The Lycan CEO

There is a mute sort of pleasure found lying in one’s own filth - defecation and urine leaving bodily imprints on the cold concrete floor. The whip marks are still fresh and open, raw gilded flesh hanging from the body like feathers from a dreamcatcher, slowly weeping blood.

"Mother."

The only constant sound in the swallowing darkness is that of a sentenced prisoner, somewhere in the dungeon's corner.

Like a reminder, it keeps Kairo's fading mind straight while he teeters on the brink of absolute insanity. A steep fall he knew he’d approach soon enough.

His body burns and aches in regions he did not know existed. The length of his back, which was once clothed in royal robes, is now bare and slick with divine blood; his torso is matted with blackening bruises and skin protrusions along the dome of his ribcage, indicating just how many bones had been fractured, the ragged edges now pressing against the barrier of skin.

The rise and fall of his chest is a labored stagger, like a pneumatic struggle to inhale oxygen. Each exhale leaves in a high pitched whistle, wet with a strangling gurgle of blood and mucus that clog his throat. There is a distinct crackle in his left lower lung.

"Mother!"

The darkness is absolute.

So thick, Kairo cannot tell if his eyes are open or shut.

Touch your eyes, he thinks warily, then remembers with a vague sort of agony that he is missing all fingers.

The fingers, the hands that sinned.

Sliced clean before the council members. The pain had been so distinct in that moment, the terror like cold shards of ice pricking through his throat, swelling it shut as no sound but a high pitched cry left him. The vivid crunching of bones, one by one, lived eternally in his ears.

Ten stumps for ten fingers.

The blade had been dipped in boiling silver and laced with wolfsbane, denying his own body permission to heal itself. They wanted to prolong his agony, and so they had.

"Mother!" the prisoner wails and paces.

He had seen the prisoner once; when the guards were dragging his half-conscious body through the cellars hallway. Their lights cast sombre tones of gold forward like an offering to the misshapen forms hidden in the darkness. A transient gift, perhaps.

The prisoner had been calling for his mother in a state of pure delirium. As they passed his cell, Kairo had caught a glimpse of the man - then wished he had not.

It was an adult with the disfigured body of a child. His body resembled a wasted corpse, etiolated skin shifting over flesh so thinly Kairo could name every bone, and when he hunched over himself in the corner, his backbone surfaced clean like a fish's rippling spine.

The man stared at Kairo, eyes sunken in boundless cups of grime.

The Prince had been terrified of being abandoned in the dungeon with the man. Afraid that he would manage to slip between the bars and claw his eyes out, gnaw at his limbs, or simply watch and stare.

He’d begged, he’d pleaded, he’d commanded, but the guards stared unmoved and apathetic - not at a Prince, but a traitor.

"Motherrrr!"

Something scurries over his outstretched leg; its cool curled nails briefly dig into his skin, long, scaled tail brushing the curve of his calf, before darting into the adjacent cell.

"Motherrrr!"

Kairo blinks slowly. His stomach had ceased the demand for nourishment days before, perhaps succumbing to the inevitable conclusion that his death would be through starvation and nothing more.

But a peaceful death was something his father would never permit.

Punishments were meted and placed accordingly.

An eye for an eye.

A life for a life.

"Your mother is not here," the prince whispers, voice hoarse and throbbing.

In the space of three days, the dull anger that had risen beneath his skin to choke him now simmers as a conceding feeling overcomes him.

I deserve it.

"Mother," the hoarse, echoing cry comes. "Mum."

There is a long pause. A burning sensation slowly spreads behind his eyes, joining at the bridge of his nose, slipping down his swelling throat, and his chin trembles just slightly.

"MOOOTHERRR—" The voice comes drifting through the steel bars of the holding cells again, as mournful as a foghorn.

The sound of bolts groaning open echoes somewhere in the corner of Kairo's nebulous mind. Though his sense of sight was deprived, the vibrations on the clammy cement floor on which he lies are enough of an awakening - the harsh military pounding of boots.

"Mother?"

Light floods Kairo's cell, so bright his eyes snap shut as his pupils burn from the sudden invasion.

"Rise," a guttural voice demands, then pauses at the sight of the immobile prince. He grunts disapprovingly, then works the cell door open, allowing two men to step inside.

Kairo sees their large silhouettes poise over him like a dark sun, lambent golden eyes staring down. Their gloved hands pinch at his bare biceps as each of them slip a hand under his armpit and lift him to his feet.

Kairo stumbles weakly and slumps against one guard, whose scowl deepens in distaste but does not move in avoidance, while the other locks heavy shackles across both wrists and ankles.

"Mother?"

"I'll tell you what your mum can do," one guard snorts as they pass the cell. Kairo casts a furtive stare through his blond, overgrown curls at the man.

He still sits curled in the corner, cooing to himself, knees pulled tight to his chest.

But then Kairo’s eyes widen.

He stifles a cry of revulsion.

A larger, sleek rat is feasting on the man's toe. Its repulsive pink tail neatly coiled around its gray body. White whiskers flecked with red.

The man's glazed eyes watch him, and then comes his hoarse, hopeful voice; "Mum?"

They lead him out into the light.

Though it hurts to move, breathe and blink, the prince steadily does so. He forces himself to inhale the foreign fresh air, feel the sun's golden rays grace his maimed body with comforting caresses.

The palace hallway is desolate and opulent. Never had it been this silent, yet it is. As they pass rooms, Kairo notices the lack of people, the absence of servants.

Why would they be here? he thinks with bitter amusement, then sobers down as guilt settles like an anchor on his chest. They are mourning.

These were the halls in which he once tread on, adorned in fine princely garments; pride and confidence in each fleeting smile; bright, buoyant eyes focused on his siblings as they walked with arms thrown over each other's shoulders; past the garden beyond glass walls in which he played, he trained, he grew.

It would all end today.

Each memory held over a flame, and he would watch on helplessly as it lights and turns to ash.

The guards guide him down a final long hall. It is one he is sharply familiar with, from the golden embroidered frames on each side with images of Alphas who preceded his father, to Betas who stood loyally and died faithfully, to Lunas who fruitfully bore iron-fisted heirs.

One frame would be missing.

The guards draw to a halt as the doors are ceremoniously opened: a perverted inversion of a coronation, something supposedly glorious but this was anything but.

The Alpha, tall and broad-shouldered, sits on his gold-laced throne. He adorns a military outfit beneath a black mourning coat. Dark pitted circles shadow the silver solemn eyes that watch him, eyes that once regarded him with love and decided devotion now... empty.

His mother rests beside him on her throne wearing all black, her face hidden beneath a thin mourning veil.

All his siblings stand behind the thrones, hands clasped before them, gazes that once swimmed with infinite affection now hollow, endless pits that slide through him.

The hall curves around them like a dome, glass panes allowing rays of white light to filter through.

The room is warm but all Kairo feels is cold.

They lead him towards the centre where a stone table is set, clips for chains set on all corners. In the corner of his eye, Kairo sees the raging burn of flames, two branding sticks set within the sweltering heat.

His chest contracts and his pleading eyes rise to the stone figures before him. "Father," the boy whimpers, the aching stubs of his fingers begging in unison with his voice. “I’m sorry, mother. I’m-”

The Prince is cut off by a shudder upon reaching the table, the cold-cut edges pressing deeply into his waist. The Alpha's eyes flash like teeth in a wolf's mouth, dangerous and deadly.

"Chain him."

“No-” His protest goes unheard, fear rippling along his arms like electricity. “No, please-” The guards waste no time in unfastening the clunking chain that connects his shackles, instead binding his wrists to the clips at each end of the table. His tensed abdomen hovers over the slate, arms stretched, eyes wide and desperately searching for mercy.

Mercy.

He was not deserving.

Kairo’s head swivels upon his wounded neck at the sight of both rods being buried deeply within the blazing coals, a loud hiss resonating within the palace halls. But it is when the guards slowly remove the pokers that he recognises the symbol burning like hot, unforgiving magma at each end.