Feral Bonds

Chapter 21: The Fae

Akecheta awoke to a dull, constant pain that had become a familiar companion over the months of his captivity. Ever since the runes had been seared into his skin, the ache had settled into his bones, a throbbing reminder of the dark magic the fae had infused into him. But now, the pain was worse—sharper, more focused, as though his flesh was being unraveled strand by strand. He could feel the magic twisting inside him, pulling at his very being. His wrists and ankles were bound by glowing chains of light, tethering him to a cold stone altar. The chamber was dim, lit only by eerie orbs hovering in the air, casting flickering shadows across the damp, stone walls.

He attempted to move, but his body felt sluggish, weighted down by exhaustion and magic. Each small movement sent fresh waves of agony rippling through his limbs, and his mind remained hazy, clouded by the constant onslaught of pain and disorientation. He couldn't remember how long he had been here—days, weeks, maybe months. Time had blurred, swallowed by the endless cycle of torment.

The memories came rushing back in fragmented pieces. The fae. The hunt. His father's voice echoing through the woods, calling him back to the pack. The wolves had been wary, their fear palpable as the magic-laden fog enveloped the forest. And then... the ambush. The fae's magic had bound him, dragging him into their world, far from the reach of his pack, far from the wolves who had once shunned him. Now, he was alone, utterly alone, trapped in this place where dark magic thrived, and mercy did not exist.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the chamber, and Akecheta strained to see through the dim light. His senses, once sharp, had been dulled by the constant agony, and his wolf was buried deep beneath the layers of dark magic that coursed through him. The faint scent of pine and mountain air reached his nose, sharp and clean—fae. It was always the fae. But there was something else, too, something metallic and bitter. The scent of iron, blood, and magic woven into one.

The door to his chamber creaked open, and several figures entered with slow, deliberate steps. They were tall, impossibly graceful, their silver hair flowing like liquid moonlight, and their pale skin glowing faintly in the dim light. Their eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto him with detached curiosity, as if he were no more than a subject in one of their experiments. Akecheta could feel their magic brushing against his skin like tendrils, probing, testing, as though they were measuring the weight of his very soul.

One of them stepped forward—a woman with sharp, angular features and a smile that promised only cruelty. She wore a long robe of emerald green that shimmered in the light, and her fingers moved with delicate precision as she traced the air around him, manipulating the magic that kept him bound to the stone altar.

"How does it feel, lycan?" she asked, her voice smooth but dripping with malice. "To be so... powerless."

Akecheta's lips pulled into a weak snarl, but the effort was too much. His muscles seized, and pain flared from the runes burned into his skin, forcing him to grit his teeth against a scream. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of hearing his suffering.

The woman's smile widened as she chuckled softly. "Still so defiant, even now. That will fade soon enough."

Her words echoed through his mind, but Akecheta's focus was drawn to the cruel implements being set up by the other fae—a collection of glass and metal tools, each one designed for pain, for manipulation. He had seen these instruments before. They had used them on him again and again, each session leaving him more broken, his wolf more caged. They were learning from him, using his body to understand the depths of the magic that bound him.

The months had passed in a blur of agonizing rituals, one after another. They had pushed him to the brink, and just when he thought he would break, they would pull back, letting him heal—only to start the cycle over again. The fae wanted something from him, something buried deep within the magic that had been fused with his lycan blood. They were probing for the curse that had transformed him, the curse that had made him what he was.

The woman in green gestured to one of her companions, a fae man with sunken eyes and a twisted smile. He stepped forward, holding a small vial filled with a thick, black liquid that shimmered ominously in the dim light. Akecheta's body tensed instinctively, knowing what was coming next.

"This will help us reveal the extent of your corruption," the woman said, her voice clinical and detached. "Do not worry, lycan. We do not intend to kill you. Not yet."

The fae man whispered an incantation, and the liquid in the vial began to shift, turning into a thin mist that drifted toward Akecheta. The mist swirled around him, sinking into the runes carved into his flesh. Instantly, the pain exploded within him, far worse than anything he had felt before. The runes flared, glowing a deep, sickening red as the dark magic inside him reacted violently to the fae's spell.

Akecheta screamed this time, unable to hold back as his body convulsed on the altar. His muscles seized, and the chains of light around his wrists and ankles glowed brighter, keeping him bound in place. His wolf, buried deep within, roared in desperation, but there was no escape. He was trapped, his body torn apart from within as the magic surged and twisted through him.

The fae watched with cold fascination, their expressions unchanging as Akecheta writhed in agony. They weren't like the wolves—there was no empathy, no understanding. To them, he was a subject, a specimen to be studied, dissected. They were curious about the curse that had taken root in his blood, the fusion of lycan power and forbidden magic that had turned him into this... thing.

"Interesting," one of the fae murmured as he observed the runes flare across Akecheta's body. "The magic is integrated with his very being. It's not simply a curse—it's become part of him."

The woman in green nodded, her gaze fixed on Akecheta's contorted form. "Yes," she said thoughtfully. "The wolves have unleashed something they do not understand. This magic is... ancient. It will destroy him if it is not controlled."

Akecheta's vision blurred as another wave of pain surged through him, but through the haze, he caught fragments of their conversation. They spoke of the magic as if it were some priceless artifact they could exploit. Their words meant nothing to him; all he knew was the pain—the constant, searing pain that had become his reality.

"How long can he survive this?" one of the fae asked.

"As long as we wish," the woman replied. "The lycan blood gives him strength, but the magic will consume him eventually."

"We must break the magic before it does," another fae said, his voice low and calculating. "If we can extract the dark power from him, it could serve us well in the war."

The war. That word had haunted Akecheta for months, whispered in the shadows, mentioned in passing during his brief moments of clarity. The fae were preparing for something, a conflict beyond his understanding. And they saw him as a tool, a weapon that could shift the balance in their favor. But before they could use him, they had to break the magic that bound him, unlock the secrets of the curse that had fused with his very soul.

The woman stepped forward again, her cold fingers brushing over the runes on his chest. Akecheta flinched at her touch, the magic pulsing painfully beneath her hand. She leaned in close, her lips curling into a cruel smile.

"Tell me, lycan," she whispered, her voice soft and venomous. "What does it feel like to have your humanity stripped away, piece by piece?"

Through the red haze of pain, Akecheta's mind burned with rage. He forced his lips to move, his voice a ragged growl. "I... still have it," he rasped, his breath labored. "And you... will never take it from me."

Her smile faltered, just for a moment, before it returned, colder than before. She turned away, her expression unreadable. "We shall see."

As the fae continued their work, chanting incantations in a language that made his skin crawl, Akecheta felt the pain deepen. It became all-consuming, until it was all he knew. But somewhere, deep inside, buried beneath the layers of torment and magic, he held on. There was a power inside him, a dark, twisted power that the fae didn't fully understand. And if he could find a way to control it, to harness the pain and turn it into strength, then maybe—just maybe—he could break free.

He wasn't sure how long he could survive under the fae's control, but one thing was certain—they had underestimated him. They thought they had broken him, but Akecheta knew the truth. The magic inside him was dangerous, yes, but it was also his key to freedom. And when the time came, the fae would regret ever thinking they could control him.