THE FORSAKEN LYCAN PRINCESS.

CH 17..

The narrow, candlelit corridor leading toward the upper residential chambers was deathly quiet, smelling of beeswax, damp stone, and old tapestries.

I walked steadily down the runner of dark wool, carrying a fresh clay jug of spring water in my left arm. My body still ached from the physical toll of yesterday’s violence, and the raw, tender skin along my spine hummed with a quiet heat. But the suffocating weight that had rested on my chest for twenty-three years was gone.

I walked with my head up. My eyes were calm, clear, and unburdened.

As I turned the corner near the carved oak archway of the guest wing, a soft rustle of heavy silk echoed down the hall.

A figure stepped out of the private parlor doorway and immediately froze.

It was Tanya.

She was dressed in an elaborate gown of pale sea-green velvet, her blonde hair pinned back with silver combs. But no amount of velvet or silver could hide the truth written across her face. Her left cheek was dark, heavy, and grotesquely swollen, a vivid shade of deep purple and violent red breaking through her thick layer of white cosmetic powder. The corner of her lip was split, holding a small dark scab.

The moment her blue eyes locked onto mine, her entire body rigidified.

In the past, seeing me in a lonely hallway would have made Tanya’s lips curve into a cruel, triumphant smirk. She would have called for the guards, demanded I bow in the dirt, or stepped on my bare feet just to hear me whisper an apology.

Today, her pupils dilated into wild, pinprick black. An involuntary, sharp gasp tore from her throat, her right foot instantly taking a panicked half-step backward toward the open parlor door.

I didn't stop walking. I didn't rush. My feet moved in smooth, measured, perfectly calm strides across the runner.

Tanya’s chest heaved in rapid, shallow gasps. She looked around frantically, realizing with a wave of sheer panic that the long corridor was completely empty. No Beta guards were standing post at the archway. No servant girls were fussing behind her. She was entirely alone with the girl she had spent two decades beating, starving, and belittling.

"Don't... don't you come near me!" Tanya hissed, her raspy voice cracking on the final word. She tried to raise her hand to point at me, to sound authoritative, but her fingers were trembling so violently she dropped them back to her side.

I stopped ten feet away from her. I held the simple clay water jug loosely against my side, looking at her with a quiet, impassive gaze.

"I am simply delivering water, Tanya," I said softly. My voice wasn't a bitter growl, nor was it a trembling plea. It was smooth, steady, and utterly void of fear.

The calm simplicity of my tone seemed to shatter what was left of her fragile composure. Her bruised face flushed a deep, mottled red beneath her white powder, her jaw working furiously as she struggled to pull the mask of royal arrogance back over her terror.

"You think you're clever, don't you?!" Tanya spat out, her voice rising to a shrill, hysterical pitch that vibrated off the stone walls.

"You hit me! You broke my mother's wrist! You acted like a wild, rabid beast in front of the council elders! You think because my father didn't strike you down on the spot that you've won?!"

She took a shaky step forward, clutching the sea-green velvet of her skirt, her blue eyes wide and bloodshot.

"You're still nothing! You're an unranked, pathetic curse! A servant! A dog who sleeps in the cellar mud! My mother is already preparing your punishment, when she is done with you, you won't have hands left to raise against anyone!"

I didn't flinch. I didn't blink. I stood perfectly still, letting her loud, frantic words bounce off the stone walls and die in the heavy silence between us.

When she finally ran out of breath, her chest heaving, her mouth hanging open as she waited desperately for a sign of fear, a tear of frustration, or a tremble in my posture, I simply took one step closer.

Tanya flinched so hard her head snapped back, her eyes wild with sudden, blinding panic.

I looked at the dark purple stain blooming across her cheek, the physical mark of the truth she had tried to erase.

"Look at yourself, Tanya," I whispered quietly, my raspy voice slicing clean through her hysterical noise like an iron blade.

"You stand there in your silk, surrounded by gold, wearing a crown your mother bought with lies... and you are shaking."

Tanya gasped, her lips trembling.

"I am NOT shaking!"

"You are terrified," I continued softly, stepping another half-inch forward, letting my hazel eyes lock onto hers with an absolute, deadly golden clarity.

"Because for years, you believed that your title made you strong. You believed that hitting a girl who wasn't allowed to fight back made you a princess. But yesterday, the moment I raised my hand, you realized the truth."

I tilted my head slightly, my voice dropping into a razor-sharp, quiet murmur that tore her pride into raw ribbons.

"Without your guards, without your mother, and without the fear you used to feed on... you are nothing," I said.

"You are just a fragile, cruel girl hiding behind a swollen cheek."

"Shut up..." Tanya choked out, a hot, bitter tear overflowing her eyelash and cutting a clean track through the white powder on her purple cheek.

"Shut up! I am Princess Tanya! I am the blood of the Silverwood pack!"

"You are a ghost living in a hollow house," I replied, my gaze unyielding, completely unbothered by her title or her rage.

"And deep down, you know that if you ever raise your hand to me again... no one in this fortress will be able to save you from mine."

Tanya stared at me, her mouth open in a soundless gasp of pure, unadulterated shock. The realization hit her like a physical blow: the broken dog was dead. The girl standing before her was an absolute, unbreakable force, a living reminder of a royal Luna she could never hope to match.

A quiet sob broke from Tanya’s throat.

Unable to hold my gaze for another single second, unable to endure the humiliating weight of her own terror, Tanya whirled around on her heel, clutched her sea-green velvet skirt in both hands, and fled blindly down the corridor toward her private chambers.

The heavy oak door of her room slammed shut with a deafening BOOM that echoed through the empty hallway, followed by the sharp, desperate click of the iron bolt sliding into place.

I stood alone in the quiet corridor, the soft morning light catching the smooth clay jug in my hands.

Without a word, I adjusted my grip, turned toward the stairs, and walked down into the lower wing with my head held high.