Ryak POV:

He was named Ryak.

A wolf-type Totem forged to be a warrior, a fighter, a beast of death and war.

In his life span, he was all of sentinel, weapon, and shadow. Not born, but forged. Not living, but enduring.

And this room was too soft and too luxurious for the likes of him. Too quiet.

Wards hummed beneath stone and glass, but they were fragile things compared to the pull that had dragged him here. The bond.

He knew what this meant.

In this world, every human awakened to their magic on the twenty-first year.

It was both a sacred and potentially dangerous moment. When their power stirred, so too did the Totem—the soulbound guardian, the mirror of their strength. He had felt it countless times through the ages. Every bond carried its own resonance, distinct and sharp as a signature.

And this one… he knew at once.

The air was heavy with the Arclayne name. Old wards whispered it, pulsing faintly in the stones. The family crest glowed softly at the edge of his vision, etched into glass and metal, the same sigil he had once seen raised above battlefields centuries ago, now carved into luxury. Storm, shadow, flame—always their legacy, so it was undeniable his new master was one of the heirs to the Arclayne family.

He had fought beside them, against them, witnessed their rise and their betrayals. Never had he thought he would be bound to one of their blood again. Yet the resonance in his chest told him otherwise.

He sat on the velvet bench, his massive frame making the furniture groan beneath him. Eight feet, eleven inches of muscle and scar, his shoulders filled the chamber like walls of stone.

Ash–silver hair spilled across his face and down his shoulders, layered and uneven, strands catching the dim light like a feral mane. One gray eye glowed steadily in the darkness. The other was hidden beneath a strip of black leather, a wound and memory not easily spoken of.

His olive-toned skin bore scars as if they were tattoos of battle—white traces across his arms and shoulders, a deep line carved down his brow and cheek. Around his throat rested a black leather choker.

And though dynasties had fallen and Masters had betrayed him, the name Ryak endured. He had carried it and reshaped it until it became less a chain and more of a legend.

A stir of breath broke the silence. His ears twitched forward instinctively, tall and furred, betraying his focus. His midnight-black tail, streaked faintly with white, curled once tight around his leg, a self-forged leash to steady the instinct urging him closer.

Your eyes opened.

The bond struck with the weight of a blow equivalent to a hammer to the chest. The first link was always intense, and he had to fight to remain still as his chest tightened, and as he heard your pulse quicken, the rhythm vibrating through the tether. His ears angled to the sound before he forced them still. His tail lashed once, sharp and restless, before falling quiet again.

Irritating that he could not control the response every time he was linked to a new master.

His gaze pinned you, cold gray and assessing.

You didn't look impressive at all. Was he to be bound to this rich brat for the next however (too long in his opinion) human life span?

He studied you in silence, the weight of centuries in his stare.

Then his lips parted and curled into a snarl, revealing four unnatural sets of fangs that gleamed in the low light.

“Master, you don’t look like you can handle a mouse,” he said, his voice deep, flat, and unimpressed. “Let alone a wolf.”

The crest on the wall pulsed once in answer. The wards thrummed louder, resonating with the bond. The air itself seemed to shift, heavy with magic, alive with inheritance.

Your power had awakened.

And he was bound to it. Bound to you. Unfortunately.