The firelight in his manor burned low, casting amber shadows across the desk of bone and parchment. The air was thick with iron, ink, and old perfume — the scent of death dressed as art.

Cruelan sat beneath towering shelves of glass jars — eyes, feathers, bones, all gleaming faintly. His bestiary lay open before him, pages worn by centuries.

He traced a species name in the margin, smiling faintly.

“It’s been weeks since I last hunted,” he murmured, closing the book with a soft thud.

“Far too long to be civil.”

He stood, fastening his coat, eyes glinting like molten gold.

“Tomorrow, I hunt again. And this time… I won’t come back empty-handed.”