Whoever declared seven to be a lucky number is one hell of a jackass.
Wrath, envy, gluttony, greed, sloth, lust, pride.
Those are the seven deadly sins, and there is nothing lucky about them.
No, not in reference to the Christian guarantee of a one-way ticket to Hell. Rather, the seven mortals whose moral transgressions angered their maker so terribly that they became products of her fury. The Moon Goddess cursed them, made them lycans, made them immortal.
The inability to die seemed like a gift at first. It provided a false sense of godliness. But as the first year of living as a disgraced werewolf turned into a decade, as that decade morphed into a century, and as that century multiplied, the grim reality became cleaner. Time doesn’t only heal, it decays.
As the lycans lived on without the threat of death breathing down their necks, their loved ones caved into the aging process and perished with time. Meanwhile, lycans were left to roam the isolated and forgotten regions of the earth for hundreds of years frivolously. Their notoriety was well-known amongst werewolves and their stories arose bone-deep fear and disgust. This combination made them unwelcomed in packs and therefore unfit to function in werewolf society.
Do you understand now? There is nothing lucky about being one of the seven. They were abominations, spawns of evil, hazards.
This is the tale of Sol. The lycan whose downfall was Pride.
While Wrath manipulated and murdered,
While Envy slaughtered psychotically,
While Gluttony cannibalized,
While Greed conquered,
While Sloth neglected,
While Lust obsessed,
He was the formal alpha of a werewolf pack that was exterminated because of his despotism. He started a war that he had no business starting. His mistakes cost the lives of three hundred and forty-three pack members and his mortality.
He wandered the earth for three hundred years as a lycan until the moon goddess decided to end his sentence. In those three hundred years, he has never encountered such a mind-numbing temptation: a woman.