THE LYCAN CROWN

EVREN

By the time the capital city of Tyrheim came into view, Evren could barely feel his hands and feet. The shackles around his wrists and ankles had rubbed his skin raw, and he barely felt the pain because his limbs had all gone numb from the cold.

By some miracle, the flash of heat haze he had felt two nights ago had led to nothing. Evren couldn’t tell if sinking his behind further into the snow was what had prevented his scent from leaking out. Perhaps the cold snow biting into his arse and making his buttocks numb was what did the trick. Or truly, there was a deity out there who had heard and answered his prayers.

He shook his head at the thought. Evren didn’t believe in deities, gods or the moon goddess.

The collectors hadn’t fed him for the past two days since their journey began, and hunger has become quieter now. Evren couldn’t even think about it too much either, because thinking required strength, and he didn’t have much of it to spare now anyway.

The carriage rolled beneath towering black gates, with silver wolf-like heads carved into it. The moment they crossed the capital’s gate, the air shifted to something dreadful, and for the first time in his life, Evren understood why people spoke of the Lycan Crown with fear.

Evren had always heard rumours of the Crown and the inhumane things he did, but back in StoneRidge, he had greater fish to fry instead of worrying about a king he would never meet in his entire life.

So he had thought, but that was no longer the case.

The crowds gathering near the gates kept their heads lower, peeking up occasionally as the crown collectors passed. There was no warmth in their presence, not one sound of laughter or whisper. The capital felt dead, desolate even with people lining the streets and families moving around in their homes.

Evren shrank deeper into the corner of the carriage, reminded that this was to be his new reality. The fear in the air stung his nose and stabbed at his senses, and Evren was no fool; he knew who they feared, and he was about to be handed to that Lycan.

By the time they made it to the palace gates up a mountain slope, Evren wished he could vanish into thin air. The carriage rolled through the guarded palace entrance with walls that seemed to touch the sky.

Delta wolves lined the inside of the palace as guards, their faces unmoving, eyes unblinking. Evren’s stomach twisted while one of the collectors dragged him out of the carriage unceremoniously. He kept his head down as they dragged him through the palace corridors. He heard doors opening before he was pushed into another hallway, and as they continued down the hallway, a scream caught his attention.

Evren flinched, his shackles clanging as a louder scream echoed from somewhere within the palace halls. A raw, broken sound that abruptly cut short. He stumbled to a stop, fear locking his limbs in place as he imagined if that were soon to be his future, his impending doom.

A guard accompanying the collectors angrily shoved Evren forward, only to pull harshly on the collar around his neck as the omega almost fell flat on his face.

His pulse quickened as enormous silver doors swung open, and Evren stopped breathing. They’d made it into the throne hall. The room stretched impossibly large before him, vaulted ceilings painted with moonlit wolves and a tale of ancient wars. Nobles and court officials lined both sides of the throne hall, each one decked in red apparel and a few in military uniforms. They talked amongst themselves, but their conversations barely carried sound, their shoulders tense and their form rigid.

At the far end of the hall, atop a dais, sat the Lycan throne made from skulls, spines and bones of fallen wolves. The history behind the skull throne was a tale told to every Lyconian offspring. And atop the Lycan Throne sat the Lycan Crown himself, Alpha King Lachlan, the last heir of Theron.

Evren had expected someone older than the king who sat on the skull throne. King Lachlan looked like he was either in his early forties or late thirties. And Evren had expected someone with greying hair and lazy eyes, not the tall, broad-shouldered giant that sat on the throne, his imposing frame commanding the hall without effort.

Dark hair carelessly fell across his forehead, softening none of the severity of a face so striking it looked as though it had been sculpted to perfection by Lycaon gods. His jaw was sharp enough to rival the finest sword ever forged.

Even from where Evren stood, he could make out the strong arch of the king’s brows, the proud line of his nose and eyes of glacial grey that held the weight of absolute power. The one sitting on the throne looked less like a king and more like a predator draped in a crown. And his cold grey eyes were the eyes of a predator accustomed to fear from his prey, a predator who had never known what it meant to be challenged.

Nausea curled up in Evren’s throat, his chest almost collapsing as those glacial eyes collided with his and an intense scent of charred wood, acrid and bitter, pressed against Evren’s glands.

His legs trembled, tremors wracking up his body from the force of it. Evren lowered his head, instinct screaming at him to submit, and he fought back with all he had. Luckily, the sound of chains dragging across the floor gave him the reprieve he needed, and Evren’s attention shifted despite himself.

There was a nobleman on his knees, one side of his face bleeding as he blabbered words Evren couldn’t quite hear clearly.

Evren picked up on the word 'treason' as the scent of charred wood pressing against his glands crept through his senses.

“Your Majesty, please—my family… my daughter is but a month old_”

“Your family?” The king interrupted with a calm ire, “You sold military routes to the southern rogue militants.” His voice was a deep, terrifying calmness that made Evren’s stomach roll. Even though the king hadn’t raised his voice, Evren felt every bit of danger in his words.

“I made a mistake,” the noble lamented.

“Thousands died for your mistake,” the king muttered.

Evren wasn’t sure what had prompted him to look away from the battered noble and in the direction of the Lycan crown, but he did. And the Lycan king had his eyes on Evren, one brow slightly furrowed, easy to miss if no one paid attention. He leaned back against his throne, his eyes never leaving Evren.

And Evren should’ve looked away; he knew that, but he couldn’t. The scent pressing against his glands felt like smoky hands wrapped around Evren’s nape, holding him in place.

“Remove his eyes,” the king ordered, his gaze still fixed on Evren, and Evren’s blood turned ice. His face blanched at the words. Yet, no one in the hall uttered a word in protest against the Lycan Crown.

The screams and pleas of the nobleman echoed through the hall as the guards carried out the king’s order. Evren felt every thread of fear burrowing through his skin, his eyes filled with unshed tears as he silently begged whatever force holding his head in place to let him look away. He was no match for the fury in the king’s eyes. No match for all that coldness and power that held nothing but terror pinned on him.

“Hang him outside the eastern gate. Alive. Let vultures feed on him and let everyone here remember the cost of betrayal.” The words fell lightly from the king, like he hadn’t just sentenced someone to death.

Evren’s empty stomach lurched as the collector shoved him forward while the guards dragged the nobleman out of the throne, his blood staining the Marble floor.

“Your Majesty!” The collector muttered, falling on one knee, his head bowed. “StoneRidge’s tribute to the Crown,” the collector announced.