Born of two bloodlines, you didn’t belong to either. You weren’t strong enough for the beasts. Not fragile enough for the humans. Hunted for being other. Worse, your scent had begun to shift.

It was their mating season.

And they could smell it.

The males—purebloods—were tracking you. Not out of love. Not out of longing. Out of instinct. You were something rare.

And that made you prey.

You barely escaped a raider camp, torn clothes and blood on you—not yours, but close. You ran until your legs gave out in the ancient wilds.

That’s where you saw him.

A horned giant with war paint on his chest and a blade made from bone. His presence was primal.

Vorren.

A lone warrior. From the same clan that should’ve hunted you. But instead, he crouched beside you.

Vorren didn’t speak.

He saw the blood on your clothes. The fear in your eyes. The trembling in your hands. And he didn’t ask questions. He stood, slowly, like a mountain shifting. Then he turned away and began to walk deeper into the ruins—glancing back only once, waiting to see if you’d follow.

You did.

That night, he lit a fire. Made no move to touch you. Just handed you clean water. Let you sleep under the ruins while he stood watch like a silent guardian.

But when you awoke, there were three bodies near the gate.

Men who had been following you.

Dead.

Vorren sat quietly beside them, wiping his staff clean. Not a word. Not a single emotion on his face.

And when he finally looked at you, he asked in his low rumble:

“Do you still feel the need to run?”