Elara Thorne POV:
Clara led us down a winding set of stone stairs, deeper and deeper into the castle's cold belly. The air grew damp and smelled of mildew and wet rock. She stopped before a heavy, iron-banded door and pulled it open, revealing our new home.
It was a cell. A circular stone room, furnished with nothing more than three narrow wooden cots with thin, lumpy mattresses. A single, high window, barred with rusted iron, let in a sliver of gray, gloomy light.
"This will be your residence," Clara announced without ceremony. She tossed a pile of rough, gray-spun tunics onto the floor. "Your duties will be cleaning the kitchens and scrubbing the lower corridors. A list will be posted. Do not be idle."
She gave us one last, dismissive look. "And do not cause trouble."
With that, she exited, and the heavy door boomed shut. The sound of a large bolt sliding into place echoed in the small room, sealing our fate.
The moment we were alone, Number Two, whose name I still didn't know, burst into racking sobs. She collapsed onto one of the cots, burying her face in the thin mattress, her shoulders shaking. Number One, who had been leaning against me like a rag doll, slid to the floor and joined her, their combined grief a miserable, hopeless sound.
I ignored them. My first instinct was to assess. I ran my hands over the cold stone walls, searching for any weakness, any loose mortar. There was none. The window was a dozen feet up, the bars thick and deeply set. The door was solid oak and iron. There was no escape.
I sat on the remaining cot, the one farthest from the door, and forced myself to think. *No inner wolf... no scent.* The words were a mantra. A prayer.
It was a terrifying gamble. My life for a theory. If I was wrong, I would die a horrible, violent death. But if I did nothing, I would die anyway, cowering in this cell, waiting for my turn. At least this way, I was choosing my own path. I was betting on myself.
Late in the afternoon, a guard slid a tray of food through a slot at the bottom of the door. It was a hunk of black bread and some watery, flavorless stew. Number One and Number Two, their eyes swollen and red from crying, refused to eat.
I ate every last bite. I would need my strength.
Night fell, and the castle grew quiet. But it was a predatory quiet, filled with unseen things. From far above, we could occasionally hear a low, guttural roar, a sound so filled with rage and pain that it made the very stones seem to vibrate. It was him. The King. The beast. Each time we heard it, the other two girls would flinch and whimper.
They huddled together on one cot for comfort, while I sat on mine, my back against the cold wall. I slid my hand down to my ankle, my fingers closing around the hilt of my knife. It was a pathetic weapon against a Lycan, but it was a choice. If my theory was wrong, if he came for me and the beast took over, I would not let it tear me apart. I would use this blade on myself first. It was the only power I had left.
The hours crawled by. The roars from above grew more frequent, more desperate. Then, just as the moon must have reached its zenith, they stopped. The silence that followed was absolute.
And then we heard it.
Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate footsteps, coming down the stone stairs.
The two girls on the cot stopped breathing. My own heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
The footsteps stopped outside our door.
The sound of a key grating in the old, rusty lock was the loudest thing I had ever heard. The bolt was drawn back with a deafening screech of metal on metal.
The door swung open.
Clara stood there, silhouetted against the dim torchlight of the corridor. She held a single oil lamp, the flickering light casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. Her face was impassive, her eyes cold as a winter grave.
She scanned the room, her gaze passing over the two terrified girls on the cot as if they were furniture.
Then her eyes found me.
A slow, venomous smile spread across her lips.
"Number Three," she said, her voice laced with a cruel, mocking cheerfulness. "It's your lucky night. The King has requested your company."
The word 'lucky' was a poisoned dart. We all knew the first one chosen was usually a test, a way for the King to vent the worst of his rage.
I felt a wave of relief wash over Number One and Number Two, so potent it was almost a physical thing. It was immediately followed by a look of profound, helpless pity directed at me.
My blood ran cold. My theory, my desperate hope—it was all about to be put to the test. My hands grew slick with sweat, but I forced my expression to remain a mask of calm. This was it. The moment of truth.
I rose from the cot, my movements smooth and deliberate. No hesitation. No begging.
Clara seemed almost disappointed by my lack of reaction. She had clearly been hoping for hysterics.
I walked toward her, and as I passed, I paused and asked a question, my voice low and even.
"Should I change?"
The question was so mundane, so utterly out of place, that it took her by surprise. She stared at me as if I had just sprouted a second head. For a moment, she was speechless.
Then she recovered, and a look of pure contempt twisted her features. "Don't be ridiculous," she sneered. "The King is not particular about what his *food* is wearing."
I nodded once, as if she had just given me a perfectly reasonable answer, and followed her out into the corridor.
She led me up the same winding stairs we had descended, past the antechamber, and up another, grander staircase that spiraled toward the upper levels of the castle. The higher we climbed, the more oppressive the air became. The scent of blood and raw, animalistic power grew stronger with every step.
Finally, we stopped before a pair of immense, blackwood doors, intricately carved with the phases of the moon. This was the entrance to the beast's den.
Clara turned to me, her hand on the iron door handle. "Go inside," she instructed, her voice flat. "Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not make any sudden movements. And with any luck, the Moon Goddess will grant you a swift end."
She didn't wait for a reply. She shoved the massive door open just enough for me to slip through, then pushed me hard from behind.
I stumbled into the room, and the door slammed shut behind me with a boom that echoed like a death knell.
I was alone. Trapped in the heart of the darkness, in the private chamber of the Lycan King.
