TAKEN BY THE LYCAN BEAST

The bucket in Aria’s hands reeked of wolf’s bane, its metallic handle digging into her palms as she pushed herself faster up the winding path toward the palace. Her breath steamed in the morning chill, chest rising and falling beneath layers of stiff cloth bound too tightly around her frame. The bucket sloshed with every hurried step—thick, poisonous liquid meant to keep the beast beneath the palace subdued. The lycan. They called him a monster—cursed, feral, uncontrollable. Locked away in the dungeon beneath the stone walls, he was more myth than man. But this morning, like every other, it was Aria’s job to carry the wolf’s bane that helped suppress his strength. She kept her gaze low as she neared the palace gates, her shoulders tense beneath the shapeless tunic she wore. To everyone around her, she was nothing more than a scrawny servant boy—quiet, unremarkable, forgettable. And that’s exactly how she needed it to be. Because Aria wasn’t a boy. And if anyone discovered the truth, she wouldn’t just be punished. She’d be destroyed. “Move it, runt!” a guard barked from a few feet ahead. “Alpha Lucas is waiting.” The sound of his voice grated in her ears, but Aria only nodded, grunting low in her throat to mimic a boy’s voice. She’d perfected the art of it—gruff responses, lowered eyes, tight bindings to flatten her chest, and a subtle mask of ash and dirt smeared across her face. Her height—just tall enough to pass and her wiry frame gave her the rest. She couldn’t afford a single misstep. In this kingdom, human women were barely seen as people. They were playthings, wombs, property. Born to serve and submit. But Aria had grown up fighting the quiet war of survival, learning early that to be a girl was to be prey, unless you could hide in plain sight. And so she had. She crossed the palace threshold, the doors groaning shut behind her like the jaws of some great beast. The halls were silent, but she could feel the eyes of the guards watching her. Always watching. The scent of damp stone and polished metal filled her nose as she walked the familiar corridor toward Alpha Lucas’s chambers. The closer she came, the heavier the bucket felt—like it was filled not with wolf’s bane but lead and secrets. She paused at the door, composed herself, then stepped inside. Alpha Lucas stood by the tall arched window, a golden cloak draped across his shoulders. He was as striking as he was ruthless—shoulders broad, jaw sharp, with an ever-present look of calculation in his cold eyes. Without turning, he said, “You’re late.” Aria knelt and set the bucket down, forcing her voice to stay low and even. “Apologies, my lord. The herb took longer to prepare this morning.” Lucas turned, his eyes settling on her face. His gaze didn’t just look—it sliced. “You’re the quiet one,” he said after a moment. “The one they say barely speaks.” She kept her head bowed. “I do what I’m told, my lord.” He stepped closer, boots clicking against the marble. “And yet you’re always watching. Listening. Observing.” Her stomach twisted. He crouched beside her, his voice dropping. “You know, if you were a girl, I’d have you in my bed by now. You have… a softness to your features. Almost too pretty for a boy.” Aria didn’t move. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, every instinct screaming to run but she didn’t. She couldn’t. That would raise more suspicion. She forced a smirk onto her face and met his eyes just briefly. “Good thing I’m not, then.” Lucas studied her a moment longer. Then, surprisingly, he laughed. “Bold. I’ll keep my eye on you.” With a flick of his hand, he dismissed her, turning back to the window like their conversation never happened. Aria stood, bowed again, and left the room without another word. But her heart didn’t slow until she was back in the corridor, the heavy door closing behind her. That was close. Too close. Lucas had always been sharp, but this time, something in his eyes had lingered—curious, suspicious, even intrigued. That was dangerous. She needed to fade again. Be quieter. Be invisible. She made her way back to the servant’s quarters in silence, weaving through bustling halls full of men twice her size. Every step felt like walking a tightrope. No one had discovered her yet, but the tension of being found out was constant, a blade pressed to her spine. She reached her room at the far end of the hall and slipped inside, bolting the door behind her. Only then did she breathe. The room was small—bare walls, a cot, a washbasin in the corner—but it was hers. She peeled off her tunic and slowly unwound the cloth that had been bound tight across her chest. Her skin burned from the pressure, and as her body settled into its natural shape, she winced. Freedom hurt sometimes. But it was still freedom. She stared at her reflection in the cracked shard of mirror above the basin. A girl stared back—tired eyes, smudged cheeks, long lashes no amount of dirt could hide. “How much longer can I keep this up?” she whispered. The lie was getting heavier. The danger was growing sharper. And the cost of failure was something she didn’t even dare imagine. She washed quickly, dousing her face in cold water, then redressed before anyone could come knocking. The communal washroom was still off-limits—too risky. The other boys already whispered that she was odd. Too clean. Too quiet. They joked she might be hiding something. They had no idea how right they were. Her thoughts drifted again to the wolf’s bane. To the creature in the dungeon she’d never seen. Rumors about the lycan passed through the palace like wildfire. Some said he was seven feet tall, with claws like blades and eyes that burned red. Others said he was once a prince from the northern clans, betrayed and handed over like an animal. No one dared go near his cell unless ordered. No one returned the same. She hadn’t seen him—not yet. But she could feel the tremor his presence caused in the air. And something about it stirred a strange unease inside her. What kind of creature could terrify even the alpha? And why did the thought of him make her skin prickle—not with fear, but curiosity? She lay back on her cot and stared up at the wooden ceiling. Somewhere below this very palace, he existed—chained, drugged, silenced. A part of her, the part that had spent years trapped in silence herself, wondered what he must feel like. What it would be like to look into his eyes. Not as a servant. Not as a boy. But as herself.