The Suffering

The Lycan Castle was alive with revelry. Torches flickered, casting wild shadows over the stone walls as drunken laughter echoed through the great hall. The scent of roasted meat and spilled ale thickened the air. Soldiers feasted, unaware of the darkness creeping through the corridors below.

Beneath the castle, in the damp, foul-smelling dungeons, Luig sat motionless in his cell. His wrists were torn raw from the iron shackles, his body covered in fresh wounds. The scars on his back burned from the last lashing, but his mind was far beyond pain. His empty gaze locked onto the darkness ahead, lost in the echoes of his own torment.

In the next cell, another prisoner sat in silence—Rogar, a rogue rebel of the Eastern Wastelands. He had been captured weeks ago during a failed ambush on a Lycan patrol. He had seen everything. The torture. The beatings. The guards breaking Luig down, day after day. But the boy never screamed. Not once.

Rogar clenched his fists as footsteps approached.

Five guards marched in, laughing among themselves. The stench of alcohol clung to their breath. One of them, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, slammed a baton against Luig's cell bars.

"Still breathing, are you?" he sneered. "I'm almost disappointed. Thought you'd be dead by now."

Another guard chuckled. "This one's got a spine, unlike the last ones. They all broke eventually."

Luig didn't respond. He never did.

The scarred guard leaned in closer. "Maybe tomorrow, we'll cut that tongue out. I'm curious if you'll stay silent then."

A blade flashed. The guard froze. A deep, guttural sound escaped his throat as blood sprayed against the cold stone walls. A dagger was buried deep in his neck, severing his windpipe. His body jerked violently before collapsing in a heap.

The others barely had time to react.

A shadow moved behind the second guard—a hooded figure with piercing eyes. A whisper of steel, then a clean swipe. The guard's head rolled from his shoulders, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

The remaining three guards staggered back, reaching for their weapons. But the darkness was alive. From the shadows, another rebel emerged, a woman with deadly precision. She hurled three needles, each finding its mark—one into the throat, one into the heart, one into the skull. The guard collapsed, his body convulsing before going still.

The fourth guard turned to flee, but his breath hitched. His veins turned black as poison spread through his bloodstream. His limbs stiffened, his mouth foamed. He collapsed, writhing in agony until his heart stopped.

The last guard stood frozen in terror, his sword trembling in his grip. A cloaked rebel stepped forward, slow and deliberate. "You Lycan dogs think you're untouchable," he whispered. "You never saw this coming, did you?"

Before the guard could scream, the rebel drove a blade into his gut and twisted. The guard choked on his own blood as his body slumped to the floor.

The rebels moved quickly, wiping their blades clean as Rogar stepped forward. He turned to the cloaked figure who had led the attack. "You're late."

The rebel leader smirked beneath his hood. "We had to wait for the right moment. The celebration upstairs was the perfect distraction."

Rogar grabbed the keys from a dead guard's belt and rushed to Luig's cell. He hesitated. "Are you still with us?"

Luig finally moved. His gaze lifted, dull and unreadable. The chains rattled as Rogar unlocked the cell door and crouched beside him.

"We're getting you out of here," he said firmly.

Luig said nothing. He simply stared.

One of the rebels glanced at him and frowned. "Is he even alive in there?"

"He is," Rogar muttered. "You don't survive this long without a will to live."

The rebel leader knelt beside Luig. "Come on, boy. We didn't kill these bastards just for you to rot in this hole."

Luig shifted his wrists as the chains fell away. His muscles ached, his body screamed for rest, but he didn't falter. Slowly, he stood.

The rebels watched him closely. His eyes held no fear, no gratitude—just a hollow emptiness.

"Let's go," the leader ordered.

They moved swiftly through the dungeon, stepping over the corpses of the fallen guards.

As they ascended the stone stairway, the sounds of the feast above grew louder. Drunken howls and music masked their escape. The rebels were ghosts in the night, slipping through the shadows, unseen and unheard.

Rogar led Luig through the hidden passage they had carved into the castle's weak points. The air was thick with tension, but no one spoke. They reached the outer wall, where ropes had been secured for their descent.

One by one, the rebels disappeared into the darkness below. Rogar turned to Luig. "Can you climb?"

Luig didn't answer. He simply grabbed the rope and began his descent, his movements controlled, mechanical.

Once they reached the ground, the rebels scattered into the dense forest beyond the castle. The moment they were clear, the rebel leader turned to Rogar.

"You said this kid was worth saving," he murmured. "I don't see it."

Rogar glanced at Luig, who stood silently, his expression unreadable.

"You didn't see what they did to him," Rogar muttered. "He survived what no man should. He's more than he looks."

The leader studied Luig for a moment longer before nodding. "We'll see."

The group vanished into the night, leaving behind nothing but corpses and the whisper of a legend in the making.

Yet, fate had a cruel sense of humor.

A single figure stumbled into the hallway, his boots dragging clumsily against the stone. The stench of ale clung to him, his armor loosely strapped, a half-empty bottle swinging from his grip. The last remaining guard—drunk, forgotten in the depths of the castle's debauchery.

He blinked, his fogged mind struggling to make sense of the scene before him. The blood, the still bodies, the open cell. Then, his eyes widened.

"Shit—"

The bottle slipped from his hand, shattering against the ground as he turned and bolted down the corridor.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he sprinted through the twisting halls, the distant sounds of music and revelry growing louder. He pushed past servants and other guards, shoving his way toward the heart of the castle.

Bursting into the grand hall, he nearly collapsed. The light of golden chandeliers nearly blinded him, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine. A celebration of excess.

And at the center of it all—Prince Henry.

He sat atop his throne-like chair, a goblet of wine resting lazily in his grip. His dark, predatory eyes flicked up from the woman whispering in his ear, locking onto the trembling guard before him.

"What is the meaning of this?" Henry 's voice was smooth, yet ice-cold.

"M-My Lord—" the guard gasped, still breathless. "They— They're gone— The rebels— They—"

Henry's expression remained unchanged, but something dark flickered beneath his gaze. Slowly, he set his goblet down. The woman at his side wisely stepped away.

"Gone?" he repeated, his tone unreadable.

The guard swallowed. "They—they killed them. Every last one. The prisoners—one of them, the boy—we had him for years, My Lord, but they—they took him."

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then Henry exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. He reached for his sword resting against the table, gripping the hilt as he rose to his feet.

"Those pests…" His voice was quiet, yet venom dripped from every word. "I should have killed them back then."

He turned to the hall, his voice ringing out like a war drum.

"Soldiers of Lyca—gather! We ride for the hunt."

The once-lively celebration fell into a hush. Then, movement. Boots against stone. Armor clashing. Warriors standing at attention, their hands flying to their weapons.

Prince Henry's smirk was sharp as a blade.

"We will show them what happens to those who steal from us."

---

Scene Shift – The Rogues' Caravan

The shadows stretched long as the rebels rode deeper into the wilds. Their horses galloped through the trees, the moonlight barely touching the earth beneath them. The group remained silent, their breathing heavy but controlled. They had done the impossible tonight—they had stolen a ghost from the jaws of hell.

At the center of the group, Luig rode quietly, his body wrapped in a tattered cloak. His skin was pale, stretched over his bones like parchment. The scars on his wrists, his back—a silent testament to his past.

Beside him, a man rode closer, grinning beneath his hood.

"Hey, kid," the man said, his voice rough but oddly warm. "Now you're free. How does it feel?"

Luig didn't answer right away. He kept his gaze forward, the wind brushing against his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was deep, eerily calm.

"Yeah."

The man blinked. Then he laughed—a loud, hearty sound that echoed in the night.

"Damn, your voice is something else. You know, I tried talking to you back in that shithole, but you never answered." He eyed Luig up and down, frowning. "They didn't feed you well, did they? You're light as a damn feather."

A few others chuckled.

"First, we eat," the man continued. "Then we welcome our new brother properly."

The others murmured in agreement.

The man, Rogar, slowed his horse to ride beside Luig more closely. His expression turned somber. "You know… my son was your age when he died." His grip on the reins tightened. "After that battle, everything changed. This world collapsed. Hunger. Poverty. It's everywhere." His voice grew quiet. "We rob to feed those who can't. You want to join us, even if we're bad guys?"

Luig's eyes remained fixed ahead. His voice, when it came, was empty.

"Since birth, everyone abandoned me." He inhaled, as if remembering something distant. "I was raised in the slums. When the prince took me, I thought he adopted me. But he only wanted someone to break." A long pause. "I don't know what's good or bad anymore." He glanced at Rogar, his voice steady.

"I will rely on you as a brother."

Rogar looked at him for a long moment. Then, a slow, warm smile stretched across his face.

"Then rely on me," he said. "Okay, brother?"

Luig nodded once.

The group pressed on, disappearing into the depths of the night—unaware that the hunt had already begun.

---

Scene Shift – The Rogues' Hideout

The caravan rolled to a stop within a hidden valley, the entrance disguised by thick brush and towering cliffs. Torches were lit, casting flickering light over a cluster of wooden structures built into the rock. Smoke curled into the sky from distant fires, and the scent of roasting meat filled the air.

The rebels dismounted, leading their horses to the stables. Luig stepped down carefully, his body still weak from years of malnourishment.

A tall woman with sharp eyes strode forward, arms crossed. "So this is him?"

"Yeah," Rogar said, patting Luig's shoulder. "This is Luig."

The woman smirked. "I'm Sienna. If you ever need a blade at your side, I'm your best bet."

A lanky man leaned against a crate, tossing a dagger between his fingers. "Name's Drey. I kill clean." He grinned. "But I don't clean up after."

A massive man with arms thick as tree trunks chuckled. "I'm Orik. I hit things hard." He clapped Luig's back, nearly sending him stumbling.

One by one, the rogues introduced themselves. Warriors. Thieves. Assassins. People who had been cast out, just like him.

As the night deepened, a fire was lit in the center of the camp. Food was passed around, and for the first time in years, Luig ate without fear.

But even as warmth settled into his bones, something gnawed at the edge of his mind.

A hunt had begun.

And Prince Henry was coming.

The rebels had vanished into the night, leaving behind nothing but corpses and the whisper of a legend in the making. The Lycan castle was in chaos—guards shouting, bells ringing, torches igniting the darkness. The drunken festivities had turned into a manhunt.

Prince Henry stood motionless, his sharp eyes scanning the bodies littering the stone floor. His rage was a quiet storm brewing beneath the surface.

"Anyone," his voice was deadly calm, "we go to their last hideout first. Then we search every town."

The soldiers stood at attention, but before they could move, a voice cut through the air.

"I know where they are."

The room fell silent. Every soldier turned to see who had spoken.

A man stepped forward, his face partially hidden beneath his helmet. His voice was steady, unwavering.

Henry narrowed his eyes. "You do?"

The soldier nodded. "Yes, Your Highness. I know their hideout."

For a moment, Henry said nothing. Then a slow, wicked smile curled his lips.

"Good," he murmured. "Very good."

But as the soldiers prepared to move, a single question lingered in the air like a ghost.

How did he know?

A flicker of unease passed through the ranks. Some soldiers exchanged glances, sensing something was off. The man had spoken with certainty, not hesitation.

Henry took a slow step toward him, his boots echoing on the stone floor. The air grew heavy.

"Tell me," Henry said, his voice quiet but sharp as a blade, "how do you know?"

The soldier didn't flinch. "Because I've been following them for months. Watching. Waiting for them to make a mistake."

Henry stared at him, as if peeling away his flesh to see what lay beneath. Then, without warning, he grabbed the soldier's chin, tilting his face toward the torchlight.

The man's eyes gleamed—not with fear, but with something else.

Henry's smile widened.

"Ah… I see now."

The prince let go and turned to his men. "Prepare the hunt. Tonight, we bring back their heads."

The castle roared with the sound of marching boots, the scent of blood still thick in the air.

But in the shadows, the traitor smirked.

And somewhere in the night, the rebels rode toward their hideout, unaware that death was already on their trail.

--To be continue