Bending to the Lycans Warth by Saturn

Lyra’s POV

“You’re hurtIng me,” I whIsper, my voice hoarse and splintered.

Jack doesn’t look at me.

“Good,” he mutters, and yanks harder.

My knees slam Into jagged stone. Pain explodes up my legs, but It’s nothIng compared to the fIre tearIng across my scalp as he drags me by the haIr. My skIn scrapes agaInst the cold floor—stone soaked In blood, filth, and ancIent cruelty.

I try not to cry. Goddess, I try.

But the tears come anyway—hot, angry, useless. They fall silently, mingling wIth the crimson dripping from my legs. I want to fight. To bite. To shift.

But I can’t.

The silver shackles around my wrists burn wIth every breath I take, dulling my senses, robbIng me of strength. Of Identity. Of everything that made me wolf.

And through the haze of paIn, one question claws at the back of my mind:

How did I become a prisoner in the kingdom I once called home?

“I was just tryIng to find her. Just trying to bring her home before they did.”

Three years. That’s how long I’ve chased ghosts.

I’ve crossed abandoned villages, picked through burnt-out rogue dens, bribed traders, snuck through borders, even stood in the ruins of temples older than memory. All to find her.

Lira.

My twin. My mirror. My mistake.

I used to believe I’d feel her before I saw her—that some invisible thread would tug at my chest and say she’s here. But the truth is quieter, crueler. Each dead end stung worse than the last.

Until I found Jack.

He said he knew something. Said he could help. And for a while, I believed him. I wanted to. His voice was steady, his eyes kind—too kind. I mistook his silence for safety. I mistook him for hope.

Now he’s dragging me like garbage toward my execution.

And still—still—I think about her.

Where she is.

Who she’s become.

We were born cursed.