All Chapters of Bound to the Ashes: The Lycan King’s Regret: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The metal exit door of the Petrova-Dragomirov Maritime Alliance opened into a narrow, dimly lit concrete alleyway.Two heavily armed Mafia guards walked Alexander out, their expressions flat and unreadable as they stripped the temporary medical bracelet from his wrist. He was still wearing the simple, oversized black hoodie they had provided to replace his ruined tuxedo, and his right hand remained tightly wrapped in clean white gauze. The saline IV had restored the warmth to his veins, but it could not cure the hollow, freezing rot eating away at his soul."The Sovereign said if your shadow falls across our security monitors again, we shoot on sight," the lead guard stated, his voice flat. "Move along, Vance."Alexander did not look back as the heavy iron door slammed shut behind him, the mechanical locks clicking into place with a definitive, mocking echo.The rain had stopped, leaving New City under a thick, suffocating blanket of gray fog. The midnight air was cold, biting at his e

The fluorescent tubes hummed with a flat, sterile vibration that grated against Alexander’s raw nerves.He woke up slowly, his body feeling as though it had been dragged through concrete. The thick, suffocating heat of the silver poisoning was gone, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion. He was lying on a low cot in a secure, subterranean holding cell. The walls were solid, seamless blocks of reinforced ballistic concrete. The front of the cell was sealed by a thick pane of high-impact plexiglass, fortified with an invisible, electrified mesh grid designed specifically to contain high-tier Lycan targets.Alexander pushed himself up onto one elbow, his teeth gritting as his left shoulder flared with a sharp, localized pain.He looked down at his torso. His black hoodie was gone, replaced by a clean, gray tactical shirt. Beneath the fabric, a thick medical patch covered the deep gash where Logan’s silver blade had carved into his flesh. The black, necr

The ancestral estate of the Vance pack council sat hidden within a dense, private valley on the northern outskirts of New City. Shielded from 21st-century satellite surveillance by military-grade frequency jammers, the grand stone manor served as the true, primitive heart of the royal bloodline. Here, high finance faded, replaced by the raw laws of territorial dominance and brute physical force.When Alexander blew through the heavy oak doors of the council chamber, the room was already filled with the stench of imminent warfare.Six senior pack elders sat around a massive slate table, their faces grim under the harsh lighting. Maps of the Dragomirov estate were spread across the stone surface, marked with red tactical lines detailing entry points, heavy weaponry routes, and security blind spots. Assault rifles, silver-plated ammunition crates, and tactical gear were stacked against the stone walls."Alexander," Elder Thomas gasped, standing up so fast his heavy

The midnight fog rolled off the shipping canals in dense, suffocating sheets, swallowing the 21st-century cityscape of New City in a blanket of absolute gray. At the southern gates of the Petrova-Dragomirov Maritime Alliance, the automated security grids hummed with a flat, mechanical vibration. The high-definition thermal cameras mounted along the twenty-foot reinforced walls panned back and forth, their infrared lenses tracking the empty pavement.Alexander Vance stood perfectly still directly beneath the dim, yellow glare of a lone streetlamp.He looked nothing like the supreme corporate titan who had once dominated the nation's financial boards. His tailored clothes were gone, replaced by a damp, soot-stained black hoodie and simple tactical pants. His left arm hung stiffly at his side, the deep silver-poisoned gash from Logan’s blade throbbing with a violent, feverish heat. Every time his heart beat, dark crimson blood seeped through his crude bandages, soak

The rhythmic, monotonous hum of the life support machinery was the only sound breaking the heavy silence of the underground medical unit. High-intensity halogen lamps flooded the subterranean room with an unforgiving white glare, illuminating the glass-walled observation deck that overlooked the primary surgical bay. The air inside the observation room was thick with the scent of sterile antiseptic, expensive leather, and a lingering hint of ozone that always accompanied high-tier Lycan energy under distress.Alexander Vance lay completely motionless on a high-tech hospital bed, his massive, muscular upper body swathed in thick layers of heavy white compression bandages. The black, necrotic tracks of the silver poisoning had finally faded from his throat, leaving behind raw, angry pink scars that stretched down past his collarbone and disappeared beneath the medical wraps. An automated IV matrix was clamped tightly to his right wrist, continuously pumping a highly concentrated mixture