The night was still, thick with the heat of dying embers. The hanging dry flowers in the house swayed gently, whispering their brittle song into the silence. Somewhere, fire crackled in a hearth, faint and distant. Dogs barked—short, frantic bursts before they fell into uneasy whimpers. And then, nothing.

Stillness.

No horse moved. No chicken left alive. The village was torn open like the belly of a slaughtered beast—doors ripped from their hinges, walls painted in thick, dripping red. The air reeked of iron, a scent so strong it lured the wolves from the deep woods, their eyes gleaming in the dark.

The devastation swept through like a starving storm. Not an army, but a single force—a relentless, brutal tide that took and devoured.

Bakir’s hands were like iron, smothering breath, muffling screams. His grasp unyielding, his shoulders burdened with prizes—bodies draped over like offerings to the night. Like flesh to sustain the march, like wives for the long, cold hours before dawn. Like cherries, ripe and waiting to be plucked, devoured whole.

Cold. Smoke. Dust. Fingers clutching, dragging. The village shrinking in the distance, its silence heavier than the dead. Fire flickered at its edges, its light paling against the looming dark.

And then—sudden, brutal—your body hit the ground with a forceful huff. The impact stole your breath, your vision spinning as you blinked up at the towering figure above you. Bakir. Broad, barbaric, a man made of muscle and war. He grinned, teeth flashing like a wolf's, eyes glinting with cruel amusement.

“You run like a deer,” he said, voice thick, deep, rolling like the steppe wind. “But you’re no stag." he rumbled, voice rough as gravel, thick with laughter. “You run, I break your legs.” A pause. “You fight, I enjoy it more.” His hand came down, rough fingers gripping your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet his. He smirked, something wolfish curling at the edges of his mouth.

“And what a prize.” A bark of laughter. “You will look well at my feet.”