Chapter 3 The Lycan King

Warmth.

That was the first thing Ayla noticed.

Not pain. Not fear. Not even the dull ache in her chest that had become so familiar she'd forgotten it was unnatural.

Just warmth.

Soft fur cradled her body. The scent of firewood and forest clung to the air, thick and earthy, as comforting as it was foreign. Her lashes fluttered, struggling to open against the heaviness dragging her down.

She shifted, barely, and her fingers brushed the edge of a fur-lined blanket-real fur, plush and thick. Beneath her, the mattress gave slightly, more luxurious than anything she'd ever slept on. Her heart stuttered.

This wasn't the forest floor.

Her eyes snapped open.

Stone walls rose around her, tall and imposing, etched faintly with patterns she didn't recognize-runes, maybe. Ancient. A fire burned low in the hearth across the room, casting shadows that danced along the ceiling like spirits in mourning.

She sat up too fast. The world spun.

Her breath came out in quick, shallow bursts as her gaze swept the room. Heavy beams framed the ceiling. A carved wooden door stood shut to her left. Iron sconces lined the walls, their flames flickering gently.

Everything was old. Timeless. Regal.

But not human.

Ayla looked down.

Her dress-different. Clean. Simple. Soft linen laced at the throat and wrists. Someone had tended her wounds. Her arms were bandaged. The grime beneath her fingernails scrubbed away. Even her hair had been washed and braided loosely down one shoulder.

Who had touched her?

She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her collarbone. The mark was still there-cooler now, but faintly glowing. Sleeping, maybe. Or waiting.

> "Where am I?" she whispered to no one.

Her voice barely broke the quiet.

But the quiet wasn't empty. It listened.

The air held something heavy-like power coiled behind the walls. Like the breath of something waiting just beyond reach.

She rose slowly, her bare feet meeting polished stone floors.

The truth settled in her chest like a stone dropped in still water.

This wasn't a home.

It wasn't a prison either.

It was something older. Wilder. Bound by claw and crown.

A fortress.

And not just any fortress.

> A Lycan stronghold.

The corridor was colder than the room, lit by torches that burned low and steady. The air tasted of iron and ash-like something had bled here and been scrubbed away too many times to count.

Ayla stepped into the hall on bare feet, the cold stone biting at her soles, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.

She needed answers.

The walls stretched high, vaulted like a cathedral, but darker-etched with runes that shimmered faintly when she passed. Every step echoed, even when she tried to move quietly. Her heart pounded in her chest like it was trying to warn her of something her mind hadn't caught up to yet.

She rounded a corner-and froze.

Two warriors passed her. Tall. Broad. Armor strapped across their chests, blades at their hips. Their eyes-sharp, golden, inhuman-flicked to her and lingered.

One of them murmured to the other, not quietly enough.

> "That's her."

The second one nodded. "The girl from the Veil."

Ayla didn't wait for more. She kept walking, though her legs trembled. The corridor twisted and opened into a larger hall-stone columns and arched ceilings loomed above her. Doors lined the walls. Behind one, she heard a voice.

Low. Urgent.

> "She touched him..."

Another answered, hushed and reverent.

> "The mark appeared. I saw it with my own eyes."

She slowed, breath catching.

> "It can't be. She shouldn't exist."

Her hand flew to her collarbone, fingers brushing the mark.

Still there.

Still warm.

Her heart pounded harder, and suddenly she felt watched, not just by the warriors or whispers-but by the stone itself. Like this place remembered things long buried. Like it had seen her coming.

She turned sharply into a side corridor, leaning against the wall to catch her breath. Her mark pulsed once beneath her fingertips.

> "Touched the Alpha?" she whispered, eyebrows furrowed. "What Alpha?"

But deep down, part of her already knew.

The one with the golden eyes.

The one who'd fought for her.

Who'd caught her before she fell.

Who held power like it weighed nothing.

The one the whispers were afraid to name aloud.

Ayla didn't get far before they found her.

A warrior stepped into her path-silent, armed, eyes like sharpened steel. He didn't speak. Just nodded once, short and stiff, and turned.

A command.

Follow.

Ayla hesitated-but something in his gaze made it clear. Refusing wasn't an option. Not here. Not in this place.

She fell in step behind him.

They moved through corridors that grew darker, older, deeper with every turn. The walls were no longer polished. They were etched-scarred with ancient runes that pulsed faintly when she passed. She couldn't tell if they were warnings or wards.

The warrior said nothing. Never looked back.

She glanced at the blades strapped across his back. The way he walked-silent, confident, controlled-spoke of discipline forged through war, not ceremony. Whoever these Lycans were, they weren't just creatures of myth.

They were soldiers. Protectors. Predators.

This wasn't a palace.

It was a barracks built like a kingdom.

She passed more guards stationed at high-arched doors, each armed and unreadable. No one bowed. No one smiled. No one offered comfort or curiosity. They didn't see her as a guest. Maybe not even as human.

This place wasn't ruled by kindness.

It was ruled by command.

And someone-or something-sat at the center of it.

They descended a short staircase, the walls narrowing around her. Torches flickered like nervous heartbeats. Every step echoed like a countdown.

Then she heard it.

A voice.

Low. Smooth. Lethal.

It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.

> "Have the patrols doubled on the western ridge. I want eyes on every shift that breaches the Veil."

The sound of it stopped her mid-step.

Not because it was angry.

But because it wasn't.

It was calm. Precise. A tone that didn't ask-it commanded.

Authority in its purest form.

She couldn't see him yet, but she didn't need to.

The walls listened when he spoke.

Her pulse jumped.

The warrior guiding her paused before a set of enormous ironwood doors. Runes glowed faintly along the frame. Two guards opened them without a word.

The warrior finally turned to her.

His expression was blank.

But his meaning was clear:

> Enter.

Inside...

The voice waited.

> The King.

The Lycan King.

The doors groaned open-slow, deliberate-like the fortress itself was holding its breath.

Ayla's own lungs forgot what to do.

He stepped through the threshold.

Not the beast from the forest.

Not the shadow in the mist.

But the King.

His cloak swept the floor behind him like a river of black smoke. His frame filled the room-tall, broad-shouldered, unapologetically lethal. Power radiated from him in waves so dense it made the air feel thinner.

He didn't look at the guards. Didn't acknowledge the warriors lining the stone walls with their swords drawn and their stances tense.

He only looked at her.

And his eyes-

Still gold. Still burning.

But colder now. More restrained. No longer wild.

They held no gentleness. Only the weight of a thousand decisions made too soon, of blood spilled in silence, of kingdoms built on bone.

He stopped a few feet from her. His presence pulled the room into silence. Even the torches seemed to dim.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Ayla's breath caught.

Her fingers twitched against her side, itching to shield her mark, even though it was too late for that.

He had already seen it.

He had already seen everything.

When he finally spoke, it wasn't soft.

It wasn't kind.

It was a blade drawn in the open.

> "You're going to tell me everything, girl."

His voice cracked the silence like a whip.

And Ayla, for all her fire, all her stubbornness-could only stare back at him.

Because she didn't even know what everything was yet.

But she was about to find out.