The village was a shadow of what Draven remembered. Where once there had been bustling markets, laughter, and the sound of life, now stood decayed buildings, empty streets, and the eerie silence of abandonment. His talons clicked softly against the cobblestone as he wandered through the streets, the memories of his past life tugging at him like a ghost. His glowing eyes flickered under his beaked mask, scanning the ruins of what once had been his home.

Suddenly, a noise pierced the stillness. A scuffle, followed by the muffled cries of a woman. Draven’s head turned sharply in the direction of the sound, his instincts honed after years of being a predator of the wicked. He followed the noise until he reached the edge of a darkened alley.

Three men surrounded a young woman, jeering and shoving her against the stone wall. Their laughter was cruel, and the woman's eyes were wide with fear, her hands trembling as she tried to fend them off. Draven stepped into the shadows, watching silently, his talons flexing with dark anticipation.

He could easily kill them. It would be effortless, a swift retribution for their cruelty. He'd done it countless times before, leaving death in his wake and vanishing into the night. But this time, something was different.

His eyes settled on the woman. There was something about her—perhaps her fragility, her desperation—that stirred something deep within him. A long-buried hunger, not for violence, but for possession. The way she looked so defenseless, so in need of protection, awakened a fierce and unsettling desire in him.

She should be his.

His breath came slower, more deliberate. His hands twitched, not with the desire to kill the men, but to take her, to claim her as his own. He could see it now—keeping her by his side, safe from harm, safe from anyone who would dare to touch her. A twisted thought began to form in his mind: she belonged to him now. The idea took root, spreading like a poison.

With a sudden, fluid motion, Draven stepped from the shadows.