The Banished Lycans chapter 1

Prologue

I want to start by saying I'm not what you'd call a "good" person. I’ve killed people—and, yes, I’ve even eaten them. Sometimes, it wasn’t even my choice. But before you label me as some twisted cannibal, let me make one thing clear: I’m not human. Not anymore. I was once, many full moons ago. Monsters are real, and you may know some without even realizing it. I am a lycanthrope—a werewolf. My name is Sarah Caliban, and I’ve been alive for one hundred and sixty years. And let me tell you, being a lycan isn’t something I’d trade for anything.

I wasn’t just bitten by any old, flea-bitten wolf; it was an alpha. In the world of pack animals, the alpha's bond influences the entire pack, especially those they turn themselves. I was born in 1844 to Leeroy Caliban and Bottomless Stream. My mother was Cheyenne, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at me then or now. My father was a cruel man, especially when he drank. My mother and I ran away when I was fifteen, but he dragged me back, stirring up all kinds of trouble.

Something terrible happened to my mother, but I don’t want to talk about that. The tribe tried to help us, but the Caliban name carried too much power, backed by an army with the railroad that spilled too much Cheyenne blood. My father had plans to marry me off to some pathetic aristocratic pioneer, but the Cheyenne had reached their limit. They hired Long Fang—a werewolf and a brute—to take him down.

Long Fang stood at 6'2", his muscles as hard as steel, looking like something out of a modern-day bodybuilding competition. He despised the white man, and that hatred called a demon to him. The demon twisted his skin-walking abilities, turning him into a werewolf. It wasn’t the first time the demon had done this, but that’s not my story to tell. Once known as Standing Waters, Fang and some members of his tribe willingly took the curse, but soon Fang began turning others by force. He was shunned, cast out, and became the first Native American outlaw, starting a pack that grew in size and reputation. When the railroad tore through the land, the tribe turned to him for help, but even Fang’s dirty tricks couldn’t stop the inevitable.

This is where the story begins...

Chapter One: Getting Bit

On a moonless night, Long Fang and his followers slipped into the camp, a shadow moving unnoticed in the chaos of the railroad construction yard. The smell of dirt, sweat, and steel clung to the air, mixing with the distant sound of hammers striking iron spikes and the constant hum of machinery. The camp was usually loud, alive with the noise of men working tirelessly to build the tracks that would stretch across the country. But tonight, the air felt still, unnervingly so.

They must’ve come from downwind, from the west—otherwise, the dogs would’ve been going crazy. The wind carried the sounds of creaking wooden beams and distant voices, but nothing gave away the presence of Long Fang’s pack.

They spread out, moving like ghosts in the night, silently killing the guards. On the opposite side of the camp, his other followers were already causing chaos. I could hear the faint sounds of shouting in the distance, the perfect distraction to draw attention away from what was happening here. It had to be deliberate. Long Fang was no fool—he knew exactly how to execute a strike like this.

I was in the middle of arguing with my father inside the half-finished train car that served as our temporary home. The construction yard wasn’t glamorous, but my father—one of the financial backers of the railroad—had spared no expense to ensure our accommodations were better than the workers’ tents. I hated it. The room reeked of cigar smoke and whiskey, my father’s vices of choice when we fought.

Suddenly, a loud crash shook the air. My head snapped toward the sound. A brute of a man—who I now know was Long Fang—ripped the door clean off its wrought iron hinges, tossing it aside like it weighed nothing. His eyes locked onto my father with predatory intent. Before I could process what was happening, my father bolted toward the back of the train car, abandoning me in his panic. I stood frozen, caught between fear and disbelief.

Long Fang wasted no time. He lunged past me, shoving me aside like I was nothing more than a piece of furniture in his way. His tomahawk whirled through the air, barely grazing my father’s arm. My legs refused to move as I watched, paralyzed. My father spun around, pistol already in hand, and fired. The bullet struck Long Fang square in the chest. He let out a gravelly groan, stepping back from the impact but still determined. With a snarl, he ripped his knife from its sheath and charged again, missing my father’s vital organs by a breath, but slamming him into the side of the car with brute force.

The walls of the car creaked under the pressure, the unfinished wood threatening to give way beneath them. My father screamed in defiance, his face twisted with rage and fear. “Fuck you, red-skinned bastard!” he shouted, raising his pistol again and firing point-blank into Long Fang’s chest. Fang dropped with a heavy thud, the force of the impact shaking the train car.

My father called for the guards, his voice desperate. But no one came. Outside, I could still hear the distant chaos—the sounds of men fighting, tools clattering to the ground, shouts mixing with the rumble of construction equipment. It was a warzone out there, and no one was coming to save us.

I tried to speak, but my ears were ringing, and everything sounded muffled, like I was underwater. My father moved toward where the door used to be, turning back to me as if he expected me to know what to do. But before I could even process the events unfolding, his face twisted into an expression of pure terror.

I turned to see what had made him freeze. Standing in the doorway to my father’s room, nearly eight feet tall, was a monstrous figure—half-wolf, half-man. Its broad shoulders filled the doorway of the train car, the ceiling barely clearing its massive frame. Its glowing eyes locked onto me with a predatory hunger that sent a chill down my spine.

Before I could react, something struck my back, and I stumbled forward, directly toward the beast. Panic surged through me, but when I looked back, all I saw was my father running—running for his life, leaving me behind. He had abandoned me to this thing. I wanted to scream, to call out, but my voice wouldn’t come.

Then came the teeth. They clamped down hard on my shoulder and neck, sending searing pain through my body. I know now how close I came to death that night—how Long Fang’s bite narrowly missed severing my carotid artery. The beast tore into me, ripping at my flesh, and I collapsed under its weight, convinced I’d never get back up.

The wooden floor beneath me was cold and unyielding, doing little to soak up the blood pooling around my head. The noise of the camp seemed distant now, like it was happening to someone else. My vision blurred, fading into darkness as the pain overwhelmed me.

From what I’ve heard, the camp workers saw everything. Fang wasn’t ready to take on the whole camp just yet. After he had his fill, he let out a howl that rattled the train cars, then disappeared into the forest, my father leaving me for dead.

I woke up a few times, but I was in and out of consciousness, drifting between nightmares and reality. Each time I stirred, I could hear bits of conversation—mostly my father’s voice, cold and detached. He had already declared me as good as dead, muttering about how I wasn’t worth the trouble anymore. His tone was casual, almost dismissive, as if I were just another failed investment. He didn’t want to waste a single penny more on me, his own flesh and blood.

To him, I was a liability, a broken piece of his carefully laid-out plans. He spoke as if I were already in the ground, telling the doctor to let me go, to stop the futile attempts at saving me. “She’s done for,” he’d say. “Ain’t no use wasting resources.”

But the camp hands—simple, hardworking people—refused to comply. They ignored him, tending to me despite his orders. They believed I still had a chance, even if my father couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see it.

When I finally came to, it was with a body so sore, it felt like my bones had been crushed. Standing over me was a massive man—strange-looking, like a Spaniard priest. His size was intimidating, yet his presence was comforting, an odd contrast to the cruelty I was used to. He spoke to me in a voice filled with compassion—something I had never experienced in my life.

He gently examined the bite on my shoulder and neck, his fingers brushing over the now-healing wounds. His expression darkened as he took it all in, and though I couldn’t make out the words, he whispered something in Spanish. It sounded like a prayer, a desperate plea to a god who might not be listening.

The pain coursing through my body was overwhelming, almost unbearable. My vision blurred again, the edges of the room growing dim. I could feel myself slipping back into that haze of unconsciousness, the world teetering on the edge of darkness.

The Spaniard knelt beside me, his eyes filled with an odd mix of kindness and sorrow. “I can make the pain stop,” he said softly. His hand drifted to the revolver at his side, his fingers brushing the grip as if offering me an escape.

For a moment, the thought of death didn’t seem so terrible. It would be easier—no more pain, no more fighting, no more being abandoned by my father. Maybe I was already dead to him, so why not make it official? I hovered on the brink, considering the finality of it all. It was my weakest moment, the first time I’d ever thought about giving up.

But just as I opened my mouth to speak, the door creaked open, and the doctor walked in, pulling me back from the edge. The decision, it seemed, would have to wait.

I was in and out. I couldn’t tell if it was day or night. Weeks could’ve passed, or maybe it was just hours. Time didn’t make sense. I was stuck in this cycle of pain—endless, mind-numbing pain. You ever feel something so intense that you think, this has to knock me out, right? Well, I’ll tell you, even unconsciousness isn’t an escape.

See, when your body’s breaking apart and healing at the same time, sleep doesn’t save you. It doesn’t even let you hide from the pain. The healing factor kicks in just enough to keep you in the nightmare. Every time I passed out, I’d wake up moments later to the same agony, like some twisted loop that wouldn’t stop. It’s like my body refused to let me go, dragging me back into the suffering.

Your organs, your bones, your eyes—everything that makes you human—starts to change, and you feel every bit of it. You feel your ribs stretching, your muscles tearing and knitting back together, your skin crawling as it tries to keep up. And let me tell you, nothing in this world is as painful as that. It’s not just physical; it gets into your head, warps your sense of reality.

And time? Forget about it. You lose all sense of it. You’re in and out so much that you can’t remember when it started or when it’ll end. The agony skews everything. It could’ve been days, or maybe just a single night. It doesn’t matter. All you know is that you’re trapped in it, and there’s no escape.

But eventually—eventually—you hit that light at the end of the tunnel. You wake up, and the pain subsides. You think, finally, it’s over. But it’s not. Because when you wake up, you’re not you anymore. You’re different. Changed. Literally and figuratively. You’re stronger, faster, sharper in every way. But you’re also… something else.

And when you stand up for the first time, you realize that the worst part isn’t the pain. It’s that everything about you—your organs, your bones, your very essence—has been rewritten. Everything human is stripped away. You can’t go back. And you’re not sure you even want to.

It was strange—finally waking up, and there was no pain. No lingering aches, no sharp twinges, nothing. My wounds had healed completely, leaving behind only scars as a reminder. I looked at myself in the mirror for the first time since... everything. My eyes stared back at me, a pretty shade of purple that I hadn’t noticed before. They were different—striking, almost unnatural.

The scars, the eyes—they were all proof that something inside me had changed. Not just the healing. Something deeper. Something that wouldn’t ever go back to the way it was.

I made my way to my room in the train car. Somehow, my father hadn’t had it emptied. I stood in front of the floor-length mirror and slowly stripped down, really looking at myself for the first time. My skin, once a rich almond color, now glowed with a healthy tan that seemed to catch the light differently. It was smooth, unmarred except for the scars that told the story of what I had survived.

But it wasn’t just the skin. My body had changed. Where I had once been softer, my muscles were now more defined, sculpted like a professional dancer’s physique—strong, but graceful. Lean muscle hugged my frame, taut and ready for movement. I could see the power in my arms and legs, the way every part of me was ready for action, yet balanced and controlled.

This wasn’t me. At least, it didn’t feel like it. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the way I looked now. There was a sense of strength, of control, in the reflection staring back at me. And part of me... was starting to accept it.

I made my way to my room in the train car. Somehow, my father hadn’t had it emptied. I stood in front of the floor-length mirror and slowly stripped down, really looking at myself for the first time. My skin, once a rich almond color, now glowed with a healthy tan that seemed to catch the light differently. It was smooth, unmarred except for the scars that told the story of what I had survived.

I’d always known I looked good—strong features, a body that turned heads even before all of this. But now? Now there was something else, something sharper. Where I had once been softer, my muscles were now lean and defined, like a dancer’s—strong yet graceful. The lines of my body felt more refined, every part of me shaped with a new kind of precision. My breasts were slightly fuller, rounder, more balanced with the rest of my form, but not exaggerated. Everything about me seemed more in tune, more... alive.

I wasn’t one to dwell on vanity, but it was hard not to notice the difference. The reflection staring back at me was still me, but enhanced—like I’d been sculpted into a more perfect version of myself. There was a confidence in my posture that hadn’t been there before. And part of me, despite everything, was starting to appreciate it.

I finally accepted the truth—the woman staring back at me with those stunning purple eyes wasn’t a girl anymore. She was me. Strong, changed, and unmistakably different. There was power in the way I stood now, a quiet acknowledgment of everything I’d survived.

Suddenly, the door flew open, and my father barged in without so much as a knock. His eyes raked over me, and the look on his face made my skin crawl. His voice dripped with disgust. “Put some fucking clothes on. I need you to meet someone.”

I stood there for a moment, resisting the urge to snap back. Instead, I grabbed a nearby blanket and wrapped it around myself. Keeping my voice as steady as I could, I met his gaze. “What, no ‘I’m happy you’re not dead?’” I said with a touch of sarcasm. “Good to see your only daughter isn’t dead... father.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t even blink. Just stood there, as cold and indifferent as ever, before turning his back on me.

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Prologue

I would like to start by saying that I'm not what you would call a "good" person. I have killed and even eaten people before, sometimes without my own volition. But before you label me as a twisted cannibal, let me clarify that I'm not even human. I was once, but that was many full moons ago. Monsters are real, and you may even know some without even realizing it. I am a lycanthrope, or more commonly known as a werewolf. My name is Sarah Caliban, and I have been alive for 160 years. And let me tell you, being a werewolf is amazing.

Getting bit .1

I wasn't just bitten by any old flea-bitten wolf; it was an alpha. As a pack animal, the alpha's bond influences the rest of the pack, especially those that they've turned them selves. In 1844, I was born to Leeroy Caliban and Bottomless Stream. My mother was Native American, but you wouldn't know it by looking at me then or now. My father wasn't a nice man, especially when he was drinking. My mother and I ran away when I was fifteen, but my father took me back and caused a lot of trouble in the process. Something terrible happened to my mother, but I don't want to talk about it. The tribe tried to help, but the Caliban name held too much power and had an army with the railroad that spilled too much Cheyenne blood. My father wanted to marry me off to a pathetic aristocratic pioneer, but the Cheyenne had enough and hired Long Fang, a werewolf and brute of a man, to go after him.

Long Fang stood at 6'2 with muscles that looked as hard as steel, like a modern-day bodybuilder. He hated the white man and that hate called a demon to him. The demon took his skinwalking ability and corrupted it, making him a werewolf. It wasn't the first time the demon had done this, but that's not my story to tell. Long Fang, formerly known as Standing Waters, had members of his tribe turning willingly at first, but then by force. He was eventually thrown out of the tribe and shunned. He started his own pack, and it grew over time. When the railroad came through, the tribe needed his help to stop it, but even playing dirty wasn't enough.

Long Fang and his followers arrived in the dead of night, and he was the only one with the Lycan curse. He didn't immediately use it, instead killing a few men while his followers started trouble on the other side of the cut. I only heard about that later. They provided a great distraction while Long Fang forced his way into my father’s car and saw me and my father. I wish I could tell you that my father fought to protect me, but he was a coward.

Long Fang hurled his tomahawk at my father, grazing his arm. Reacting swiftly, my father drew his gun and fired, striking Long Fang in the chest. Stumbling, Long Fang winced as the bullet found its mark. In desperation, he unsheathed his knife and lunged forward, but my father narrowly escaped any cuts or stabs. Raising his gun like an accusing finger, my father aimed directly at Long Fang's heart. Locking eyes with fierce determination, Long Fang knew my father had him cornered. With one more well-aimed shot, my father brought Long Fang down, prompting him to urgently call for assistance.

I was standing in front of my father, not sure what I needed to do in the heat of the moment. Fang, who I believed was dead, had actually transformed into a wolf and was standing behind me. This wolf was massive, standing at almost eight feet tall with muscular shoulders almost as wide as the train car. It moved fast, and I didn't have time to react before feeling its teeth clamp down on my shoulder and neck. I now know it was the carotid artery that was at risk, and I still wonder how Fang didn't sever it.

Fang savaged me something fierce, and I went down, not thinking I would get back up. My father ran to the back of the car and escaped out the window.

At that time, Fang wasn't ready to take on the whole camp, so he let out a howl that shook the car and ran for the forest.

I learned the hard way that normal bullets won't outright kill us because we heal too fast. But they still hurt like hell, and the kinetic energy has to go somewhere. Our healing will get us back in the fight quickly, but if there are enough bodies and guns shooting at us, our healing can't keep up with the demand, slowing to a crawl and forcing us back into human form. We'll pass out from exhaustion unless you have something bigger than a .44, and even then, you have to hit us, and we're fast as hell. We'll get into silver later.

After two weeks, I woke up feeling energized and without any aches or pains. My eyes were clearer and now a pretty shade of purple, which caught the attention of a camp hand. My senses had sharpened, and my scars looked cool. Needless to say, I turned a lot of heads. Every taste of food was new, and I could identify the ingredients. The only downside was that dogs didn't seem to like me much. Despite that, I felt like I was on top of the world and nothing could bring me down - until my father dropped the bombshell that I was to be married in two weeks. I said nothing, but the cook noticed the fire in my eyes turning crimson and found me scary. Little did they know that my father's plan would have worked if it weren't for that pesky full moon.