m e k h i (incomplete)

t h r e e

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t h r e e 

Two lycan males stand at the threshold of the large, gallant doors opening towards the grand hall, also known as the throne room. Stances are broad and tall, arms crossed before taut chests. Features are sullen, calm. Eyes are slates of nothing as they stray forwards, dark brows knitted.

The throne room lit with a hue of yellow, the sun's morning rays penetrating through the painted windows of glass surrounding the walls and curving to the ceiling. The celling was completely transparent, no colour painting the glass and only giving way to bright light.

It reflects the sun's gift, bouncing from the marbled floors and the polished walls. The whole room is emanated in a golden mist, truly showing the wealth lycan grounds held. The Lycan Monarch was centuries old, one of the first to be established, just after the Council formed. It followed traditional ways, abided by laws set before life breathed.

It would've been beautiful sight too if it wasn't for the mocha-tinted male destroying it.

The Lycan King was vexed.

The male had crawled back into the safety of his palace, just a little before the sun broke through night, interrupting the dark's freedom, and caging it for another cycle once again. He had been out for the darkest hours of the night, venturing across land, limbs attempting to burn any last lingering of emotions and anger left in it's wake.

It's evident that it didn't work.

Fur had shred to skin long ago, the male directly heading into the room he hadn't stepped foot in in two entire decades, when he struck a deal with the Moon, became King and had his mother fade.

He was livid, each and every single inch of him quaking with fury. He was so angry, and he didn't know why. Actually, he did know why. He just had too many reasons to think through it all properly.

Bare hands had reached for the throne this new female would've sat upon, breaking it piece by piece, expensive wood snapping under the wrath of his hands and breaking to thousands of pieces.

Roar after roar breaks his throat, each more calloused and wrenched than the other, the sound echoing in the large halls and making the two males wince. They do nothing, watching the maddened male have his fit, breaking everything his hands could get on.

Both thrones are dismantled, torn to mere shreds, before he throws stakes of broken wood into the glass lights and statues, shards flying everywhere.

He hated the fact that Moon was cruel. He hated that he was given another. He hated what he had shown the other, what he had made her feel. What sort of male did she think he was? He scared her.

He's angry because this was wrong, in so many ways. What was the moon thinking? A second mate was unheard of, unorthodox and unnatural. She was a wolf, an entirely different species to him. That wasn't natural. It was wrong.

The Law said nothing on it, but it didn't need to. This went again the way of life. It was forbidden. A crime. How was the King meant to explain this?

Another roar, form lunging for the largest chandelier and gripping onto it, legs swinging up. It snaps from the root, falling with his form, into nothing but a pile of glass blades and blood from his scratches where they've punctured his skin.