Curves And Claws: The Lycan King's Relentless Claim novel Chapter 87

**Title: Fireflies in Winter Rain — Neil A. Varma**
**Chapter 87**

Roana,

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The dungeon lay nestled within the heart of an expansive, verdant rainforest, positioned on the right side of the territory. Towering trees loomed overhead, their leaves whispering secrets to the gentle breeze, while a nearby stream glimmered like a playful companion, its waters dancing with the light of the sun.

From the outside, the structure appeared as a relic of an ancient fortress, steeped in the weight of a thousand years of history and shadowed by the stories of those who had come before. Yet, as I stepped across the threshold, it felt as though I had plunged into the depths of a waking nightmare, the air thick with a foreboding that clung to my skin.

I had always known the Royal Army to be formidable, but the reality of their ruthlessness struck me like a cold slap. Witnessing it firsthand, I recognized how naive I had been in underestimating their capacity for cruelty.

“This dungeon is reserved for those who have committed the most heinous of crimes. So, Your Highness, I implore you—do not extend any kindness or pity to these individuals!” Keane’s voice was soft, yet it carried an underlying tension that betrayed his concern.

He must have sensed the shift in my expression, the flicker of compassion that threatened to rise within me, and he wanted to shield me from the weight of sympathy for those who truly deserved none.

“I understand,” I replied, my voice bright but lacking its usual buoyancy as I surveyed the grim surroundings. Indeed, there were faces I recognized—infamous figures whose vile deeds had made headlines across social media, their crimes etched into public memory like scars.

“My God… that’s horrifying,” I whispered, my heart sinking as I spotted one man who had lost a leg, the raw flesh exposed and unbandaged. A wave of nausea rolled through me, and I instinctively recoiled, stepping back as if to escape the reality before me.

Keane, ever observant, moved closer, positioning himself between me and the sight that had rattled my composure. “Please, don’t allow yourself to be disturbed. Each of these individuals has their own unique method of inflicting pain. We simply allow them to experience a fraction of the suffering they have caused others.”

I gasped, the air catching in my throat as I processed his words. “You mean he… he cut off other people’s legs?” My voice trembled, betraying the horror that gripped me.

“Indeed. He targeted young pups, maiming them after assaulting them,” Keane replied, his tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather rather than the atrocities committed by the man before us.

A chill raced down my spine, and I pushed Keane aside just enough to catch another glimpse of the criminal.

“I don’t believe this is sufficient punishment,” I said, my voice low and simmering with anger, my eyes flashing with indignation.

“That’s precisely why we take a single inch from him each day. Keeping him awake, aware of his torment. We administer potions to ensure he remains alive,” Keane’s smirk darkened, revealing a side of him I had yet to see. “Don’t worry. He begs for death every hour. Soon enough, he will lose his sanity. But our goal is to keep him intact for as long as possible.”

“That’s gratifying to witness. Instead of granting them a quick death, they must endure until they fully comprehend the pain they’ve inflicted upon others.” My jaw clenched tightly as I turned away from the cell, my fingers curling into fists at my sides, the tension palpable.

An eerie silence enveloped the dungeon, a stark contrast to the usual chaos of a prison where criminals braced themselves for confrontation. Here, they were eerily quiet, too quiet—as if they were waiting for a miracle that would never arrive.

“So, Alexander is here?” I inquired, my tone deceptively calm, though bitterness laced my words.

“Yes,” Keane confirmed, his jaw tightening visibly. “His Majesty has given us full authority over him. I cannot say for certain if he is still alive.”

“He actually said that?” I gasped, my heart racing. “I don’t want him to die. Not until we uncover the truth behind that scent.”

Keane nodded solemnly, leading me into a shadowy corridor. “Follow me, Your Highness.”

I trailed behind him, navigating the narrow passage that veered away from the main cell blocks.

As we entered a small, dimly lit room, my knees buckled, reminding me of the weakness I had felt earlier. The intoxicating scent of Black Moon Flower—a fragrance sweet yet perilous—wrapped around me like a lover’s embrace, leaving me breathless.

But as Keane opened the door wider, the aroma faded, dulled by some unseen barrier. He caught the flicker of uncertainty in my expression and offered a reassuring smile, though it did little to ease my anxiety.

“Fear not. The scent is difficult to eliminate, but we have installed scent blockers within this room. Step inside, Your Highness.”

With a nod, I rushed into the space, but as soon as I crossed the threshold, an icy shiver coursed through me. My jaw tightened, and for a brief moment, I had to avert my gaze.

There, sprawled on the cold floor, lay Alexander. One of his arms—presumably the same one Cassian had shattered—was now missing. His body was grotesquely swollen, marred by bruises and the aftermath of relentless beatings. Whoever had inflicted this torment had shown no restraint.

“That’s horrific,” I muttered, my muscles tightening in response to the sight.

“He deserves every bit of it,” Keane stated coldly, and the sound of his voice made Alexander stir. He lifted his head weakly, and upon spotting Keane approaching, he erupted into a wail that echoed through the room, reminiscent of a terrified child.

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