Lýkos Theós

Chapter ΓIII

Nicandros stood in the healer's den, a cave carved right under the palace of the Queen. He had been led down stone stairs, wincing at each weight barring step down. His sandals crunched over the dirt and loose pebbles that had fallen from the stalactites that staggered the cave ceiling. He stood on the last step, examining where Belen had escorted him to.

The moon had casted its light into the hollowed room, candles hanging sparcely from the ceiling. A cool breeze had fluttered their fires and Nicandros could smell herbs and potions scattered about a large round table. In the center, books lay splayed open, each at a random page filled with words he could not understand and did not care to. Carved statues of polished marble stood on either side of the stairs he had descended, and another two stood staring out of the opening of the cave, looking out onto the city below.

Nicandros examined the statues he passed, lingering on a crowned male figure to his left. His head had begun to morph into the lycans that patrolled this pack, ears peaked back and seeming to stare at the ceiling where the moon stood over. His abdomen was human, hands chiseled to the very veins that shown he had been restraining himself. The claws he bore crossed over his waist, a seemingly lazily thrown on chiton was bound by a belt at his waist. He'd call the work of art 'A king who longed to be with his beast'.

The other was the same, only a female this time of the same height of the other, a few inches over Nicandros as each statue had been carved onto their platforms. Nicandros made his way to the table, sniffing the bottles filled with liquid that burned his nostrils, each one a different color than the last.

Belen simply eyed him, refusing to say a word as Ambrosia ordered him to take Nicandros to the healer. He had never liked mystic healing, thinking that those who required special healing instead of their own, lacked the skills to ever survive amongst them. He himself had never visited the den, forgetting that they had even existed amongst the Lycans. Though he'd admit to himself that at times, even the healing of His kind could not undo the trauma to their body.

Most of the time, the trauma was caused by another one of their own. The strength of a lycan against another lycan could very well destroy half of the city they've rebuilt too many times to count now. A mystic was indeed needed during those times, but a spectical like that hadn't happened in over a decade. He watched Nicandros, eyeing the hand at his waist and the new wounds he'd acquired after seeing him in the courtyard. The Queen must had shown him only a fraction of her strength if she'd refrained from snapping his neck.

He smirked at the thought, pulling a long strand of white hair behind his ear and crossing his arms over his chest. His chiton had been changed for a shorter fabric that tied around his waist with a leather belt. It had been thrown  on quick enough that it lay slightly misaligned at his knees as the urgency of the servant, who had ran and banged on his door, through him into an alarmed state. His hair, unruly as it was, cascaded down his shoulders, white against his slightly tanned skin. His disappointment had shown on his face as he faced the bruised wolf outside His Queen's room. 'The healer' is all she had said before she closed her door behind them, eyes lingering a tad bit longer on Nicandros's exposed thigh.

The faint smell of Morajam and Laurel fill Belens nose. He turns as it strengthens, a spicy, sweet, and woodsy smell coming from a woman entering through a bared wooden door to the left. She wears a navy cloak, hood pulled past her eyes, and the embellished edged fabric gleams and chines with every swaying step she takes towards a shelf stationed next to the door. She pulls a random book from the eccentric polished shelf built into the hard stone of the den and it slides in front of the entrance, hiding it from prying eyes.

She turns, eyes hidden, and bows, an ebony colored hand reaches from under the coat, bangles of silver slinking together as she presses it to her heart and bows. "I apologize for the mess, I had not expected guests." She says in a soft voice, standing up right and making her way to a Ewer set on a small table with a metal copper bowl set next to it. She pours water into the bowl, rinsing her hands in the fresh water.