The Curse of the Lycaons

Nestor

The crack of flesh on flesh echoes through the training yard, followed by a grunt of pain as the young warrior stumbles back, clutching his ribs. I step forward, stance steady, my eyes fixed on him.

“Again,” I order, voice hard, clipped.

The warrior nods, his breathing ragged as he straightens. His name is Philemon, one of the newer recruits. Strong enough, eager, but not disciplined yet. His movements are too wild, too unfocused. Strength without control is useless—worse than useless. It’s a liability.

He comes at me again, swinging wide, and I catch his blow with ease, twisting his hands before driving my body into his stomach. He doubles over, gasping, but I don’t let up. One more strike, this time to the back of his knees, and he’s on the ground, face-down in the dirt.

“Sloppy,” I say, stepping back as Philemon struggles to his feet. “You’re over-committing. Your opponent doesn’t care how hard you hit if he can read your move a mile away. Control your strength, or it’ll get you killed.”

He nods, wiping the dirt and sweat from his face, but doesn’t meet my eyes. He’s embarrassed. They all are when they first start. They come into this yard thinking they know what it means to fight, what it means to be strong. It takes breaking them down before they understand.

“That’s enough for today,” I announce, turning away from the ring.

I hear Philemon sigh in relief behind me, but I don’t look back. He’ll learn. Or he’ll die. There’s no room for weakness here, no room for softness. I was trained to be ruthless, unyielding. My father made sure of that.

The rest of the warriors are scattered across the yard, sparring in pairs or practicing drills, the clang of metal against metal filling the air. Arcadia, the heart of the Lycaon dominion, and home to the most powerful werewolves in the world. This is my domain.

My pack.

They all fall silent when I pass, straightening up, eyes forward. There’s respect in their silence, but also fear. They don’t meet my gaze, not unless I ask them to. I rule them with a strict hand, but not without fairness. My father was cruel, brutal for the sake of brutality. I’m not him. But I know what’s required to keep control.

Fear. Respect. Stability.

It’s what I’ve given to Arcadia since I killed my father and took the mantle of Alpha. The werewolves under my rule, my pack, understand that. The humans, the citizens of the Peloponnese—those who live in the towns surrounding the mountains of Arcadia—they understand it too. I keep the peace, maintain order, keep the chaos of our world from spilling into theirs. For that, they love me.

They love me, and they fear me. It’s how it must be.

I head toward the steps of the stone manor that overlooks the training grounds, feeling the weight of a long day settling in. There’s always more work—there always will be—but this life, this routine, keeps everything in control. Keeps me in control.

I can’t afford to slip. Not ever.

The moment I reach the steps, Callias, my Beta, approaches from the side. He’s older, grizzled, with deep-set eyes and a permanent scowl. He’s been with me since the day I took control of the pack. Trusted, reliable.

“Alpha,” he greets, his voice a low rumble. “The council requests a meeting. Tonight, before moonrise.”

I nod, not surprised. The council is made up of the leaders of the other packs, those who oversee different regions under my rule. They don’t dare challenge me, not openly, but there’s always tension. They want their slice of power, their bit of influence. It’s a delicate balance, keeping them in line without breaking them entirely.

“I’ll be there,” I say.

Callias gives a curt nod and turns to leave, but before he goes, he hesitates, glancing at the training yard.

“Philemon,” he says. “He’s got potential, but… he’s soft. His mother was one of the humans.”

“That’s no excuse,” I reply, watching as Philemon limps away from the sparring ring. “He’ll learn, or he won’t.”

Callias says nothing, but I see the agreement in his eyes. In this world, there’s no room for softness. Weakness gets you killed. I learned that lesson early, and I’ve been teaching it ever since.

I head inside, the familiar weight of responsibility settling over me like a cloak. The manor is quiet, cool stone walls lit by dim sconces. It’s a place built for practicality, not comfort. It suits me just fine. There are no personal touches here, no signs of indulgence. Just the necessities.

As I enter the hall, I hear movement from the far side of the room. A group of women, waiting. Some are servants, others warriors’ wives. Their eyes flick to me as I pass, and I can feel the weight of their gaze lingering. Admiring. Curious. One of them steps forward, her lips curling into a smile that’s far too bold.

“Alpha,” she purrs, her voice soft but laced with something unmistakable. “Do you need anything before your meeting tonight?”

Her meaning is obvious. I stop, my eyes narrowing as I look her over. She’s young, beautiful—at least by human standards. Her hand lingers near her waist, fingers brushing the edge of her tunic in a way that’s meant to be enticing. But all I feel is a flicker of irritation.

I’ve never needed what they offer. Nor will I ever.

“No,” I say coldly, meeting her gaze with the kind of dead stare that cuts the bravest men to their core.

Her smile falters, her confidence crumbling as she takes a step back. I don’t waste another second on her and continue toward my study.

Once inside, I close the door behind me, the heavy wood sealing off the outside world. The room is sparse—just a large desk, a few shelves lined with old scrolls and tomes, records of the history of our pack and the territory. I sit down, running a hand through my hair, and let out a slow breath.

The paperwork is endless. Reports from the other packs, trade agreements with the humans, updates on the rogue werewolves that continue to plague the northern borders of our territory. There’s always something. I prefer the training grounds, the raw physicality of it, but this is necessary.

Keeping order isn’t just about strength. It’s about control—over everything. The wolves, the humans, the land. It all comes back to me.

For a moment, my mind wanders. I think of my father, of the way he ruled with brutality, crushing any who dared to question his authority. I killed him for that like all the Lycaon sons had done to their own fathers. But while my father killed his in a frenzy for power, I had to kill mine to save innocents from his wrath.

But sometimes I wonder… am I any different? Fuck no. I do what needs to be done.

I shake the thought away, focusing on the task at hand. There’s no room for doubt. Not here. Not now. I’ve built this life, this world of order and strength, and I’ll maintain it, no matter the cost.

A knock sounds at the door.

“Enter,” I call.

The door opens, and Callias steps in again, this time with a grim expression. “The council is waiting.”

I rise from my desk, my shoulders stiff, but my mind sharp. Another day, another duty. The weight of it presses down on me, familiar and unrelenting, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. This is my world, and I will keep it in line.

No matter what.

As I move toward the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the dark reflection of the window—the deep-set eyes, the hard lines of my face, the weight of a legacy that I never asked for but took all the same.

My father may be dead, but his shadow is always there, lingering at the edges of everything I do.

I won’t become him. I can’t.

And yet… the darkness is always there, waiting for a moment of weakness. Waiting for me to slip.

But I never will.

I won’t allow it.