The last Lycan

Chapter 4

The Call of the Moon

Ronan barely registered the strike as the silver blade slashed across his chest, sending a flash of white-hot pain through his body. He staggered backward, instinctively drawing away from the hunter’s deadly reach. Blood dripped down his skin, the metallic tang mingling with the acrid scent of burning ozone. The Order’s silver weapons were deadly, and each cut felt like it carved away at his very soul.

But it wasn’t the pain that seized him.

It was the rage.

It had been years since he had felt this raw, this untamed. The beast inside him stirred, urging him to unleash its fury, to tear through the hunters like paper. But Ronan fought the urge, clenching his fists until his claws threatened to break free. He couldn’t let the Lycan inside him take control—not now. Not when there was so much at stake.

“You’re weak, Lycan,” one of the hunters sneered, his silver sword gleaming in the moonlight as he advanced. “I’ve hunted your kind for years. You won’t escape me.”

Ronan’s breath was ragged, his vision narrowing as his blood began to boil. The pulse, the strange energy in his veins, thrummed louder, demanding attention. The storm overhead rumbled as if to echo the turmoil within him. But something else—something primal—began to grow stronger within him, clawing at the edges of his mind.

It wasn’t just the fight. It was something pulling him forward, something familiar yet distant.

For the briefest moment, he considered retreat. There was no shame in running. He had done it before, and it had kept him alive. But then his gaze flicked to the Lycans—his kin—locked in a brutal clash with the Order. The leader of the Lycans, the massive silver-gray Lycan, was in the thick of the battle, ripping through the hunters with ruthless efficiency. Despite the ferocity of the fight, his eyes remained fixed on Ronan, like a silent command to stand and fight.

Ronan shook his head, trying to clear the fog of doubt that clouded his thoughts. His feet moved almost of their own accord, carrying him toward the fray. He could hear the growls, the screams, the clash of steel and bone, but his focus was on the figure of Valen Cain, standing at the center of the conflict.

Valen’s eyes met his across the battlefield, and in that moment, Ronan knew—this wasn’t just about survival. This was about something much bigger. The prophecy.

With a growl, Ronan lunged at the nearest hunter, his claws flashing in the moonlight as he struck. The man’s sword met the force of Ronan’s swipe, but it didn’t matter. The hunter stumbled back, his weapon cleaving the air in vain. Ronan moved too fast, his instincts far sharper than the hunter’s training. With one swipe, he knocked the sword from the man’s hand, followed by a brutal punch that sent him sprawling to the ground.

But Valen was still in his sight. The man had already turned toward him, the predatory gleam in his eyes making Ronan’s skin crawl.

“You’re too late, Lycan,” Valen taunted, his voice filled with dark satisfaction. “The prophecy doesn’t need you anymore. It’s already in motion.”

Ronan’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond. His focus was razor-sharp. He could feel the power that surged through his body—his power—growing stronger with each passing moment.

A sharp pain jolted him from his thoughts. Another hunter had managed to slip past the chaos, landing a dagger across Ronan’s shoulder. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was enough to make him stumble. Blood soaked into his shirt, mixing with the rain that had begun to fall. The storm was coming, and the temperature had dropped suddenly.

The pulse. The power inside him grew sharper, louder. The beast.

The voice in his head was becoming harder to ignore.

But then, through the haze of battle, Ronan heard something else—a voice, faint but clear.

“You’re not alone.”

He froze, the words reverberating in his mind. It wasn’t his own voice, nor was it anyone from the fight. It was deep, ancient. And yet, it sounded so familiar, like a memory he couldn’t quite place.

The Lycan leader—the silver-gray giant—caught Ronan’s gaze once more, his expression unreadable. Then, the leader nodded toward the heart of the battle, where Valen was still circling like a vulture, his eyes alight with malice.

“You must face him, Ronan. It is your destiny.”

The words struck Ronan like a thunderclap. The prophecy. The key.

Without thinking, Ronan’s body surged forward, propelled by instinct. He tore through the remaining hunters in his path, moving faster than he ever had before, his every action sharp and calculated. There was no hesitation in his movements, no room for doubt. The beast within him roared, but it wasn’t just hunger or rage—it was purpose.

And then he reached Valen.

The Order’s leader was still taunting him, his silver spear aimed directly at Ronan’s heart, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “Did you really think you could stop this, Lycan? You’re a dying breed. You’ll fall just like the rest of them.”

Ronan didn’t reply. His claws extended as he launched himself at Valen, his body crashing into the hunter’s with the full force of the Lycan’s strength. The force of their collision sent shockwaves through the battlefield, but Ronan barely noticed. He was focused on one thing only: Valen.

The hunter barely had time to react before Ronan knocked the spear out of his hands with a vicious swipe. The silver weapon clattered to the ground, useless.

Valen’s eyes widened, a flicker of fear passing over his face for the briefest moment. He drew a blade from his side—smaller than the spear but no less deadly.

“You think you’ve won, don’t you?” Valen spat, wiping the blood from his lips. “I’ve been hunting your kind for years. I know what makes you tick. You’re not special. Just another monster.”

Ronan’s lip curled back in a snarl. “You’re the monster, Cain. And your time is up.”

Without another word, he lunged again, this time with the full force of his Lycan power behind him. His claws slashed across Valen’s chest, a deep gash that sprayed blood into the air.

The hunter grunted, staggering back, but didn’t fall. He was quick—too quick—and Ronan barely avoided a retaliatory strike that would have split his head open. Valen was a seasoned fighter, his skill honed through years of combat with Lycans. But Ronan wasn’t just any Lycan.

The moment the two collided again, the pulse surged through Ronan like a wave of lightning. The power was undeniable now, flowing freely from deep within him. He wasn’t just fighting for survival anymore. He was fighting for something greater.

With a roar, he shifted, his bones cracking and reforming, his form expanding as the full force of his Lycan heritage came to the forefront. His claws grew longer, his teeth sharper, his muscles bulging with inhuman strength.

Valen’s eyes widened as Ronan transformed in front of him, his human form melting away into something far more dangerous, far more ancient. The hunter barely had time to raise his blade before Ronan’s massive claws dug into his chest, lifting him off the ground with ease.

“You’re done,” Ronan snarled, his voice guttural and primal. “Your Order ends tonight.”

The battle was over, but Ronan knew this was only the beginning. The prophecy had spoken. And now, the truth of it was clear.

The last Lycan had not only survived—he was the key to their resurrection.