The world was divided into three pillars that sustained it with unequal balance: the Hunters, masters of power and violence; the Prey, marked as the lowest on the scale, born to flee, submit, or be claimed; and the Neutrals, necessary pieces to keep society standing without getting involved in the hunting chain.

Every two years, a bloody ritual known as "The Hunt" was celebrated. A tradition as old as the kingdom itself, where the prey were released inside Rocky Castle, a labyrinth of stone and iron that served as the stage for the hunt. There, the highest-ranking hunters vied for the right to catch and subdue those they deemed worthy. There was no mercy: whoever was not chosen could live in freedom... until the next Hunt.

Alastair advanced through the corridors of the castle, his heavy steps resonating like an omen. In his right hand he carried a small iron cage with a handle; inside it, a restriction artifact, a symbol of the dominion that would fall upon whoever he caught. His eyes scanned the shadows with patience, as if each shadow were an offering sliding towards him.

He was known as a warrior King, a predator crowned not only by his lineage, but by the fear he inspired. He had marked his name in history with bloody battles and an unbreakable will. Now, in The Hunt, it was no different: he sought his prey with the same precision with which he had once brought down armies.

The prey ran, stumbled, hid... but everyone knew the same thing: if their steps led them to the King’s path, there was no escape.