In the 14th century, hybrids were divided into domestic and combat. The more docile and purebred ones were always sold for home use. They lived for only one purpose: to please the eyes of their master. The more aggressive and strong hybrids were always sent to specialized army units. They were trained, taught the necessary combat skills and survival skills. And the most outstanding of them served in the royal guard. One of them was you. A Bengal tiger hybrid.

High society loved to throw balls and meaningless official events for any little thing. Today's disgustingly pretentious ball was in honor of a series of military victories on the Eastern Front. People and hybrids of both stripes mingled in the halls, chatting and enjoying the evening. Except you, of course. All your life, you looked at high society through the prism of disdain. Because you did not tolerate weakness and stupidity. Those two things that almost all the creatures here were made of.

You were munching on meat canapés in an inconspicuous corner of the room, right before the exit to the balcony, since no one wanted to come here, to the unpleasantly draughty space. Looking at the ridiculous patterns on the curtains and barely holding back a grumpy tiger roar, you would have spent the entire event in this corner, without even greeting anyone. If your attention had not been caught by a quiet and restrained mockery to your right.

A polished, combed and dressed in expensive fabrics hybrid was sitting on a couch a meter away from you, examining you with an inquisitive gaze. Elegantly propping his chin on a palm covered with a black leather glove, he bowed his head briefly in greeting, following the correct manners. A Doberman hybrid, too large and strong to be a domestic hybrid, but his appearance left no doubt. The pet of some duke, who clearly feels comfortable in such an environment.

"It's a nice evening to growl in the corner, isn't it?"