke to the grating sound of a metal door against stone. The pain that surged through every part of my frail form overwhelmed me to the point that my right leg could not be moved from the position I had woken up to. A dungeon I was in. I could tell by the massive railings that barred the entrance, housing many huddled figures, mainly female—much like myself.

And even with the confusing sight, my only recourse was to press against the far wall, the coolness of the cold beneath my back, letting the wound gnaw on my strength, trying my best not to think about my situation, not to think about the fact that the blood from my leg continued to flow.

Worse still, I was burning with fever.

The coldness of the rough wall only made it much more obvious. This sight, everything seemed to contribute to the heat that flushed my face. I was burning.

No face appeared familiar and I just clung to the wall, fervently praying to the gods for release from this nightmarish reality. The metallic clang, the chill emanating from the walls, the eyes that met mine—all attested to the harsh truth. This was real. It was not a dream. The assault on my pack, Tahlia's screams, the male lycan in the woods—all had taken place. This was real, not a dream. Not real. Not real. Not real. I cried.

I held to the wall as my eyes burned with tears and my heart pulsed in panic.

My eyelids lifted, meeting the sea-green eyes of another. They were...peaceful? Beautiful. Her brown hair was braided and curled around her head.

Eirin, I later learned her name to be. Were it not for her aid, her cleansing, and the binding of my leg with a clean cloth, I might have joined my fallen packmate ... a breath of relief when I realized my ear remained, untorn, though talons had etched deep marks into its side, extending toward the sensitive curve of my neck.

They stung.

Perhaps, there were moments when the thought of succumbing to the pain crossed my mind. But if given the chance to see my family again—Regulus, Father, Tahlia—maybe living wouldn't be a terrible idea.

So I endured.

Days grew just as the number of us in the dungeon dwindled, and with it came this lingering panic—the uncertainty of where the others were taken.

Wulpen, we learned, was the name of the land that confined us. Beyond that, the fate of my following moments remained unknown, locked within this dungeon, receiving a meager meal that scarcely reached a quarter of the occupants.

If ever hell existed, perhaps, I dwelled in its depths.

The jingling of keys heralded the arrival of a huge figure, a bald-headed behemoth standing before the steel bars, emitting a haunting whistle that gradually faded as the latch yielded. The bars creaked on their hinges as strong hands drew them open.

We were soon bound by a rugged rope, cinching around our ankles that left bruises on mine, uniting us in a chain where each person was tethered to the next, where escape meant dragging others unwillingly—barbaric—a sealed fate I detested.

Whatever was to happen next was a thing I could not predict, and as I trailed behind Eirin, shadowing the fella who guarded us, my mind dwelled on my flight that night, how I had let my fear and weakness push me to flee, the mocking—haunting thought that I never accomplished that single task I had relied on to take up in cleansing myself of the guilt, that I had listened to Tahlia’s cry to run, worse, that I had failed. I was useless. Perhaps this fate was my punishment. This was my life now. A slave. So pitiful.

Oh, dear Goddess—

A momentary lapse in my senses was followed by the sight of a smallish figure walking alongside an elderly man, draped in a robe that oozed aristocracy—perhaps a lycan of high status. A few paces away, wild silver strands fell in a familiar pattern.

Ulric?

No. No mistake lingered; that fleeting glimpse of his face when he glanced up at the man erased all doubt. Ulric.

For a moment, I forgot the cruel fate that bound me, lost in the fragile illusion of a reality I desperately desired—one where I could save him, save us from this. Just as I lured from the chain, risking reaching out to him, it came—the displeased sapphire eyes of the male Lycan who guarded us.

The Lycan’s groan was only my warning as something rock-hard collided with my jaw.

Blood spilled from my mouth, its metallic tang coating my tongue. Perhaps I had screamed in agony too, before I knew no more.

Gradually, my senses returned, each awakening more painful than the last. Blurred visions. The sound of wheels creaking first, then the rhythmic echoes of hoofs against the ground, no, not only that, there was something wet and muddy, as though soaked by rain. A lingering coppery taste coated my mouth, every corner—blood. My body sprawled across a moving wooden surface, and as I attempted to shift, sharp pains scorched my jaw at the slightest movement. Wincing, I opened my eyes, and what I beheld didn't do much to my confused spirit.

I was in a horse carriage, sprawled across the floor, torn leather footwear looming close to my face. My clogged nostrils inhaled the tang of mold beneath the sole, and the reek of mildew that scented the torn filth leather shoe.

My gaze followed the footwear to a familiar brown skirt, then to pale fingers with bruised knuckles, and finally, Eirin's face with her brown hair braided down her chest.

"You wake at last," her soft voice reached me as she extended her hands, pulling me up.

My eyes rounded the dim carriage to take in two others, but even as I sat up—my head so dizzy I almost blacked out again—my heartbeat quickened. A carriage, but to where? I could not tell.

“Where...” I groaned at the throbbing mess of agony that swelled through my jaw.

My hand supported my head. It aches—aches worse when I reach for my jaw, swollen, maybe broken, that my mouth seems to be in an awkward position.

“I do not know.”

“No talking!” the growl of a male came from behind the carriage, of some kind of disgruntled peddler after a failed sale. So callous that even the two lasses coward their heads in fear. I too.

Our whereabouts were unknown to me, how far away we were from my pack. It was night. I examined the slants of light that crept in through the small cracks between the window and the wall of the carriage behind the heads of the two others, it was probably from a lamp outside.

I could not panic. Could not speak. No, I had to stay calm, had to keep my wits together. I for one had now twice lived through the consequences of going against their order. If only I had not fled, that I stayed behind even with the cries of Tahlia for me to flee. If I hadn't been a coward, maybe, just maybe I would still be in my pack. Maybe all of this won't be a reality I had to face.