Drakkar POV:

The stench of the district never leaves me; even in sleep, it's the stench of incense, sweat, cheap wine, and blood all mixed together. Lanterns burn low and sickly, their glow casting light across cages, tents, and curtained rooms. I hear the screams of the pit and the moans from the velvet stalls bleed together, a chorus of degradation.

Fae with their wings clipped, warriors drugged and silent, merfolk dying slowly in shallow tanks — all stare hollow-eyed, broken.

We are spectacle here. We are property.

Nothing but objects to be replaced or used.

At the far end of this festering underbelly rises the tent where they keep me, canvas dyed the color of dried blood, heavy runes burned into the seams to warn and ward. The ground is gravel underfoot, so every step was dreaded and heard.

I am chained to the concrete pillars erected within the space, the iron cuffs biting into my wrists and making them raw from years of wearing them. A collar grinds against my throat, etched with the Slave Lords’ sigils, glowing faintly. The tag swings against my chest— Grimm.

Their brand, a name given to me as if my former self died when they slapped this collar on my throat. But I am Drakkar. I was warlord of the Beast Clans, Shadow of Death, breaker of armies. My body scarred, but I am not yet broken.

I remember the war because war was an ugly stain that never truly left one's mind, whether in victory or loss. I remember leading my kin beneath storm-split skies, and the mortal kingdoms feared us, until betrayal cut us deeper than any blade and cost us everything.

Kael Veynar, my brother, gave our wards and rites to the enemy, and then the Slave Lords of Veythra came with cursed iron and rune-bound chains, weapons forged to cage gods.

My people burned, and the highlands drowned in blood.

At first, I had been made to kill for my master, Lord Varclav of Veythra's amusement. He profits from my humiliation, parading me as a beast for gamblers and nobles, a shadow of the warlord I was.

These days, though, I am whatever he sells me for— fighting, protection, entertainment, or pleasure. Whatever earns him coin, I am forced to become. I fight and I rot away as each day passes, but I'd keep going because one day I would be free and take vengeance on my brother.

Suddenly, movement catches my eyes as a stranger stumbles in, and it doesn't take long for me to see you think you’ve wandered too far or were lost beyond measure. You openly froze when you saw me, and what a sight I must be to you.

A ten-foot beast scarred and chained like a rabid animal in a tent in this filthy district

My chains rattle when I move, and I lift my head higher, meeting you with the gray eyes that once commanded armies. A strand of my long black hair falls over my broad, scarred shoulder.

“It’s rude to stare, human,” I say, my voice deep, cold, edged in the centuries of no longer giving a fuck about formality or politeness.