The Lycan King's Obsession

Come, settle in comfortably, and let me tell you a story.

Listen closely, for rare are the tales that can truly alter the face of the world. And this one, I assure you, is not something you will easily forget.

Are you ready?

Then let yourself be carried away.

To the kingdom of Elarion, in an age when monsters haunted forgotten lands, when kings forged political alliances with the cunning of card players, and when realms were born in the blood of battle.

It begins with a creature at death’s door.

And it ends with the birth of a legend.

But to understand, we must go back to the beginning—to the first day of a king’s second-to-last breath.

---------------------------------------------------

I could no longer lie to myself.

I, Valério, King of the Lycans.

I confess, my strength was betraying me today, deserting me slowly but inexorably.

My legs struggled to move forward. Yet I kept running, driven by a will that no longer truly belonged to me. My body seemed to push on by itself, guided solely by survival instinct. By sheer reflex.

I was nothing more than a shadow in flight.

The poison was finishing its work. I could feel it flowing weaker and weaker through my veins.

My muscles burned from the exertion. With every breath, I fought to catch air, feeling oxygen slice through my lungs. Every step became a struggle, every stride a defiance thrown at a body that no longer wanted—no, that no longer could—respond.

In the distance, I heard them.

The soldiers.

Their shouts echoed through the trees, and I listened to the harsh clatter of their armor and boots crushing dead leaves.

They weren’t rushing. They had no reason to anymore. I couldn’t go very far, and they knew it.

Their mission was simple, summed up in three words:

Find me.

And kill me.

It wasn’t the first time I had been hunted. Over the centuries, countless warriors had dreamed of carving their name into history by bringing down the Lycan King. They saw my head as a trophy, but not a single one had succeeded.

At least, until now.

My foot caught on a root hidden beneath the leaves. I lost my footing and crashed heavily, face first, onto the ground. A sharp pain shot through my side where the blade had pierced me. A low groan escaped me, my fingers sinking into the mud.

I lay there motionless for a few seconds, unable to move. Then, with a final surge of effort, I pushed against my arms to roll onto my back.

The sky was splendid, a deep blue slowly blazing with amber highlights—the mark of a rising twilight.

And as the sun slipped behind the hills, I watched the day die. And myself with it.

The poison had silenced everything that made me a Lycan. No healing factor, no supernatural strength. Even my blood kept leaking from my wounds, as if it already knew it had no reason left to stay inside my body, that it was over.

And so, in the few moments I had left, I thought about my life.

Memories looped before my eyes. Fragments of an existence forged in the fires of combat. Every victory had left a scar; every defeat, a reason to rise again. Nothing had ever been given to me.

Everything had to be conquered.

I had triumphed where others had failed. Defied destiny, sometimes even the gods themselves, defending my people against countless enemies. I had worn a crown whose weight often exceeded that of any armor.

I had done my duty.

At least, that was what history would remember of me.

But at the threshold of death, that glory meant nothing. It couldn’t warm the heart, nor fill the void within me.

Only one question remained—the only one that still mattered.

Was I satisfied? Had I been happy?

I searched my memory like one sifts through the ruins of a burned-down house, looking for a scrap of warmth. But no image birthed what men called happiness.

No. I had never known it. My entire life, I had existed for others.

And yet, in the middle of that darkness, a few sparks of joy refused to die out.

I saw myself as a child again, back when the world felt infinitely larger than it truly was, when every forest hid a dragon, every hill promised an adventure, and when I was convinced my name would one day be sung and cheered by every bard in the kingdom.

At eight years old, I made a wooden sword. Proud as a true knight, I marched through the village announcing I was going to rid them of all monsters.

My first opponent turned out to be… a goose.

A demonic creature, if you ask me.

It chased me through the village while I abandoned both my sword and my dignity behind me. I fled screaming, accompanied by the laughter of the villagers.

At fourteen, I decided to skip a lesson, hiding in a cart to do so.

My plan might have worked had I not fallen asleep. They found me three hours later with a head of cabbage serving as my pillow.

Upon my return, my tutor was waiting for me at the castle gates. He gave me an entire lecture dedicated to how to escape properly—and, above all, how to succeed. Now that I think about it, that lesson served me well over the years.

Back then, my greatest battles ended with a few bruises and a whole lot of embarrassment.

So, in a final spark of clarity, I thought of my mother. Of her gentle gaze. Of the warmth of her arms.

By reflex, my hand brushed the amulet hidden beneath my tunic—her final gift. My fingers immediately recognized the stone, which seemed to retain a strange warmth despite the cold slowly numbing my body.

I clutched it in my palm, as though that simple contact were still enough to connect me to her.

I remembered perfectly the day she had given it to me.

I was still too young to understand the worry hidden behind her smile.

She had knelt before me with trembling hands, delicately tying the chain behind my neck. A tear had slipped down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away to keep me from seeing it. But I had seen it.

Yet I hadn’t dared ask why she was crying. Perhaps if I had asked back then, I could have said my goodbyes.

The amulet was simple.

A stone nearly as dark as a moonless night sat in the center of a gold band engraved with ancient symbols.

“This amulet is your lucky charm, my son,” she had said.

Her voice was soft, yet bore a strange gravity.

“It will guide you to your destiny. It will show you what you seek in the deepest depths of yourself. But only on the day you abandon all hope will it become your light. Like a beacon in the night—and I beg of you, follow it.”

At the time, I saw her words as nothing more than a pretty poem a mother tells her child.

Yet I knew my mother, and she never made things up. She was a seer; she was never wrong, even if her visions often came to pass too late.

I had to face reality: the “prophecy” she spoke of had never been fulfilled. I had never found that light, that beacon she had promised me.

But perhaps I would find it up there?

That single thought brought a strange peace over me.

If the prophecy had never come to pass down here, perhaps I could finally find my answers beyond the veil of heaven.

Perhaps there was a place out there where people no longer suffered from hunger, where warriors were no longer condemned to fight.

My eyelids began to close.

I made my decision.

With a trembling hand, I slid my fingers down to the hilt of my sword.

This blade had accompanied me through almost my entire life; we had braved countless battles together without ever faltering. But I had never imagined a day would come when I might consider turning it upon myself.

Yet that moment had arrived.

I refused to give them my death. I preferred to choose my own end rather than surrender this final fragment of freedom to them.

My fingers tightened around the hilt.

Slowly, I raised the blade and set the point against my chest, right above my heart.

The wind caressed my face one last time. The final rays of sunlight filtered through the branches above me.

I closed my eyes.

I took a deep breath.

And I pushed.

My vision faded into a deep, almost ethereal darkness. I no longer felt pain, nor even the cold.

And for the first time in a very long time…

I was at peace.