The Lycan King's Secret Weapon

The Hunters at Her Door

By the time Lyra Ashbourne reached the village, night had swallowed the northern territories.

Snow crunched beneath her boots as she hurried along the narrow path between crooked wooden houses. Smoke rose from chimneys, carrying the smell of burning pine and supper. Warm light spilled through frost-covered windows, and somewhere in the distance, a child laughed.

Everything looked ordinary.

That frightened her more than it should have.

Three Lycans had knelt before her.

She had stopped a wolf in midair without touching it.

And something in the forest had answered her power with a howl that still seemed to vibrate inside her bones.

Yet the village remained peaceful, as though the world had not changed at all.

Lyra pulled her worn cloak tighter around her shoulders and quickened her pace.

She needed to reach her room, lock the door, and think.

Preferably without accidentally making another wolf collapse.

"Lyra!"

She flinched.

A broad-shouldered woman stood outside the village's only bakery, carrying a basket of freshly baked bread. Her brown hair was tied beneath a woolen scarf, and her round face held the familiar expression of someone who had spent years being disappointed by Lyra's existence.

Martha Bell.

The village healer's assistant, occasional gossip, and one of Lyra's most persistent critics.

"Where have you been?" Martha demanded. "The sun has been down for nearly an hour."

"Gathering herbs."

Lyra lifted her basket.

Or what remained of it.

Half the contents had spilled onto the road, and several of the plants were crushed beneath her hurried steps. She hoped Martha would not notice.

Unfortunately, Martha noticed everything.

She peered into the basket.

"That's all you gathered?"

"The weather turned bad."

"The weather turned bad?" Martha repeated. "You went into the forest under a clear sky."

Lyra said nothing.

Martha's eyes narrowed.

"You're trembling."

"It's cold."

"You're always cold. That's not an answer."

Lyra resisted the urge to tell her that she had just encountered three bloodied Lycans and an inexplicable force that might have been capable of tearing reality apart.

Instead, she forced a tired smile.

"I'm going home, Martha."

She walked past before the woman could ask another question.

Behind her, Martha muttered something about ungrateful girls.

Lyra kept walking.

She had bigger problems than village gossip.

Her room stood behind an abandoned storage shed at the edge of the settlement.

Calling it a room was generous. It was a narrow wooden structure with a sloping roof, a cracked window, and a door that required a firm shove before it would close properly.

But it was hers.

Or at least, it was the closest thing to a home she had ever possessed.

Lyra pushed through the door, lit the small oil lamp beside her bed, and dropped her basket onto the table.

Then she checked the lock.

Twice.

Only after confirming that the door was secured did she allow herself to breathe.

The room was silent.

She stared at her hands.

Nothing unusual.

No glowing marks. No strange symbols. No visible sign that she possessed an ability capable of forcing three Lycans to the ground.

She flexed her fingers.

"Do it again," she whispered.

Nothing happened.

She concentrated harder, remembering the sensation in the forest—the invisible pressure behind her ribs, the feeling of something ancient opening its eyes inside her.

Her chest tightened.

For one instant, she felt something stir.

Then the sensation disappeared.

Lyra gasped and gripped the edge of the table.

A sharp pain spread through her head.

She stumbled backward, knocking the chair onto the floor.

"Stop."

The word escaped before she could think.

The pain vanished.

Lyra remained motionless, breathing hard.

Her gaze moved toward the window.

Outside, a dog had begun barking somewhere in the village.

The barking stopped abruptly.

A moment later, she heard a frightened whimper.

Lyra's blood ran cold.

"No."

She rushed to the window and pulled the curtain aside.

Across the narrow lane, an old man stood beside a wooden cart. His dog, a large brown animal, lay pressed against the ground with its ears flattened.

The man crouched beside it, trying to coax it to its feet.

The dog refused to move.

Lyra stepped away from the window.

The animal was nowhere near her room.

She had not even looked directly at it until now.

Was her power spreading without her permission?

She pressed both hands against her chest, trying to calm her breathing.

The sensation remained faint, but she could feel it now—a strange awareness extending beyond her body, like invisible threads reaching into the darkness.

And every time she focused on one of those threads, something living seemed to respond.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Leave them alone," she whispered.

The pressure receded.

Outside, the dog scrambled to its feet and rushed into its owner's arms.

The old man stared after it in confusion.

Lyra backed away from the window.

Her hands were shaking again.

She had spent her entire life being told that she was weak because she had no wolf.

If anyone discovered what she had done, they would not suddenly welcome her into the community.

They would fear her.

Or worse, they would find a way to use her.

Lyra knew enough about the world to understand that people rarely treated frightening things kindly.

She had no intention of becoming another village story whispered around a fire.

She would keep quiet.

She would learn to control whatever was happening to her.

And tomorrow, she would return to the forest to find out what had happened to that dead wolf.

The thought had barely formed when someone knocked on her door.

Three sharp strikes.

Lyra froze.

Nobody visited her after dark.

Nobody except—

"Lyra Ashbourne?"

A man's voice came from outside.

Deep. Unfamiliar.

"Open the door."

Her stomach tightened.

She approached cautiously and peered through the narrow gap between the boards.

Two men stood outside.

They wore dark traveling cloaks fastened with silver clasps. Their boots were clean despite the snow, and each carried a sword at his hip.

Neither looked like a villager.

The man who had spoken had short black hair and a scar running from his left temple to his jaw.

His companion was younger, with pale eyes that seemed to notice everything.

Lyra kept her hand on the door.

"Who are you?"

"Royal hunters."

The answer made her heart stumble.

Royal hunters served the Lycan King directly. They were not sent to insignificant villages without a reason.

"What do you want?"

The scarred man studied her through the gap.

"You were in the northern forest this evening."

It was not a question.

Lyra forced herself to remain still.

"Many people gather herbs there."

"Not many encounter a rogue pack and survive."

Her fingers tightened around the door.

The second hunter glanced at his companion.

"We felt the disturbance from several miles away," he said. "Every wolf between here and the northern road went silent for nearly a minute."

Lyra's mouth went dry.

The scarred hunter stepped closer.

"Three wolves were found alive on the road. They were unable to move, and none could explain what happened to them."

He paused.

"One of them has since died."

Lyra felt the room tilt.

The dead wolf.

The strange shadow.

The creatures kneeling before her.

"What does that have to do with me?" she asked.

The scarred man's expression did not change.

"We are here to find out."

Lyra considered slamming the door.

She might even have done it if the younger hunter had not spoken again.

"Your name is Lyra Ashbourne. Seventeen years old. No recorded pack affiliation. No recognized wolf awakening."

His pale eyes narrowed.

"Is that correct?"

She said nothing.

He glanced toward the doorframe, then back at her face.

"Interesting."

"What is?"

"Your scent."

Lyra stiffened.

Every Lycan possessed a distinctive scent. It revealed their species, pack, and sometimes their rank. Even humans who lived among Lycans learned to recognize the difference between a wolf and someone who had never awakened.

The younger hunter inhaled quietly.

"You smell like nothing."

The scarred hunter drew his sword.

Lyra stumbled backward.

"Wait—"

"We have our orders," he said. "You will come with us."

"I haven't done anything!"

"Then you have nothing to fear."

It was the sort of statement made by people who had never been powerless in their lives.

Lyra looked at the sword, then at the two hunters.

She could run.

She could scream.

Or she could try to use the strange ability that had frightened three Lycans into submission.

But what if she lost control?

What if she hurt them?

What if she hurt someone else?

The scarred hunter reached for the door.

Lyra's fear surged.

Something inside her answered.

The oil lamp flickered.

Both hunters stiffened.

The younger man's eyes widened as his hand flew to his chest.

"What—"

The scarred hunter dropped to one knee.

His sword struck the snow.

For a heartbeat, neither man moved.

Then the younger hunter collapsed beside him, gasping as though an invisible hand had closed around his throat.

Lyra stared at them in horror.

She hadn't meant to do it.

She hadn't even known she could.

"Stop!" she cried.

The pressure intensified.

The scarred hunter's face twisted in pain.

"Girl," he choked, "what are you?"

Lyra shook her head desperately.

"I don't know!"

She reached toward them.

The sensation behind her ribs tightened, then snapped loose.

Both hunters collapsed forward onto their hands, dragging in desperate breaths.

Lyra backed away until her shoulders struck the wall.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then the scarred hunter slowly lifted his head.

The expression in his eyes had changed.

He no longer looked at her like a suspect.

He looked at her like a monster.

The younger hunter scrambled to his feet and reached for his sword.

"Don't," his companion warned.

"But—"

"Don't."

The scarred hunter rose unsteadily, keeping his gaze fixed on Lyra.

"By order of His Majesty, King Kaelric Veyr, you are to accompany us to the royal fortress."

Lyra felt the blood drain from her face.

"The king?"

"You will be escorted under royal protection."

"Protection?" Her voice cracked. "You drew your sword on me!"

"And you nearly killed two royal hunters without touching them."

He sheathed his weapon.

"Consider yourself fortunate that we came here before the other packs discovered what you are."

Lyra looked from one man to the other.

She thought of the dead wolf.

The silent forest.

The terrified creatures pressing their bodies against the snow.

And now these men, sent by a king she had never seen, who somehow already knew she existed.

"What happens if I refuse?" she whispered.

The scarred hunter's expression hardened.

"Then we carry you to the king unconscious."

Silence filled the room.

Lyra glanced toward the window.

Beyond it lay the dark forest, the village road, and the life she had known for seventeen years.

A life in which she had been powerless.

A life she had believed would never change.

She had wanted answers.

Now the king was offering her none—only an order.

Lyra lifted her chin.

"Give me a moment to get my cloak."

The scarred hunter nodded once.

She turned away, hiding the fear in her eyes.

As she reached for the cloak hanging beside her bed, a sudden chill ran down her spine.

The strange sensation inside her chest returned.

But this time, it did not feel like a warning.

It felt like recognition.

Far away, beyond the mountains, something had noticed her.

Something old.

Something hungry.

And somewhere within the royal fortress, the Lycan King was waiting.