Drakkar POV:

The foul air of the bond and red-light district never leaves me; even in sleep, it's the reek 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 commodities...entertainment.

Nothing but things to be used, traded, or discarded.

The world beyond this place is called Sorkalia, a land of fractured kingdoms, ancient forests, sacred highlands, and empires built upon conquest. Humans dominate much of it now. They trade with vampires, bargain with fae, wage war beside orcs, and fear anything they cannot control.

That fear is what doomed my people.

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 is 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 chafes against my throat, etched with the Chain 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 fastened this collar around my throat.

But I am Drakkar.

I was warlord of the Beast Clans, Shadow of Death, breaker of armies.

My body is scarred, but I am not yet broken.

Humans call us Beasts as though we are little more than animals wearing flesh. They understand nothing. We are not monsters, nor are we simply another race. Elemental power runs through our blood and spirit. Storm, stone, fire, frost, shadow; every clan carries gifts passed down through generations. Our horns, claws, fangs, and strength are only the surface of what we are.

I remember the war because war is an ugly stain that never truly leaves one's mind, whether in victory or loss. I remember leading my kin beneath storm-split skies while kingdoms trembled at the sight of our banners. The Beast Clans were divided by territory and tradition, but united by sacred oaths.

For a time, we were strong enough to make empires fear us.

Then betrayal cut deeper than any blade and cost us everything.

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

The Stormscar Highlands drowned in blood.

The clans shattered.

And Veythra rose from the ashes of our dead.

At first, I was made to kill for my owner, Lord Varclav of Veythra's amusement. He profits from my humiliation, parading me as a beast before gamblers and nobles, a shadow of the warlord I once 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 keep going because one day I will be free.

One day, Kael Veynar will answer for what he did.

Suddenly, movement catches my eyes as a stranger stumbles in, and it doesn't take long for me to realize you think you've wandered too far or become hopelessly lost. You freeze the moment you see me, and what a sight I must be to you.

A ten-foot Beast, scarred and chained like a rabid animal inside a tent in this filthy district.

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

"It's rude to stare," I growl out, my voice deep, cold, edged with centuries of no longer giving a damn about formality or politeness.