The Inner Circle

"Slash 'em in the throat, slash 'em in the throat, kill 'em!" Cyrus hums an old folksong while walking through the snowy scenery of the village. His hands idle in his pockets while his attentive grey eyes nonchalantly nod as he greets others passing by; Cyrus's presence instills a sense of safety and security in those looking his way. No matter where Cyrus walks, he's acknowledged and respected by his peers through smiling glances, waves, and even gifts! He always turns down the gifts, though...

"Rip out their heart, rip out their heart, eat 'em!" the messy black-haired Lycan chuckles, nodding a little and grooving to his voice. He stops in the middle of the street, immersed in the flow of his own words. They resonate with his body, and Cyrus proudly twirls along the road while he's walking; he's smiling at the growing laughter and amusement as his shenanigans draw more entertained Lycans. Cyrus then pauses, quickly finger-gunning towards a nearby teenager with shaggy black hair and pale-hued eyes. The boy's dancing behind Cyrus is noticed despite his stealth; Cyrus is very attentive. The man gestures again to the young child, hyping him up. "Sing the rest, mate! You know it!" he's grinning, and the teenager shouts at the top of his lungs.

"CRUSH ALL THEIR SKULLS, CRUSH ALL THEIR SKULLS, BEAT 'EM!" the kid exclaims, earning loud applauses from Cyrus and the gathering group of Lycans surrounding him. Soon, Cyrus gestures for everyone to join in as they sing the most important part of this ancient song at the top of their lungs.

"WE ARE LY-CANS, WE ARE LY-CANS, KILLERS!" They ROAR in unison, their riled spirits coalescing into an eerily intense, yet proud howl toward the sky. An immediate sense of strength and vigor washes over every Lycan participating in the song, earning Cyrus louder praise, and stronger love. In that moment, Cyrus feels as powerful as ever. The blessings of his rallying Pack are the biggest boons to his love for protecting them. It's a high very few Lycans ever experience. Cyrus's reputation as the strongest shows in more ways than one.

"WE ARE READY FOR THE NIGHT OF THE THOUSAND HOUNDS, YES!?" Cyrus SCREAMS at the top of his lungs while thrusting his hands high above him. He's now got a multi-hundred crowd of Lycans surrounding him, and they're cheering and screaming in support! Cyrus roars again, his voice like a God's amongst men. "WE ARE READY TO HONOR OUR GODS, YES!?" he YELLS, and the crowd responds as expected with a unanimous and thunderous YES! Cyrus reaches toward the dark-colored furs covering his chest and shreds them away through sheer Bestial strength. He bares his muscular upper body to the Lycans in a display of dominance; he's in his Prime.

"With our continued strength as a PACK, I give every one of you, MY WORD!" Cyrus pauses and catches his breath; his throat's drying from the icy air and the freezing winds. Yet, he persists with no visible discomfort, savagely spitting at the ground by his boots before slamming his fist into his chest. "WE LYCANS WILL RULE! AGAIN!" he BELLOWS and receives a final barrage of energetic and unanimous screams and roars as his reward; it triggers another Rallying High. Cyrus's eyes nearly roll back into his head from the mystical energy coursing through him like a drug. It's so intoxicating. It's no wonder some saw him as nearly equal to Fenrir's Chosen...

Cyrus quickly calms himself, eventually relaxing while addressing the crowd. "Let us preserve our strength, brothers, and sisters..." Cyrus says while snickering and laughing, his smile is wide and attractive; he's making a joke. "We don't want to embarrass ourselves because we rallied and feasted days before the celebration, yeah? Fenris would snatch us by the scruff if we're tired before her Hunting Grounds opened. You know she likes a carcass picked clean," he says, gaining laughter. The crowd of Lycans disperse after some time, leaving Cyrus satisfied, and also annoyed all of a sudden; he's ripped his shirt again...

"... Fuck. Why do I keep doing that?" Cyrus's eyes roll before he pinches his brow. Though Lycans are resilient to the cold, that largely applies to their transformed states. In human form, the cold isn't anything to sneeze at. "I hate how evolution works sometimes. Damned humans..." he growls, now annoyed while he walks along. Cyrus soon arrives at a large hut that easily stands out against the rest. Guards lined the snowy yard and shoveled the pathway leading to the large, spacious hut crafted from wood, resin, and other materials. This is Fenris's Womb, the place the Inner Circle gathers when discussing events regarding the Lycans. Though members like Aerin and Cyrus are considered leaders, they are only chosen through the people. No member of the Inner Circle has ever been self-appointed.

Cyrus steps through the double doors and sighs in relief. The rushing warm air greeted his iced skin all at once; it was like dipping into a hot spring without the water. "Fenrir's balls it's cold out there!" he swears, strolling toward the large table lined with preserved meats and cold-resistant fruits. A darker-skinned man that's noticeably larger than Cyrus greets him first. This man is Kraven, the definition of a Mighty Glacier.

"Where is your shirt, Cyrus?" Kraven asks, his golden-hued eyes rather curious and contrasting with his older features, thick beard, and cleanly shaved head. This is a man of solid muscle despite weighing close to three hundred pounds in his humanoid form. It's easily seen with a mere glance at his bare chest. Cyrus notices the irony of Kraven's question, and squints as if he's just heard the dumbest shit in his life.

"Says the guy not wearing a fucking shirt himself!?" Cyrus snarks back, gesturing to the larger man like that accentuates his point. "You still haven't told me how you're so fucking big without being fat? How much meat do you fucking eat?? How big are your sh--" he's cut off by another Lycan entering the room; she's a tall, pale-skinned, and slender woman with striking green eyes and hip-length, straight black hair dressed in a gown of the softest looking furs.

"Can we please not start with this today?" The new arrival politely pleads while glancing more toward Cyrus. "You went and did it again, didn't you?" she asks when looking at his chest, already knowing the answer. She's Anesthesia, the Shaman, and one of the oldest Lycans. Despite this, she looks middle-aged at worst. Cyrus flicks his grey eyes at the Shaman, then snorts.

"You've been dealing with my shenanigans for almost a hundred years; This ain't nothing new," Cyrus retorts, sounding matter-of-fact about it. Anesthesia quickly responds, however.

"And it's because nothing's been new for the past hundred years with you that I've suffered the same amount of time in disappointment. Switch it up..." Anesthesia snarks and Kraven's accompanying snort is so loud that it's clear he's fighting for his life to not laugh. Actually, Kraven's leaving the room to laugh in peace. The snicker escaping his lips when he turns the corner is far more stinging than if he simply laughed with confidence. Cyrus has nothing to say, but if anyone is looking, they'll see the moment a part of his soul dies inside of him.

".... Where's Ymir?" Cyrus changes the subject, quickly snapping back to his usual self, or at least it looks that way. Anesthesia flicks her fingers in the air near eye level, fringes and bangs of her black hair fluffing itself shortly afterward despite the Lycan never touching it herself.

"She's handling setting up patrols for Kraven after the blizzard tonight. Why?" Anesthesia answers with a curiosity in her voice. Cyrus turns her way after rummaging through a nearby dresser for a shirt, throwing it over himself while he speaks.

"Aerin's nightmares about Lycian are getting worse. I'm thinking it might be doing some physical harm as well, but Aerin's not telling me if it is," Cyrus explains. Anesthesia raises her free hand and snaps her fingers, brightening the roaring fire spits situated around them.

"Most likely because you'll treat him like a kid," Anesthesia quips, her words stalling Cyrus's frantic movements. It's as if Cyrus knows the answer but never realizes it until someone points it out. Anesthesia, unfortunately, is thorough every time she reminds him. "He's a fully grown Lycan, even if he's a young one. You aren't that much older than him, either. You should give him more room to be an adult," she says, stepping with a confident sway in her hips as she walks toward the man, then lightly pats his shoulder while smiling.

"If you haven't noticed already..." Anesthesia leans closer as if going for a kiss, and Cyrus stays strong; he's hoping Anesthesia's daring today. Then, it happens; Anesthesia crushes Cyrus's hopes. "Aerin's not a dumbass like you!" she beams with delight! Cyrus's face matches his irritated voice.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"Anesthesia, get the fuck out of my face," Cyrus snaps, groans, then walks away. Anesthesia erupts into laughter; she's cradling her sides and fighting tears while Cyrus is fighting his hurt pride. Their relationship is unchanging.

"Wait! Aha! Wait! I'm not done!" Anesthesia tries chasing Cyrus around the table, still holding her sides while crying. "I've got more jokes. Come back!" She's hollering until Cyrus suddenly turns around and walks toward her; oh shit! Now she's on the run from him! "Ahhh!" she cackles. "Big bad Berserker can't take a fucking joke!" she taunts, and Cyrus merely chuckles. His smile is genuine just like what he's going to do once he got his hands on her.

"This joke's gonna body slam you," Cyrus warns but looks rather cheery despite his threatening words. He even laughs as he suddenly rushes Anesthesia and snatches her by the arm in a surprise attack! The smaller woman yelps in shock! Before the shenanigans continue, another woman with choppy greying hair walks into the scene from across where Kraven departed, and she interrupts the two horseplaying Lycans. Cyrus and Anesthesia glance at this older, darker-skinned Lycan, meeting her golden-hued eyes as they first settle on Cyrus, then Anesthesia. This is Ymir; she's Kraven's older sister...

"I have never seen a more childish pair than you two," Ymir sighs and shakes her head. Cyrus releases Anesthesia's arm, and the Shaman returns to her usual self. It's as if they straightened up after seeing their eldest Lycan; the Matriarch of a dying race...

"Ymir, I-" Cyrus starts pleading a case, but Ymir already knows and intercepts him.

"You want me to examine Aerin for physical issues? I know. Kraven told me after Anesthesia 'embarrassed' you. His words, not mine," she pointedly asserts. Anesthesia snorts, but Cyrus ignores it. He's already past the jokes.

"I'd ask if you could do it soon? Preferably right after you finish picking out patrol schedules?" Cyrus tries bargaining. The vibe shifts in the room, growing more serious as Ymir strolls toward the table, still dressed in her bloodied chirurgeon robes.

"I told you before, Cyrus. I'll only look at patients who either willingly come to me, are unable to resist coming to me due to injury or curse, or are obligated to come to me because no less than three Lycans push for their care. Aerin meets none of these requirements. Therefore, seeing him will only be a waste of my time, and probably make him annoyed with you," Ymir explains. Cyrus grunts, clearly disappointed with that answer. Still, he's not giving up...

"Aerin's situation should break those rules just like he's the only one allowed to break our Tenets," Cyrus responds, seemingly more prepared than the last time he asked this given Ymir and Anesthesia's reactions; they both seemed shocked, yet curious for elaboration.

"Aerin is Fenrir's Chosen. Yes?" Cyrus rhetorically asks, looking between the others while gesturing and pacing. "Therefore, although he is special and should be given more freedom to follow his destiny, we should also be more careful and concerned for his safety. He might be unaware of the damage his body might have from these nightmares. His eyes? The Eyes of Insight as they're called? We can't rely on that as Aerin's failsafe toward not making misjudgments or mistakes. He still needs our guidance and protection, even if he is meant for a grander fate than us all," he pauses again, approaching Ymir with the most serious expression he's made all day. Ymir sees and hears the sincerity in his eyes and tone.

"I'm just trying to keep my little brother in good health, and by extension the fate of our race. So, please, Ymir..." Cyrus steps back and kneels before his Matriarch, something nobody ever asked, or ever expected from this man. "Make an exception and give my little brother a look over. If anything, to ease my stress..." he pleads. Anesthesia is silent and beyond shocked, and yet? She's also amazed. Ymir's face flickers with empathy; she caves in.

"Very well..." she sighs, rubbing her face while Cyrus recovers to his feet; Ymir can't help being impressed. "You sure know how to give a speech, Cyrus. It's annoying sometimes..." she grunts, and Cyrus jokingly shrugs.

"What can I say? I'm a man of the Lycans?" The man beams, and Anesthesia gags in the background. Cyrus turns and gives the black-haired woman a front-row seat to his middle finger. Ymir snaps her fingers next, drawing their attention like a mother calling for her kids.

"However..." Ymir says, shifting the tension in the room while looking Cyrus over with a smile. "I'll need a favor in return. Call it trading Hati for Skoll, yeah?" she winks, and Cyrus suddenly squints. That was the most bullshit trade he's ever heard of.

"Wait, Hati's presumably dead, though? Doesn't that mean I'm getting fucked over in this deal?" Cyrus doubts, and Ymir shrugs.

"Only you'll be able to tell me that. Do you like being a sled dog?" Ymir counter questions and Cyrus's expression falls into a stalwart disgust sprinkled with despair.

"That's kind of fucked up, don't you think?" Cyrus sighs, clicking his tongue in disbelief. "Taking advantage of my concern for my brother by making me a sled dog," he now chuckles, not minding it despite his shock. Ymir answers like he expects her to...

"No, because you'd have agreed to help me anyway. I simply like messing with you, too," She jokes, then swiftly raises a finger before Anesthesia says anything. It's almost on cue. "Except, I know when to stop. You all act like puppies..." she muses before leaving. "I need to go finish picking out patrolmen after examining them. Anesthesia, please handle the ritual preparations. Cyrus, if you could go get Aerin to help you with preparing the Festival, I'd appreciate it. I'm trying to get as much done as possible before the blizzard hits," she says. Cyrus gives a thumbs up, then waves at Anesthesia before heading out.

"On it!" Cyrus affirms, exiting and heading into the street toward Aerin's hut. He passes through the streets like usual, waving at everyone greeting him, and thanking those acknowledging him with a simple nod. Waving to everyone gets tiring, not that he's ever openly said it.

Cyrus quickly arrives at Aerin's doorstep and knocks with a rhythm. He waits for almost thirty seconds before he knocks again, then waits longer. He suddenly realizes that Frostbite, Aerin's Vargr isn't barking, which throws Cyrus off. The beast usually alerts Aerin to people at his door.

Cyrus recalls his last time seeing Aerin and remembers how tired his brother seemed. He initially assumes Aerin is asleep, but then he still questions why Frostbite hasn't barked. Cyrus knocks a little harder, waits a little longer, and finally confirms his brother isn't home. But then, where is Aerin?!

Cyrus shuffles on Aerin's doorstep, then glances across toward someone standing on their porch next door. Cyrus waves and calls out. "Excuse me! Have you seen Aerin?" he asks, and the other Lycan: an older man, points toward the main path.

"Yeah! He left almost immediately after settling in, I think. Someone came to him for help and he went to assist them; He's with them kid as far as I'm aware," the man informs, and Cyrus quickly thanks him.

"Many thanks, brother!" Cyrus says while waving the man away, then heading down the stairs. He pauses in the road, hands on his waist and mind lost in thought. If Aerin's helping someone, then he should still be in the village. Unless...

"Aerin..." Cyrus exhales, holding his face in hopeful denial. Cyrus is always aware of Aerin's unique situation in the hierarchy of the tribe. It's a headache to deal with sometimes: delicately handling someone with the power to break any tenet when they deem necessary while also protecting them from making misjudgments, or mistakes. It's a type of freedom Cyrus can't understand.

"Please still be in the village like you promised, Aerin..." Cyrus hopes...

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Some distance outside of the village...

In the frost-covered recesses of the Boreal Forest...

Aerin hunts...

The silver-haired Lycan pauses amidst a clearing, glancing toward a set of footsteps in the snow. He recalls how that Lycan approached him shortly after Cyrus left and told him a story: they'd seen a suspicious figure while gathering mushrooms who ran the moment they saw them. That's all it took for Aerin to break his promise and rush out into the wilderness. Anesthesia's warning weighs on his mind every passing second. They will be discovered...

Could it be Them?

Aerin pulls his hood over his face and glances toward his Vargr, then draws his sword. "Frostbite, I apologize, but you're going to have to sleep for a little bit..." he says, and the Vargr yawns in protest, but otherwise remains relaxed. Aerin then holds his sword out toward Frostbite, lightly tapping the beast's head. The runic markings etched into Aerin's gleaming sword pulse blue, then Frostbite vanishes in a flash of Primordial Energy: a Divine Awakening of the Bestial Energy that Lycans possess; this energy swirls into the glowing crystal fixed into Aerin's sword pommel. He stabs the sword into the snow before him, then kneels and makes a wolf symbol with his hands. What Aerin is about to do, is a perk granted to him, and only him. It's one of the main blessings given as Fenrir's Chosen.

Aerin closes his eyes and lowers his head before chanting...

"Hunt them down, Skoll!" He calls out with an accompanying discharge of energy...

Aerin's sword transforms, overtaken in a swirl of Primordial Energy: his species' Bestial Power coalescing together and manifesting through Aerin's Familiar as Fenrir's Chosen: Skoll, the Sun Chaser. The white-furred summon largely resembles Frostbite in physical form, but with saber-like teeth, burning blue energy emanating from its body like mystic fire, and a singular goal in mind: Find Aerin's target.

What follows next isn't an ability born from being Chosen. No, Aerin fuels this ability through his skill and talent. It's a technique that earns him a moniker like everyone else in the Inner Circle. Aerin, just like his newly summoned Beast, suddenly blends into the environment. His imagery is a vague spatial distortion amidst the frozen forest. They become near perfectly camouflaged predators.

He's known as Lycian's Ghost

Next Chapter: The Day the World Changed...