Davelina’s POV

The corridor leading to the Lycan King’s den stretched before me like the throat of some ancient beast—narrow, suffocating, descending into absolute darkness.

My bare feet slapped against the freezing stone. The thin veil they’d draped over my naked body did nothing to ward off the chill, nor did it hide anything. I could feel every shift of fabric against my skin, every brush of air. The oil they’d rubbed into every inch of me made the veil cling to my curves, transparent and obscene.

Two massive Lycan guards flanked me, their clawed hands gripping my upper arms hard enough to leave bruises. Not that it mattered. Bruises would be the least of my worries soon.

Natasha.

The thought of my sister was the only thing keeping me from collapsing.

I had to survive this. For her.

The corridor opened into a wider space, and suddenly the guards stopped. Through the haze of my terror, I registered three massive figures blocking the path ahead—silhouettes backlit by torches that cast dancing shadows on the damp walls.

My breath caught in my throat. Even in the dim light, I could see they were different from the guards. Larger. More refined in their bearing. The way they stood—the casual authority in their postures—marked them as something more than common soldiers.

Lords, I thought with a sickening lurch of my stomach. These must be the Wolf Lords the other slaves whispered about.

One had silver-gray fur and mismatched eyes that gleamed in the torchlight—one red, one amber. Another had rust-colored fur and a calculating gaze that swept over me like I was merchandise being appraised. The third was younger-looking, with black fur and dark purple eyes that held a predator’s hunger.

They stood before the massive iron door at the corridor’s end. The door to the Wolf King’s den.

“Stop.” The youngest one’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding. He raised one hand, and my guards immediately halted. “All of you. Leave us.”

The guards hesitated, their claws tightening briefly on my arms. I felt one of them glance toward the silver-haired lord, who gave a slight nod. Then they released me and melted back into the shadows, their footsteps echoing away down the corridor.

I stood there, trembling, alone with three of the most powerful beings on this cursed island—save for the monster behind that door.

My legs wanted to buckle.

But then something else cut through the terror. A chance. A desperate, impossible chance.

I dropped to my knees, the stone bruising my flesh. My hands shot out to grasp the youngest lord’s boot, and I pressed my forehead against the leather.

“Please,” I gasped, my voice breaking. “Please, my lord, don’t send me in there. I’ll do anything—anything. I’ll serve you, I’ll be obedient, I’ll—” The words tumbled out, incoherent, shameless. “Please.”

“Look at this,” he said, not to me but to the other two lords. His voice carried a note of bitter mockery. “Listen to her beg. Such a pretty little thing, isn’t she? Perfect skin, delicate bones, that face…” He squeezed harder, and I whimpered despite myself. “And we’re going to throw her into that pit? Feed her to a mindless beast who’ll break her in half within the hour?”

The young lord stood, brushing off his hands as if I’d contaminated him. “You know how hard it is to acquire merchandise like this now?” His voice rose with genuine frustration. “The humans are getting smarter. My hunting parties came back empty-handed last week. Empty-handed!” He gestured at me, his face contorted with anger. “My personal dens are running low on fresh stock. And you want me to just… waste this?”

Sebastian. So that was the young one’s name.

“Necessary?” Sebastian whirled on the silver-haired lord. “What’s necessary is that we stop throwing good resources into a bottomless hole!” He pointed at the iron door, his hand shaking with rage. “That thing in there isn’t Mordred anymore. It hasn’t been Mordred for five hundred years. It’s a parasite, draining our strength, consuming our supplies. And for what? To keep alive a memory?”

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