Stolen by the Beastly Lycan King-Chapter 166: Fever

Rhaegar braced himself for whatever was to come, but to his bewilderment, the man with the torch lamp merely gave him a cursory glance, as if assessing his physical state. Without another word, the stranger ordered him to stay quiet and walked away, leaving the cell shrouded in darkness once more.

Silence fell, broken only by the frantic thudding of Rhaegar’s heartbeat—a broken drum echoing in his ears, relentless and unsettling.

He decided to wait and see. Surely, the man would return and explain what was happening. But he never did. Rhaegar waited still—how long, he couldn’t say. The stillness in his cell was unrelenting, like the weight of a tomb.

More than once, he slipped into unconsciousness, his body succumbing to hunger and exhaustion. The little water he had found in a large, rusted metal bowl shoved into the corner of the cell—likely left behind by a previous prisoner—had done little to quench his thirst. Once it was gone, the maddening dryness in his throat returned, clawing at him with its sharp nails.

Rats scurried in and out of the cell, their faint squeaks ricocheting off the stone walls. Cara had taught him how to catch and cook them with his bare hands, but here, confined and helpless, he had nothing to work with.

Even as hunger gnawed at him like a ravenous beast, the thought of chasing and devouring a rat alive became a nauseating thought. In time, he abandoned the idea altogether, his will sapped by the suffocating despair of captivity.

It must be their tactic, he thought, resting his heavy head against the cold, dirt-streaked floor. Whatever they brought me here for... They’re trying to wear me down. To make me weak so I won’t fight back.

The moment his head collided with the chilled surface of the earth, Rhaegar let out a ragged sigh of relief. The cold air, combined with relentless hunger and thirst, had taken its toll. Fever burned through his frail body, leaving him drenched in sweat and trembling uncontrollably.

Each fleeting moment of unconsciousness brought no reprieve. Feverish nightmares clawed at his mind, dragging him through a haze of torment that rivaled the grim reality of his imprisonment.

When Rhaegar opened his eyes again, a sudden icy shock slammed into him like an unrelenting ocean wave. Gasping, he pressed his back against the wall in alarm, his body instinctively curling in on itself. Water dripped from his hair and face, soaking his already filthy clothes.

Two figures loomed on the other side of the cell. One was the giant man he had seen before; the other was new—a stranger with a bloated, sagging face that made his expression unreadable.

The second man watched Rhaegar closely, his sharp blue eyes narrowing in irritation as the boy trembled like a cornered animal. Letting out a long, exaggerated sigh, he turned to the first man.

"Are you sure he’s a rogue?" the stranger asked, skepticism heavy in his tone. His gaze shifted back to Rhaegar. "Look at him—he looks like he’s about to die at any moment."

"But he’s not dead yet, is he?" the giant snapped, his voice thick with irritation as he jabbed a thick, tanned finger in Rhaegar’s direction. Despite his weak, haggard appearance, the boy’s piercing amber eyes glared back at them, defiant and unyielding.

"How many days has it been?" the second man pressed, turning his attention back to Rhaegar. His scrutiny was invasive, his face leaning closer to the bars until his skin almost brushed the cold metal.

The proximity made Rhaegar flinch instinctively, his body recoiling as though burned. The man’s sudden movement startled him, causing the stranger to withdraw with a faint smirk, as if testing the boy’s resilience amused him.

"Five days," the other man answered, his voice thick with disbelief. "Not a peep from him. Human children don’t act like this. And moreover... look at his eyes!"

The saggy-faced man turned back to Rhaegar, a faint grin spreading across his massive lips. Whatever he saw in the boy seemed to amuse him, and even his voice, now tinged with excitement, sounded livelier than before.

"Ha! A lycan?! Now, that’s definitely a first!"

"Exactly," his companion nodded eagerly, jerking his head toward Rhaegar. "How much do you think the nobles will pay for someone like him? I was ecstatic when I saw this little bastard wandering the border! How lucky are we?"

The first man’s grin grew broader, a vile satisfaction in his eyes as he licked his lips, rubbing his thick, greasy hands together. Rhaegar’s stomach twisted in revulsion, bile rising in his throat. He knew exactly what the two men were plotting, and the knowledge made him sick to his core.

Cara had warned him about the fate of rogue beasts—how they were taken by men like these, exploited for their own vile gain. Now that he was their prey, Rhaegar could barely contain his disgust. Fear had long since been replaced with rage and nausea.

"He doesn’t look that bad," the first man mused, tilting his head as he examined Rhaegar closely. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "If we clean him up, he might even look... pretty."

"So what are you saying?" The second man interjected, his voice sharper now. "You want to sell him as a sex slave?"

His companion nodded, but the first man merely shook his head. "Lycans are enormously strong; he has to be a gladiator. They keep asking us for the fighting slaves."

"You’re being shortsighted, as always!" the second man scoffed. "Actually, forget it. A gladiator slave it is. However... let’s keep that in mind, alright? If he can be both, we can charge triple the price!"

They both burst into maniacal laughter, and Rhaegar could no longer hold it in.

Leaning forward, his stomach twisted painfully, and he vomited up whatever his body had desperately rejected. A strong, metallic taste filled his mouth, and he collapsed back onto the cold floor. The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was the first man’s chilling voice.

"Let’s take him to the pit."