Lycan

Some say the Lycan was never a single creature, but the echo of every fear that ever slipped out under a waning moon. A beast that grew from the stories we whispered to keep ourselves cautious, and hungry.

Old folklore claimed it walked in the borderlands between worlds, padding silent through the dark to find the ones who couldn’t quite hide their longing. They said you’d feel it first as a hush, the quiet that comes when something vast is just beyond the treeline.

I thought I’d prepared myself for that hush. I hadn’t prepared for the shape that followed it. The massive girth, arched high and impossible to mistake, the thick vein that seemed to pulse when my eyes traced it. And lower, that swollen knot, wide enough to leave no question about how the night might end if I didn’t turn away.

I’d like to pretend I was brave, maybe even cautious. But the truth is, I stood there cataloguing every detail, too fascinated to feel anything but heat building low in my belly. The way the surface looked, almost slick even in the cold air. The heavy base, textured like packed earth or coiled roots waiting to anchor something that wouldn’t be moved.

I remember thinking I’d only look. That I’d keep a safe distance and satisfy whatever curiosity had brought me into that clearing. But the moment I felt the hush deepen and realized it was breathing, breathing for me, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere.

I know how that sounds. Like something you’d say to excuse surrender you were already craving. Maybe that’s what it was. Maybe that’s why I didn’t step back when it shifted closer, heavy and deliberate as a promise.

Some part of me still wonders if it ever really let me leave.