Stolen by the Beastly Lycan King-Chapter 165: The Cell

The desolate lands near the border of Erelith had been Rhaegar’s home for as long as he could remember. Wandering from one hideout to the next, he followed a woman named Cara like a lost puppy, obeying her every command with the unwavering belief that she was his only chance at survival.

From the moment Cara realized that Rhaegar could finally understand her words and comprehend her instructions, her first instinct was not to teach him how to speak properly, let alone how to read or write.

No, the first thing she made sure he understood was that his mother was dead—and that his father was determined to find him and kill him too.

The political landscape in the Beast Kingdom was notoriously unstable even after their escape, and nomads avoided the borders for fear of getting caught in the chaos.

Cara, worried that Rhaegar might be captured by slave traders and hauled off to Erelith against his will, decided to settle on neutral ground between the two kingdoms, waiting for an opportunity to secure their safety once the situation was stable.

For a long time, they managed to live a relatively peaceful life, though always shrouded in secrecy. But on one fateful day, when Cara had ventured away from their hiding spot to gather herbs that masked their scents from the scouting beasts, disaster struck.

Rhaegar, left alone outside their cave, was spotted by a slave trader. The man wasted no time, striking the boy hard on the head and rendering him unconscious.

And so, at the tender age of nine, Rhaegar was kidnapped and taken to Erelith as a slave.

***

When Rhaegar opened his eyes, he was greeted by an oppressive darkness so complete that he feared he had gone blind. A sharp, acrid stench assaulted his nose—a nauseating mixture of sweat, blood, earth, and dirt. Instinctively, he tried to cover his face, only to realize that his hands were bound tightly together.

A surge of panic crashed over him, sending violent tremors through his small frame. Had he been captured? Was it his father—or perhaps the royal beasts still hunting him? Questions flooded his frantic mind, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come up with a single plausible answer.

Fear gripped him in a way it never had before. Despite Cara’s countless warnings and tireless efforts to prepare him for such a moment, Rhaegar couldn’t quell the terror rising in his chest. For the first time in his life, he was truly afraid.

The oppressive silence was suddenly broken by the sound of heavy footsteps, each one reverberating ominously through the narrow space. Rhaegar’s heart raced as a shadow emerged from the corner, accompanied by the dim, flickering orange glow of a torch held aloft in a massive, calloused hand.

Instinctively, Rhaegar scrambled backward until his trembling body pressed against the cold stone wall behind him. Relief washed over him as he silently thanked every deity he could think of—he wasn’t blind.

As the man with the torch finally came to a halt, the boy’s wide, fearful eyes took in his surroundings. He was in a small, barren cell carved into the stone wall itself. The only thing separating him from the towering stranger was a set of thick, rusted iron bars.

The dim light illuminated the harsh reality of his confinement. The floor of the cell was nothing more than compacted dirt, damp and unyielding beneath him. The stagnant, humid air clung to his skin, amplifying the chilling sensation of the cold earth that seemed to drag him down whenever he dared to move even an inch.

The cell was cramped—likely intended for a single prisoner—but even as a child, Rhaegar could tell it wasn’t built for an adult. It was far too narrow, its claustrophobic confines barely leaving room to breathe.

Quickly assessing his bleak surroundings, Rhaegar shifted his wide, confused eyes to the man who had been silently watching him all along.

The stranger’s massive right hand held the torch near his face, casting flickering orange light over his sharp, angular features. His left hand rested lazily atop the rusted iron bars, as though he had all the time in the world to observe the boy.

Rhaegar had never been this close to another person apart from Cara. Though he had occasionally glimpsed merchants traveling through the continent, he had always stayed hidden. Now, confronted with the man’s imposing presence, he couldn’t help but stare. The shifting shadows emphasized his grotesque appearance, making him look almost monstrous.

The man was tall and broad-shouldered, his body hardened by years of labor under the harsh sun. Rhaegar judged that he wasn’t old—at least, not by age alone—but the harsh life of hunting rogue beasts had weathered him beyond his years.

Deep wrinkles carved trenches into his large forehead, and the permanent furrow between his brows hinted at a man prone to scowling. Yet, there was also an unmistakable glint of curiosity in his expression, suggesting he was no stranger to bewilderment.

His thin, chapped lips were slightly parted, exposing a crooked row of yellowed teeth. The subtle twitch at the corners of his mouth hinted at a vile emotion simmering just beneath the surface, as though he were holding back a sneer.

But it was his eyes that unnerved Rhaegar the most—small, dark, and unblinking. They were pools of cold indifference, staring down at him with unnerving steadiness. There was no hesitation, no fear. It was clear that this man didn’t see Rhaegar as a threat. He had handled "creatures" like him before—and he wasn’t expecting any surprises.

If anything, the boy thought bitterly, the man seemed better suited to the role of an executioner—or perhaps a torturer.

The stranger’s expression shifted, his tightly controlled emotions slipping free at last. A cruel smirk tugged at the corners of his thin lips, and his voice, low and rasping, cut through the oppressive silence.

"Finally awake, you little bastard?"

The menacing grin on the man’s face sent bone-crushing shivers down Rhaegar’s spine and he swallowed hard.