Lycans Don't Lie

Chapter 10: The Buried Truth

POV: Elara (St. Mary's Church Crypt, 4:15 AM)

The silver veins running through the ancient stone walls pulsed like living circuitry, casting eerie blue shadows across the crypt. Heather's phone lay propped against a crumbling pillar, its screen flickering with the frantic comments of 3.7 million live viewers. The air smelled of damp earth and something metallic—like old blood and lightning.

I reached out, my fingers hovering inches from the glowing veins. The moment my silver-tipped claws neared the surface, the walls erupted with light.

1904.

The vision hit me like a freight train.

Lycan elders in heavy wool coats stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Bloodsinger aristocrats in silk waistcoats, all gathered around a massive oak table. Gold bars gleamed under gas lamps as contracts were signed with pens dipped in what looked like... mercury.

A child screamed off-camera—a high, terrified sound that made my hybrid instincts bristle. Then the image shifted:

Rows of glass tanks. Dozens of them. Each containing a small, silver-eyed figure suspended in amber fluid.

Hybrid children.

The projection zoomed in on one document, its words burning themselves into my retinas:

"Article 7: All hybrid offspring shall be collected for purification to prevent spread of the Lycan Curse."

A hand clamped down on my shoulder. I whirled to find Caden staring at the walls, his golden eyes reflecting the ghostly images. His claws were fully extended, digging into his own palms hard enough to draw blood.

"They lied," he said, voice rough. "For over a century. We weren't the disease—we were the cure."

The ground trembled. Dust rained from the ceiling as a distant explosion rocked the church's foundations.

Marcus's grande canisters.

Lira's fox ears flattened against her skull. "We've got maybe five minutes before this place becomes a crater."

Heather snatched up her phone. The camera lens caught the silver veins' projections, broadcasting the horrific history lesson to millions. "They need to see this," she said, jaw set. "The whole world needs to know what really happened."

A superchat notification flashed across her screen:

@BloodBae420: $500,000 for a clear shot of the documents.

I bared my fangs. "He's trying to buy the truth now?"

Heather's thumb hovered over the Venmo notification. Half a million dollars. Enough to disappear forever. Her heartbeat stuttered—I could hear the conflict raging inside her.

Then the walls screamed.

POV: Marcus (Bloodsinger HQ, 4:18 AM)

The control room monitors showed the live-stream from six different angles. Marcus leaned back in his leather chair, swirling a glass of 1982 Château Lafite that tasted faintly of iron.

"Magnificent," he murmured as the crypt walls displayed his ancestors' greatest con.

His lead tech—a nervous half-blood named Renfield—adjusted his headset. "Sir, the Council is demanding we shut it down. The exposure risk—"

"Let it play." Marcus didn't bother looking up from his tablet, where the SilverSwap metrics scrolled endlessly. User count: 1.4 million. Transactions processed: $9.8 million. "Fear needs a villain, Renfield. And thanks to our dear hybrids, the masses will have the freshest scapegoat in a century."

His personal phone buzzed. The screen showed a single word:

MOTHER

The message was brief:

You've exposed the game board. The pieces will scatter now.

Marcus typed back with one hand while the other initiated Protocol Blackout across the SilverSwap network:

"All the better to hunt them down, mother dearest."

A new alert popped up—the facial recognition software had identified something in the crypt's projections. Marcus zoomed in on a particular frame:

A young boy, maybe eight years old, being strapped to an examination table. Black fluid pumped into his veins through silver needles.

The child's face was unmistakable.

Himself.

Marcus's wine glass shattered in his grip.

POV: Caden (Crypt Depths, 4:20 AM)

The spiral staircase led down into darkness so complete it felt alive. The air grew thicker with each step, humming with energy that made my wolf stir uneasily.

Then the chamber opened before us.

Glass tanks.

Dozens of them, arranged in concentric circles like some horrific museum exhibit. Each contained a floating figure—men, women, even children—all with silver veins glowing faintly under their skin. Preservation fluid bubbled slowly, the only sign they weren't corpses.

At the center stood Jax, his palms pressed against the largest tank. Inside floated the woman from my visions—Maeve. Her flapper dress drifted around her like seaweed, and when Jax spoke, his voice came out layered with something... else.

"They kept them alive," he said without turning. "Batteries for their empire."

The ground shook violently. A c***k split the ceiling directly above Maeve's tank, raining dust into the amber fluid.

Marcus's bombs were getting closer.

I moved toward the tanks, my claws extending instinctively. "How do we wake them?"

Jax—or whatever was speaking through him—smiled. "The same way they put them under. Blood and betrayal."

He turned fully now, and I saw it—the silver completely overtaking his eyes, the way his canines had elongated beyond normal Lycan proportions. Whatever remained of my little brother was fading fast.

Another explosion, closer this time. The tanks trembled in their housings.

Elara grabbed my arm. "Caden, we're out of time. The live-stream—"

Heather's voice cut through the chaos: "We're viral!"

Her phone screen showed #LycanLies trending globally. Clips of the crypt walls' projections were spreading like wildfire—doctored footage of Marcus's ancestors torturing hybrids juxtaposed with modern SilverSwap ads.

Then the feed glitched.

A new message overrode Heather's screen:

SILVERSWAP PROTOCOL ACTIVATED

TERMINATING STREAM IN 10...9...8...

The countdown matched the tremors shaking the chamber.

POV: Elara

The first grande canister hit the church roof with the sound of the world ending.

Stone shattered. Wood splintered. The entire crypt groaned as centuries-old architecture fought to stay upright. Through the newly opened skylight, I saw them—dozens of drones circling like vultures, their payload bays open.

Heather screamed as her phone screen went black. "They killed the feed!"

Lira was already moving, her modified Keurig weapon spitting sparks. "We need to—"

The tanks began hissing.

One by one, the preservation fluid drained. Maeve's fingers twitched first, then her eyelids. All around the chamber, hybrids who had slept for a century drew their first breaths.

Maeve's silver eyes snapped open.

Her voice, when it came, was the sound of glaciers cracking:

"You're late."