The early morning, usually a peaceful hour, was shattered by the clamor of horses and commanding voices. Drawn by the commotion, Aria went to the window, pulling aside the curtain and pushing the casement wider to get a clearer view of the courtyard below. There, soldiers were struggling, grappling with a new prisoner.
"They've captured another werewolf," her handmaiden said, her voice a soft murmur as she straightened the bed.
Aria didn't take her eyes off the scene. It had been a long time since the castle had received a werewolf prisoner; most had gone into hiding by now. How had this one been caught?
Despite the heavy shackles on his wrists and ankles, the soldiers were having difficulty subduing him. It took five of them to wrestle him to his knees, then force him face down onto his stomach. From her vantage point in the tower, Aria could see his broad back, crisscrossed with crusted blood from a whipping. A soldier grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head down and pressing one cheek hard against the ground. Aria caught a fleeting glimpse of the prisoner's face, enough to see his jaw clenched in a snarl of pure rage, his nostrils flared. His eyes, however, remained obscured by dark, matted strands of hair.
"They say he is a Katharos," her handmaiden, Elda, continued. "His Majesty will be pleased they caught one."
In the dimly lit dungeon, a werewolf of noble lineage lay captive. His mere presence as a prisoner was a testament to the fall of royalty, for werewolves were creatures of immense pride. Every inch of his back bore the scars of defiance, each lash a reminder of his resistance. Aria observed the scene with a mixture of satisfaction and unease. She had witnessed countless werewolves dragged to their fate, their struggle a mere prelude to their ultimate subjugation. But the initial joy she derived from their misery was fleeting, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste of resentment.
A sudden stillness in the captive werewolf caught Aria's attention. She knew their kind never yielded easily, and this one was no different. As the wind brushed his hair aside, revealing eyes burning with untamed fury, Aria's curiosity piqued. With a feral roar, he burst into action, rolling over and throwing off the soldiers restraining him. His muscles, taut and quivering, betrayed his desire for freedom, but the chains held him captive. A whip cracked, tearing into his chest, eliciting a pained growl that resonated with primal rage.
Aria's gaze intensified as she noticed the prisoner's futile struggle against the chains. The shackles around his limbs, she knew, were not ordinary; they held a secret—a sedative that would render him powerless should he attempt to break free. Her mind drifted to the past, recalling how her uncle, the current king, and her late father, the previous ruler, had devised these methods to subdue the beasts that once enslaved their people. Her father's sacrifice had brought freedom, but it had not brought peace to her heart.
The werewolf's strength became evident as he yanked the chains, sending soldiers flying. His veins bulged, and his muscles rippled with raw power. Aria understood the nature of these creatures; they were savages, relying on brute force rather than intellect. It was this weakness that had led to their downfall at the hands of her father's army. Yet, the prisoner seemed to understand the shackles' purpose, focusing his efforts on the chains.
In a desperate attempt to escape, he sprinted toward the gate, only to be halted by a small crossbow, an immortalizer—that fired sedative-laced injections. Aria watched, intrigued, as the beast fell, his body convulsing. Something was amiss; the sedatives should not have caused such a reaction. Her mind raced with questions. Why was her uncle capturing and imprisoning these beasts instead of executing them as her father had done?
Despite her hatred for werewolves, doubt crept into her heart. The sight of them caged beneath her chambers made her feel uneasy. She yearned for their eradication, but their resilience unnerved her. Even now, after multiple sedative shots, a loud growl echoed through the dungeon, signaling the beast's unwavering determination.
Aria's gaze returned to the window, her eyes widening at the sight before her. The werewolf, defying all odds, had risen once more. With a single arm, he crushed a soldier's waist, his eyes scanning for his next prey. Chaos ensued, commands shouted, and then the sharp crack of a pistol reverberated. The bullet found its mark, but the beast merely groaned and stumbled, refusing to yield. Another shot rang out, and silence descended, broken only by Aria's rapid heartbeat.
She peered cautiously, witnessing the beast on his knees, blood oozing from wounds in his shoulder and leg. Yet, his bronze skin glistened with an unyielding determination, unaffected by the pain.