The Unwanted Mate Of The Lycan Kings

The howling sounds of wolves and gnashing jaws rip through the silent cave, and my eyes snap open to the suffocating darkness. At first, I wonder if I’d had another nightmare about being invaded, but a bloodcurdling scream sends a bolt of panic up my spine. This is it. We’ve all lived in fear that they would find us; it was only a matter of time, and our time is finally up.

My nightmares of the wolves had become so frequent and terrifying that I knew something awful was coming—just like Granny knew.

Snarling and shouts have me sitting upright, and the first vicious growl from somewhere down the cave’s corridor makes my heart lurch in my chest. They’re way too close.

My eyes scan the dark cave while I secretly pray I am wrong. Yet, the sound of flesh being ripped apart and claws scraping rock has me tossing my legs over the edge of my bearskin pallet.

The caves are chilly during the day and even colder at night, but they were the only place we felt safe. Another shrill howl reminds me how wrong we were. There is no safe place.

My eyes dart to my granny’s empty pallet with fear, but before the scream in my throat breaks free, I catch sight of her moving toward the dying fire with a jug of water. She douses the scantily glowing embers and holds a shaking finger to her lips. Through the wisp of smoke between us, I watch the cavern’s entry point with wide, terrified eyes.

These aren’t regular wolves we’re dealing with; they are part human, part animal. Beasts of man. Werewolves.

These savage beasts are part of the reason the human population has been so terribly decimated. They are also what drove us into these caves to begin with, far away from the monsters who linger on the mountain’s border and surround the neighboring kingdom.

More screams ring out loudly as I jump from my resting spot before approaching her. Granny glances at the pitch-black tunnel opening where the screams grow louder, and she signals for me to follow her.

Not that there is any need. We have practiced this scenario more times than I can count; it has been drilled into me for as long as I can remember. We move quickly, making our way deeper into the cave, climbing the rocks and squeezing through tight crevices. Despite my granny being nearly seventy, she moves through the dark like rushing water.

“Hurry, Zirah, it isn’t just werewolves,” she whispers, and I peer over my shoulder, suddenly fearing the dark I used to find comforting. My eyesight is better than most, but this cave is like a closed coffin without a single shaft of sunlight. We would be lost if we weren’t counting our steps right now and scraping our fingers along the walls for direction.

“What else?” I ask.

“The Lycan King’s guards,” she answers. I know better than to doubt her. My granny