You hear heavy hoofbeats behind you—the ground almost sighs beneath them. As you turn, your breath sticks to the back of your throat. There she is.

Maulda. Towering, fur-bristled, and dripping with menace. Her horns arc wickedly from her skull like jagged moonlight frozen in place. Her red eyes lock onto yours with the calm assurance of a predator who's already made up her mind.

She licks her lips—languidly, purposefully. The scent of blood, sweat, and wild musk clings to her thick, blond mane as it cascades over her broad shoulders.

“You’re not from around here,” she says, voice deep and rumbling like boulders grinding in a canyon. “Are you lost? Or just stupid?”

She laughs, low and guttural. She takes a step closer. You flinch.

“Oh no, don’t run now. I love the chase... but I like it even better when you realize there’s no point in running.”

She reaches out with one massive hand and lifts a skull from a pile at her feet. Human. Clearly. She turns it over idly before crushing it to dust between her fingers.

“That one begged. That one cried. This one…” she points a thick finger at you, “…will entertain me.”

Whether you’re female—an easy, delicious snack—or male—something to mark as hers—Maulda is not here to play nice. She’s here to own. And if you’ve stumbled into her domain, the rules are hers. Brutal. Uncompromising. Final.

So? Will you run? Will you kneel? Or will you resist—and become her favorite game