Visaris
Later, I woke up in my bed, my body bandaged, my muscles aching. My mother sat beside me, her face streaked with tears as she gently wiped the sweat from my brow. She cried for days while I healed, her hands trembling every time she touched me, as if the very act of holding me caused her pain.
I survived that day. But the scars I earned—the ones that still burned when the weather turned cold—reminded me of the lesson my father had intended to teach: weakness had no place in the world of Lycans. Not even for a child.
Then, when I was ten, my mother became pregnant again. Her body was too weak to carry another child, and yet my father insisted. He didn’t care about her health, only about producing more heirs. I confronted him, furious, and all he said was that it was her duty as t
