Chapter 3: Property of the Lycan King
1278 Words
Lyra's POV
The new collar felt heavier than all the iron chains combined.
Its thick, black leather dug mercilessly into my bruised neck, completely covering the faded slave brand beneath it. It felt symbolic—as if it were seamlessly replacing one nightmare with another.
A guard brutally shoved my shoulder from behind. "Move."
I stumbled, my bare feet catching on the uneven floorboards. My legs were completely hollow from days without a proper meal, but I forced my muscles to lock and keep moving. Get up. Keep moving. Falling was dangerous. Falling meant getting kicked, or worse. I had learned that lesson the hard way when I was only ten years old.
As we walked out, the auction house slowly buzzed back to life behind us. The whispers of the nobles followed me like a shroud.
"Poor girl."
"She'll be dead before the week is out."
"They say the Lycan King has executed servants just for making eye contact."
"I heard he feeds disobedient slaves alive to his northern wolves."
Every single word settled like lead in my stomach. Maybe the rumors were true. Maybe they were just ghost stories meant to keep people compliant. Either way, it didn't change my reality. My life had never belonged to me, and it certainly didn't belong to me now.
Outside, a long line of midnight-black carriages waited beneath a heavy, weeping gray sky. Soldiers clad in dark steel armor stood in flawless, terrifying formation, the silver wolf insignias on their breastplates gleaming in the dull light.
No one spoke. No one smiled. Even the massive warhorses seemed frozen in fear.
The guard holding my leash grabbed the heavy chain attached to my new leather collar and gave it a sharp, cruel tug.
I choked, the leather cutting off my airway.
"Keep up," he barked.
"I-I'm trying..." I gasped, the words barely scraping past my throat.
The chain jerked again, harder this time. My balance snapped, and my knees slammed violently against the rough stone pavement. A sharp, blinding sting shot up both legs as the skin split wide open.
Warm blood immediately trickled down my shins, pooling around my ankles. The guard didn't even glance back. He just kept walking, dragging me behind him. I had no choice but to desperately crawl across the biting stones until I could force my trembling legs to stand again.
The townspeople lining the cobblestone streets watched the display. Some looked away in shame. Others openly laughed. A little boy near the front pointed a finger at me.
"Mother, why is she crawling like a dog?"
His mother flinched, quickly pulling him back into the safety of the crowd. "Don't stare, Leo."
"Why?"
"Because that's what happens when you're weak."
Her words sliced through me, hurting far deeper than the torn skin on my knees. Weak. Maybe she was right. Strong people weren't sold on wooden stages. Strong people didn't wear collars. Strong people didn't spend their entire lives praying that someone—anyone—would show them the smallest shred of human kindness.
I couldn't even remember the last time someone had spoken my name without malice.
"Lose the chain."
The deep, resonant voice cut through the air from somewhere behind us.
The guard froze instantly, his entire posture stiffening. "Your Majesty?"
"I said lose the chain."
The guard's arrogance vanished, replaced by sheer panic as he hurried to unclip the heavy metal lead from my collar.
I rubbed my burning, throbbing throat, completely stunned. Why? Why would the Blood King care?
I risked a small, fleeting glance back toward him. His expression was as cold and unyielding as a winter mountain. There was no concern in his crimson eyes. No pity. He simply looked annoyed—the exact way a nobleman looks when a careless servant scratches a piece of expensive furniture.
He didn't see a broken girl. He saw a piece of merchandise being damaged by a clumsy guard.
Property. The realization settled heavily in my chest, extinguishing any foolish spark of gratitude. I wasn't a person to him. I was just a purchase.
A servant stepped forward and opened the door to the primary carriage. The interior was draped in rich black leather and plush velvet. It was a level of luxury I hadn't seen in my entire life.
I hesitated at the step, unsure if a creature like me was even allowed inside.
A guard's hand landed roughly on my shoulder, shoving me forward. "Get in."
I climbed into the cabin without a word, curling into myself to ensure the blood dripping from my knees didn't stain the pristine velvet. The heavy door clicked shut, sealing us in.
An oppressive, absolute silence filled the carriage.
I sat as far from the Lycan King as humanly possible, pressing my spine flat against the opposite corner, trying to blend into the shadows. He didn't look at me. He didn't speak. He didn't acknowledge my existence at all.
Minutes stretched into agonizing hours as the carriage rolled over rough, winding mountain roads. Soon, my empty stomach began to cramp violently. I hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, and the physical toll was catching up to me.
Suddenly, the rich, intoxicating scent of fresh bread drifted through the cabin.
Only then did I notice the woven basket sitting on the seat beside him. Bread. Sharp cheese. Fresh fruit. Seared, roasted meat. My mouth watered instantly, a painful ache blooming in my jaw.
I quickly tore my eyes away, staring at my lap. Don't look. Don't hope. Hope was a dangerous thing; it always hurt worst of all.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the king reach into the basket. For one impossible, delusional second, my heart leaped. I thought he might offer me a scrap.
Instead, he calmly poured himself a cup of water and began to eat in complete, agonizing silence.
The scent alone was pure torture. My stomach betrayed me, letting out a loud, hollow growl that echoed clearly inside the quiet carriage.
Mortal heat rushed to my face, burning my cheeks. I wanted the floorboards to swallow me whole. How humiliating.
The king paused for a mere heartbeat, his crimson eyes shifting slightly, before he continued his meal as if he hadn't heard a thing. Of course he didn't care. Why would a king waste fine food on a dying slave?
I lowered my head, wrapping my arms tightly around my torso to try and force my stomach into silence. It didn't work. By the time the carriage finally groaned to a halt hours later, dark spots were dancing across my vision.
The door was thrown open, and a rush of biting, icy mountain air flooded the cabin.
A guard looked in at me, his lip curled in disgust. "Get out. Move it."
I tried. I really tried. But the moment my bare feet touched the frozen earth outside, my vision completely blurred. Everything spun violently. My knees buckled beneath my weight, completely useless.
I hit the frozen, snowy ground hard, unable to even lift my chin.
The last thing I heard before the cold darkness rushed in to swallow me whole was the guard's muffled, uncaring voice above me.
"...She's too weak."
And another voice answering quietly from the shadows, "She won't survive the winter."
And no one argued with him.
- Writer
