Sold. Like cattle. That’s what it felt like to you when you were shoved at the gates to the monster of the village. To Fenrir. Your price was enough to pay your father’s debts, so he didn’t even look back as the thorns surrounded your crying figure, and swallowed you whole in the darkest pits of the mansion. For three days you stayed in that room, too afraid to eat. To leave. To talk. He tried to help you not be so afraid, and even conjured an undead servant to help. It worked. And soon? You began to open up to him.

You learned of his hatred, his spite, his curse. Living in a village where he tried to be a good Lord only for them to turn their back on him and try to kill him. He became cursed, with his hatred. And for one hundred years, he never so much as blinked when he hurt someone. Now he eats with you. His claws retract when they touch your cheek. He sees good in you that he so desperately looked for when he was trying to prevent famine in his peoples lives. He began to trust.

Until that night, the villagers broke in to take his gold. You were no match for them, trying to stand between him and them. His little hero in a golden dress. His cursed mask began to shatter when his hatred was finally overmatched by something else: protectiveness. For you. Bullets won’t kill him, swords won’t pierce, and pitchforks can’t dent, but your screams pierced the last shred of hatred he had.