Vanished Sisters: The Lycan King's Slave Island Chapter 38

Fergus's POV

I touched my chest briefly, feeling the old scar through my shirt.

"He's not just a beast," I said quietly. "He's Mordred. He's our King. He's the reason any of us are alive today. And I won't—I *will not*—abandon him because it's become inconvenient."

"Inconvenient?" Sebastian's voice dripped with disbelief. "You call eleven deaths *inconvenient?*"

"I call it tragic. I call it a failure on our part to properly secure him. But I don't call it a reason to betray five hundred years of loyalty."

"Loyalty to what?" Sebastian demanded. "To a memory? To someone who doesn't exist anymore?"

"To the man who saved us all," I said flatly. "Whether you choose to remember that or not."

Silence fell.

Sebastian stared at me, his expression cycling through anger, frustration, and something that might have been grudging respect.

"Fine," he finally said. "We'll do it your way. For now. But mark my words, Fergus—when the next rampage happens, when more of our people die, their blood will be on your hands."

He turned and stalked away, shouting orders at the workers.

Gregor let out a long breath beside me. "That went well."

"It could have been worse," I muttered.

"How?"

"He could have actually tried to kill Mordred right now."

"Give him time," Gregor said dryly. "I'm sure he's considering it."

*No doubt.*

I moved past the workers and their construction efforts, approaching the den itself. The gate—or what remained of it—lay in twisted pieces on the ground. The metal bars, each as thick as my wrist, had been bent like soft clay. Some were torn completely free of their moorings.

I stepped through the opening carefully, my eyes adjusting to the dimness inside.

The den was enormous—carved out of solid rock over five centuries ago, when we'd first claimed this island. High ceilings disappeared into shadow. Small barred windows near the top let in pale moonlight, creating thin bars of silver across the floor.

And in the far corner, half-hidden in darkness, was Mordred.

In wolf form. Massive beyond belief. Black fur that seemed to swallow light.

He was sitting.

Just... sitting.

His head was lowered slightly, red eyes half-closed. His breathing was slow, steady, almost... peaceful.

*This doesn't make sense.*

After a rampage like tonight—after all that violence, all that bloodshed—he should be a whirlwind of rage. Should be throwing himself at the walls, trying to break free, to kill more.

But instead, he looked almost... *calm.*

I approached slowly, every instinct screaming at me to be careful. Even calm, even sitting quietly, Mordred was the most dangerous creature alive. One wrong move and he could tear me apart before I even realized I was dead.

"My Lord," one of the guards whispered behind me. "Be careful. We don't know if he's—"

"I know what I'm doing," I said quietly. "Stay back."

I took another step forward.

Mordred's eyes opened fully. Those burning red orbs fixed on me.

And for just a moment—just a fraction of a second—I could have sworn I saw something in them. Something beyond the beast. Something almost like...

*Recognition?*

No. Impossible. The beast didn't recognize anyone. Hadn't for five hundred years.

But still...

"Mordred," I said quietly, using his name. His *real* name, not 'the King' or 'the beast.' "What happened tonight? What drove you out?"

No response. Just those red eyes, staring.

"You killed eleven of our people," I continued, keeping my voice level. "Slaughtered them in the corridors. And then you—"

I paused, unsure how to phrase it.

"You attacked a human boy. A *boy*, Mordred. That's not like you. That's not your pattern. So what happened? What made you go after him specifically?"

Still nothing. The wolf just sat there, breathing slowly, watching me with those unreadable eyes.

*Of course. What did I expect? A conversation? An explanation?*

*He's gone. The man I knew is gone.*

But then Mordred did something I'd never seen before.

He lowered his head.

Not in aggression. Not preparing to attack.

"My Lord," Gregor's voice came from behind me. "We should go. Let the workers finish the gate before—"

"Wait." I held up a hand, not taking my eyes off Mordred. "Something's different. Look at him."

Gregor moved up beside me, keeping a careful distance from the wolf.

"What am I looking at?"

"He's not agitated. After a rampage, he's always agitated for hours. Days, sometimes. But look—he's completely calm. Almost like he's..."

"Tired?" Gregor suggested.

"No. Not tired." I studied the wolf's posture, trying to understand what I was seeing. "It's more like... satisfied. Like whatever drove him to escape tonight, he got what he needed."

"Are you suggesting the rampage was purposeful?" Gregor's tone was skeptical. "That he had a specific goal?"

"I don't know what I'm suggesting." I rubbed my face with both hands, suddenly feeling every one of my three hundred years. "Nothing about tonight makes sense. The timing, the target, his behavior now... none of it fits the pattern."

"Maybe there is no pattern," Gregor said quietly. "Maybe he's just getting worse. More unpredictable."

*Maybe.*

Behind us, the workers hammered new bars into place, the sound of metal on metal ringing through the den. Sebastian was shouting orders, his voice sharp with barely controlled fury.

And Mordred just sat there, watching us with those burning red eyes.

Not moving.

Not attacking.

Just... watching.

"Come on," I finally said, turning away. "There's nothing more we can do here tonight. Let Sebastian have his reinforced gate. Let the workers do their job. We need to assess the full damage and figure out how to explain this to the Council."

"The Council is going to lose their minds," Gregor muttered as we walked out of the den. "Eleven deaths in one night. "

"I know."

"And Sebastian will use this to push for Mordred's execution. You know he will."

"I know."

"Can you stop him?"

*Can I?*

*I don't know anymore.*

I glanced back at the den one more time before we turned the corner.

Mordred was still sitting in that corner. Still watching.

And something in his eyes—something I couldn't name—made my chest ache with a pain that had nothing to do with my old scar.

*What have you become, old friend?*