The Lycan's Tribute Mate -Volume1-

The shadows in the throne room were no mere absence of light. They were a creeping, almost sticky mass that seemed to rise from the centuries-old basalt fissures of the fortress. They swallowed the hissing crackle of the pitch torches resting in heavy iron rings upon the high walls, suffocating the meager waves of warmth thrown by the massive, gloomy hearth against the bare stone floor.

Outside, an arctic blizzard raged across the rugged hills above the sharp-edged cliffs. The Lycan King’s fortress loomed up there like a silent predator frozen in time and ice. Any of the lesser packs in the valleys who dared look up saw only the jagged silhouettes of watchtowers, biting into the snow-choked night sky like broken black teeth. Inside, there was no peace. There hadn’t been any peace for two hundred years. Only the relentless, scraping sound of leather and metal against stone.

King Thornak paced the throne room with heavy, predatory strides. The dull echo of his boots was the only sound sharp enough to cut through the constant howling of the wind against the narrow arrow slits. Nearly two meters of raw muscle, heavy bone, and unbridled violence, clad in scarred armor leather and the pelts of beasts he had strangled with his bare hands. His muscles bunched like thick cables under murderous tension with every abrupt turn. His ice-blue eyes stared coldly into nothingness. He saw neither the intricate but dust-laden tapestries nor the ancient banners of conquered territories hanging from the ceiling like the shriveled hides of defeated foes.

He was blind to the cold splendor of his own court, fixated on an unseen, torturing goal. Two hundred years of absolute rule did not make a heart grow, it burned it out until nothing was left but sharp-edged slag. Invincible in battle, cruel in retribution, and cursed by his own blood.

“Your Majesty.”

The voice broke from the deep shadows beside the colossal oak and iron portals. Lucien stepped into the amber glow of the torches. Where other pack leaders or envoys trembled with fear, held their breath, and cast their eyes to the floor, the blonde giant stood firm like an unyielding rock. Deep, pale scars cut across his striking face - souvenirs from the Great Border Wars, the very battles that had forged the King’s realm. Lucien was no ordinary soldier, no nameless guard to be replaced at whim. He was the Beta, the right hand to Thornak’s bloody throne.

His mere presence in the courtyards was enough to choke the breath out of the lower ranks. If the King was the hammer, Lucien was the anvil upon which the bones of rebels were shattered. He knew Thornak better than any living shifter. He knew the beast.

“The cohorts are stationed at the northern passes,” Lucien said, crossing his massive arms over his scarred breastplate. His voice was a deep, dry rasp, entirely devoid of subservience. “The scouts are holding their lines in the freezing wind. They are nearly freezing to death in their saddles, the horses are going lame, but they won’t yield an inch. They are waiting for a sign from the fortress. But the Oracle… the old hag still refuses to open her mouth. She sits in her cave, spitting bile into the ashes, demanding we wait for tomorrow’s Blood Moon before we cross the border. She claims the spirits will be blind otherwise.”

Thornak stopped dead in tracks. The silence that followed was suffocating, heavier than the storm outside the walls. A deep, guttural vibration rumbled from his throat, so dark and powerful that the heavy crystal glasses on the long oak table trembled.

Inside his chest, Donovan raged. The pitch-black Lycan - a monster of a beast, twice the size of any Alpha wolf in the known world - scratched with imaginary claws against the inner walls of his mind. Donovan wasn’t just angry; he was driven mad by loneliness. The hunger for his one, fated mate had driven the King through countless burning cities over the last few decades. His tyranny was no calculated expansion, no imperial politics to claim more land. It was the raw, bloody frustration of a starving wolf who could not catch the scent of his destiny, and so tore down everything that stood in his way.

Thornak closed the distance between them in a single heartbeat. His massive hand shot out, seizing Lucien by the iron collar of his armor, lifting the heavy warrior off the ground with a terrifying, casual ease until Lucien’s boots hung helplessly above the basalt.

“She has been born, Lucien! The Oracle spat it out under torture, yet she still refuses to yield her location!” Thornak snarled. His hot breath formed thick, white clouds in the biting cold of the hall. “Tonight! Right now, in this damned moment! The Oracle is silent on the where. The old hag babbles of magical protection, of fiery red hair, of mist and illusions. She said my mate is shielded. She could be a whimpering brat in the dirt, a young woman in another man’s bed, a whore selling herself for silver! Donovan is ripping my insides to pieces - he wants flesh, he wants her! And you stand here lecturing me on patience and blood moons? Are you trying to mock me, Beta?”

Lucien looked straight into the glowing eyes of his King. Despite the lethal danger, despite the claws slowly sinking through the leather at his neck, he didn’t even flinch. His voice remained steady, flat, and professional.

“If you blindly send troops after her now, or scour the surrounding valleys, you will only drive your mate deeper into hiding,” Lucien replied coldly. “Donovan wants her, I know that. I can hear his growl from here. But a dead throne is useless to your mate if the realm collapses into chaos because you started a blind war. And what if she is a newborn? What then, Thornak? Do you mean to place a crying babe upon this throne while the other packs rattle our gates? The beast in you won’t be able to control itself. You will tear her to pieces before she can ever share your bed. You know this.”

The words struck Thornak like a physical blow. For a long, tense moment, it looked as though he might just crush Lucien’s throat. The growl in his chest reached a deafening pitch - a fierce clash between King and wolf that flooded the room with an almost tangible Alpha aura.

Finally, he shoved the Beta away. Lucien landed heavily on his iron-shod boots. Metal scraped against stone, but the blonde giant didn’t stumble back a single inch. With a slow, almost mockingly calm movement, he adjusted the dark leather of his collar and looked at the King, waiting.

Thornak’s claws sliced through the flesh of his own palms as he clenched his fists. Dark, thick blood welled between his fingers, dripping at slow, heavy intervals onto the frozen basalt, where it hardened into dark beads almost instantly. He barely felt the pain. The ache in his head—Donovan’s constant, maddening howl—was far worse.

“I am weary of riddles. I am weary of spies bringing me nothing but reports of empty villages and false trails,” Thornak whispered. This quiet voice was far more terrifying than his previous roaring. It was the sound of a man who had finally stepped off the edge of sanity and was now enjoying the free fall. “The Oracle keeps silent on her age. She could be a squalling newborn, a child in the mud, or a young woman on the cusp of maturity. But one thing is certain: she has not yet come of age. Perhaps years separate us from her, perhaps only a few days.”

He turned slowly back toward the hearth, where the flames danced like wild, dying spirits. His eyes were now entirely consumed by the blackness of his inner beast. The white was gone; Donovan was at the surface, demanding his toll from the mortal world.

“Send out the decrees, Lucien. To every tribe, every wretched border nest, every renegade pack that dares to even whisper our name,” the King commanded, his voice echoing from the walls like low thunder. “From this day forth, every tribe and every village shall be forced to deliver every single red-haired maid to my court the moment she reaches her eighteenth year. No exceptions. No excuses. They will be brought here, in chains or of their own free will, I care not which. Anyone who tries to hide one, anyone who hesitates for even a single night or lies to the troops—the earth will swallow them whole along with their entire pack. I will see this world burn, village by village, until Donovan scents what belongs to him. Go, Lucien. Bring me my mate.”

Lucien placed a hand over his heavy breastplate. His jaw was set like iron, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knew exactly what this command meant. It was a death sentence for thousands of innocents, a license for the enforcers to spread terror and dread. Yet loyalty to his King stood above all else, burned deep into his bones since the day they had stood together in the blood of their enemies.

“It shall be done as you command, Your Majesty,” the Beta replied coolly. “The machinery is moving. Down to the very last hair.”

The Beta stepped back into the shadows and vanished through the heavy portal with long, resounding strides.