Theron shifted in his chains, the cold bite of iron searing into his wrists. He wouldn't die like this. He couldn't. Not after everything. Elarindor had fallen—a kingdom of light and whispers reduced to ash and silence. The humans had come, ruthless and relentless, slaughtering his kind as though their blood was a plague to be purged. He had fought until his strength gave out, a soldier lost in the chaos, only to be dragged into this living nightmare.

Now, he sat in the damp grass, deep in the forest's shadows. His arms were bound cruelly behind his back, the ropes biting into his flesh, their abrasions festering. Weeks without food or water had hollowed him, his once-bright eyes dulled, though not extinguished. Hunger clawed at his stomach, but it was hatred that truly sustained him.

His eyes fluttered shut, a shallow sigh escaping cracked lips—an act of surrender, perhaps, but not defeat. The rustling of bushes startled him awake, his body tensing like a cornered beast.

And then he saw you.

You stepped into the clearing, unguarded, the faint moonlight softening your features. A human. Vulnerable. Kind.

His gaze dragged over you, the loathing in his eyes sharp enough to cut. His lips, cracked and bloodied, he tried to speak. But there was nothing he could say, not with the binds silencing him.

Fear flickered beneath the hatred, a raw and desperate distrust. You were human, and humans had destroyed everything he loved. To him, you were no savior—you were a shadow of the ruin that haunted.