#3: Lucien

Lucien

Lucien had learned young that silence was not safety.

Even now, decades later, he still woke some nights to the phantom sound of screams. Blood. The smell of iron choking the air.

He was ten, perhaps younger but the night still burned into him like a brand.

The firepit in the council chamber roared higher, snapping Lucien back to the present. He realized his hand was clenched so tightly on the table that the wood had splintered beneath his grip.

Across from him, Darius stood watching. Not with pity – Lucien would have gutted him for that – but with a soldier's patience, waiting for the Alpha to master himself.

"You should not go to her again," Darius said at last.

Lucien released the table, flexing his hand. "You would forbid me?"

"I would advise you," Darius corrected, voice steady. "Every time you step into her cell, you drag the ghost of weakness with you. The men whisper, Lucien. They wonder why she still breathes."

"She's leverage."

"Leverage?" Darius echoed. "Against whom? The vampires who would never claim her? The wolves who would rather see her ashes than her face?"

Lucien's silence was answer enough.

"Then you keep her for yourself," Darius pressed, stepping closer. "But at what cost? The men already whisper. They ask why the Alpha spares what should be executed. Do you want dissent? You know how thin loyalty runs when fear curdles."

Lucien's jaw worked. He wanted to snarl, to silence Darius the way he silenced lesser wolves. But Darius wasn't lesser. He was his brother in all but blood, the only one who'd stood at his side the night of the raid, the only one who had seen him survive when others had perished.

And worse… Darius was right.

Still, Lucien said, "My reasons are my own. The pack will obey."

"The pack will obey you," Darius said grimly, "but they will question. And questions, Alpha, are knives waiting to be sharpened."

Lucien met his gaze, steel against stone. "Would you have me kill her tonight?"

"Yes," Darius said without hesitation. "If not tonight, then soon. Every day you keep her you risk more than whispers. You risk corruption, or worse... rebellion."

Lucien should have agreed. Should have ordered it now, watched the light drain from those mocking eyes, silenced that sharp tongue once and for all.

But his wolf howled in defiance, rising so violently inside him that his breath caught.

Ours.

He slammed the thought down with a force so strong it made his head ache.

"She will die," Lucien said at last. "But not yet. There are… matters I must settle first."

Darius's eyes narrowed. "What matters?"

Lucien hesitated, rethinking his next words. But still, he said it: "Find Tatia."

The silence that followed was heavier than the stone walls. Darius blinked, "I'm sorry, Alpha, I think I misheard."

"I'm sure your ears work just fine," Lucien said.

Another silence, then…

"Lucien." Darius's voice dropped low. "You know what she is."

"I know," Lucien said sharply. "Better than most."

"The pack will never stand for it. Wolves and vampires share nothing in common, and even they agree on one thing… witches are filth. Tatia is the worst of them all. She's a slow acting poison. You know that."

Lucien met his gaze. "Yes, I do. But I also know that poison can be useful, if wielded by the right hand."

Darius shook his head. "You risk too much. Calling her into our lands is madness. For what possible reason would you need the witch?"

"It's a necessity," Lucien said coldly. "That's all you need to know. Now go find her and bring her to me. That 's an order."

For the first time in years, Darius hesitated. His mouth opened as if to argue, then snapped shut. The defiance in his eyes flared once, then dimmed beneath the weight of command.

"As you command," he said bowing stiffly and turned to leave.

"She is not one of us," Darius said when he reached the door. "She never will be. Remember that."

With that, he left, heavy boots echoing down the corridor.

Lucien stood in silence, staring into the fire.

Not one of us.

Of course she wasn't. She was an abomination. A creature born of the same blood that had killed his family, that had poisoned his pack, that had forced him to claw his way to survival from the ashes of a slaughtered childhood.

He should have torn her throat out the moment they dragged her before him. And yet… he hadn't.

Every time his claws itched for her blood, his wolf snarled one word, the same word, over and over: Mate. The bond mocked him. Shackled him. It dared to tie him to the very thing he despised.

But bonds could be broken.

He had heard whispers of ancient rites and forbidden rituals that could end this. They came at a cost, but Lucien would pay it. He would sever this cursed mate bond no matter the price.

And when he did, Nyra would die screaming.

Not long after, the chamber doors creaked open again.

Not Darius this time, but one of the younger wolves, nervousness radiating from him like smoke. "Alpha," he said, bowing low. "The prisoner… she has begun speaking to the shadows. Some of the men say the darkness moves when she laughs."

Lucien rose, his presence filling the room like a storm front. "Then let them see. Let them remember why she is dangerous."

"But Alpha–"

"Do you question me?"

The boy's throat bobbed. "Never."

"Then hold your tongue. Or I will take it from you."

He bowed again, stumbling back toward the doors.

"Wait."

The boy stopped immediately, turning.

Lucien's voice came again, with calm calculation. "Move the prisoner with the Mind Rot to the cell beside hers. That should keep her busy for a while."

The boy's eyes widened in surprise, but was quickly replaced by a wide grin. He bowed deeply, almost eager now. "At once, Alpha."

When he was gone, Lucien turned back to the fire.

Lucien exhaled, slow and steady, though his wolf still clawed at his insides. The bond tugged, unwanted, insistent, pulling his thoughts back to her.

Nyra.

He hated her. He hated the shadows that curled at her feet like loyal pets. He hated the way she smiled, as if chains were a joke.

He hated the blood that ran in her veins – the same cursed blood that had made his father fall, that had made his mother scream, that had made his brother's lifeless eyes stare back at him through the cracks in the floorboards.

Mind Rot was a sickness almost as old as the wars themselves. No one seemed to know how it came about, but wolves afflicted with it lost their grip on reason piece by piece. First came the murmurs, then the laughter, then the bloodlust that never ceased. They tore at themselves, at their kin, until nothing remained but a body too broken to heal.

Even a caged wolf in that state was a storm waiting to break.

Nyra would face that storm tonight.

For now, though, his thoughts betrayed him, dragging him back to her smile, her voice, the shadows curling like loyal pets at her feet.

He hated the way his wolf whispered her name like a prayer he didn't want to understand.

And he hated himself most of all for hearing it.