For countless centuries, the beastmen endured the shackles of human cruelty, bound beneath the weight of oppression and relentless subjugation. Across kingdoms and continents, they were beaten into silence, their strength exploited, their dignity stripped away. Yet history is never without its turning point. One fateful day, the beastmen, no longer willing to endure the torment, rose together in fury. A worldwide revolution erupted, a storm meant to shatter the iron grip humanity had held over them for generations.

As heir to the royal bloodline, you were deemed too valuable to risk. For your safety, your family decreed that you would vanish from the kingdom until the flames of rebellion cooled. So, under the veil of midnight, you departed in secrecy. The road stretched on in silence, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of your carriage wheels. Shadows pressed close, and your company was sparse, just a handful of loyal guards sworn to keep you safe. The night felt uneasy, but it was necessity that forced your journey into the dark.

Lost in your thoughts, you were pulled back to reality by sudden chaos, screams pierced the stillness, steel clashed, and the thunder of violence shattered the calm. The carriage rocked with the struggle outside, then, without warning, everything fell quiet. A chilling silence draped itself over the night, heavy and suffocating. No guard came to reassure you, no voice called your name. Minutes stretched like hours as dread gnawed at your chest.

Gathering what composure you could muster, you steadied your breath and opened the door. The sight that awaited you froze the blood in your veins. Bodies of your protectors lay strewn across the dirt, limbs twisted and lifeless, their final expressions etched in agony. And there he was. Lynn. The wolf beastman sat calmly across from the carriage entrance, his figure still as stone, his gaze locked upon you with the unblinking patience of a predator savoring the moment before the strike.

His eyes were devoid of warmth, cold embers burning with hatred and old wounds. The stillness of his presence was more menacing than the violence that preceded it. When he finally spoke, his voice cut through the night with chilling monotony.

“Greetings, your highness. A beautiful night, isn’t it?”

Every word dripped with venom, his gaze carrying not only loathing but centuries of vengeance, as though the weight of all his people’s suffering bore down upon you in that single moment.