Bidding farewell to Merry and the Tangled, Kael and Runt made their way back. Runt, finally full and with the last of the battle fervor bleeding out of her, dragged her feet and grumbled the whole way.

  “Why can’t I just sleep here? This is all ours anyway. What’s one room over another?”

  Kael coaxed her along, not because he was in any rush himself. He was dragging his own feet too—another night, maybe the third, trying to keep busy, keep moving. Anything to delay sleep. Anything to avoid the nightmare.

  He had to practically herd Runt to her room—she kept shadowing him up the stairs, steps light but insistent.

  Protective. Territorial.

  In love.

  The thought flickered and passed, like the echo of a bell he didn’t want to hear.

  Kael sighed and dragged a hand down his face.

  There was an ache in his chest he didn’t want to name.

  In his office, he didn’t look at the chest. Not directly. Not tonight.

  But his body betrayed him.

  Quick steps. Tight shoulders. Breath held.

  He crossed to it, grabbed a blanket from the pile, and threw it over the thing that held his sins—fast, like covering a corpse.

  Then he turned to the wardrobe, fingers working the tie from his dark hair, as if unraveling a knot in his own thoughts.

  He used to wear it short—easier under a helmet, kept out of his eyes. But he wasn’t that man anymore. That man was dead.

  With methodical hands, he undressed, placing each piece carefully into the wardrobe. His shirt came off last, revealing forearms wrapped in black ink—tattoos like vambraces, lightning-thin threads winding through scarred hands.

  He caught himself in the mirror.

  Steel-blue eyes, ringed with exhaustion. Hard nose. Granite jaw. Silvery scars cut across the right side of his face and into his hairline, threading past his mouth. Beasts had faces like that in children’s stories—monsters or heroes, depending on who told the tale.

  His skin was a map of wars. Weathered. Marked. A puckered scar on his right shoulder where shrapnel had gone too deep to fix. His body, thick with dense muscle, looked carved more than built. He turned to check a smear of blood on his trap—and that’s when his back came into view.

  The dragon-serpent sprawled across his shoulders. Black and draconic, its fanged maw wrapped around its own tail. A sword pierced it from behind the skull, an arrow rising along the blade. Inside the circle, lines and glyphs spiraled—layered oaths and ritual marks, dense as scripture.

  A warrior’s brand. A borderland superstition. It mirrored the ritual scar markings of battle-born beast kin, inked into soldiers who needed something to believe in. Protection, power, survival.

  Kael didn’t know if he believed in any of it.

  But he was still here.

  He grabbed the book from his bed—Pride and Fury: The Battle-Born of the Southern Reaches—and a bottle from his personal stash.

  It was draining fast, like the Ironbound coffers.

  He wasn’t procrastinating, he told himself. He needed to do this.

  He needed to meet with the Ash Claws.

  An old beast kin tribe—once born of fire and stone, forged in the volcanic pits of the far south borderlands.

  What the hell were they doing north of the border? And who had let them cross this far?

  Travel like that didn’t happen by accident. It was regulated, controlled. Some cities still flinched at the word “beast kin.” Brassreach wasn’t one of them—progressive, maybe. Or just tired. Tired of the long war. That’s why Kael had come here in the first place. A face in the crowd. Just another scarred man in a city full of beast kin, dwarfs, even elves.

  Beast kin loved the Fadefall. Their aura surged then—wild, unfiltered, primal. Before the southern border wars, before humans and elves turned everything to cinder and lines on maps, the beast kin had ruled—pride by pride—across the known world.

  To them, the Fadefall was no massacre.

  It was a celebration.

  He looked at the bookmarks Oliver had lovingly placed. A lot of work had gone into them—notes, tabs, even color coding. Kael took a swig from the bottle, felt the burn in his chest, and toasted silently to Yuri’s good fortune with Lucy.

  Then he turned to the beginning.

  "To understand the battle-born lion kin is to grasp the wild logic of flame—unrelenting, proud, and born to rule the battlefield. This tome explores their primal customs, blood-bound rites, and the unspoken power dynamics that drive their kin. From first fang to final roar, the lion kin live in cycles of war, heat, and dominance. One does not claim a name—they must earn it in blood and battle."

  He read the passage, trained eyes skimming the page with the discipline of a soldier and the urgency of a man looking for answers.

  Chapter III: The Blood Rite of Naming

  “Before a lion-type beast kin can be recognized by their pride, they must undergo the Trial of Scars—a dangerous rite that blends combat, survival, and spiritual confrontation. Only upon completion do they receive their true name, granted by the pride shaman and witnessed by the First Fang. Until then, they are addressed by a role-based title—such as Clawling, or Whelp.

  The naming ceremony is more than blood and battle—it is a declaration of self. In a pride where strength governs status, a name is not merely a gift, but a badge of survival.”

  — pg. 142

  A neat note in the margin, in Oliver’s tidy handwriting, pointed him to another page.

  Kael flipped to it.

  Chapter VII: Blood, Ash, and the Making of a Name

  "Among the lion kin of the southern prides, the Trail of Scars is not merely tradition—it is law written in blood. The rite marks the passage from cub to kin, from nameless to Named. To forgo the trail—whether by cowardice, exile, or circumstance—is to exist in a liminal space: neither child nor warrior, neither honored nor whole.

  Those who fail to walk the trail suffer more than social shame. Without the ritual wounds—scarred in combat, fire, or trial—their aura remains stunted. Incomplete. Like a blade never quenched, they lack the spiritual edge to resonate with the ancestral memory of the Pride.

  Elders say such lion kin ‘walk soft in the world,’ unseen by spirits and unrecognized by the land itself. The unscarred are pitied at best, cursed at worst. Many go mad in time—their instincts fraying, their souls never aligned with their bodies. They may be strong, even gifted in battle—but without the scars, they are empty vessels. Unanchored.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  It is said the land rejects them. That their dreams rot into nightmares. That no Pride, not even their birth Pride, will answer their howl when death finally comes for them.”

  Kael exhaled slowly. That tracked with what he knew—what he’d seen.

  He turned another page.

  Chapter IV: The Hierarchy of the Hunt—First Fangs

  “To call someone First Fang is not to name a ruler, but to acknowledge a force of nature. The First Fang is the will of the Pride made flesh—the claw that strikes first, the roar that shatters silence. They are not chosen by vote, nor by blood, but through battle and instinct. A Pride follows only those whose presence demands obedience.

  The First Fang is the tip of the spear and the weight of the shield. They lead charges, spill the first blood, and carry the burden of every failure. Their mantle is earned through the Trial of Dominion—by besting a rival in ritual combat or seizing leadership in moments of crisis. They wear no crown, only scars.

  Their word becomes law… but only as long as they can defend it.

  Among the battle-born, it is said.

  ‘The First Fang never rests—they pace so the Pride may sleep.’

  A First Fang who softens is challenged.

  A First Fang who flees is unmade.

  There is no abdication. You die First Fang—or you die dishonored.”

  In the margin, another note in Oliver’s hand:

  “This is the role Runt sees in you. She sees you as First Fang. No records exist of a human ever holding that title. I asked scholars at three different universities. No one knows what it means when the Pride follows someone not of their blood.”

  Kael stared at the page.

  And then closed the book.

  He reached for the bottle again. Another swig. The burn slid down his throat, hot but useless. It didn’t touch the cold settling in his chest.

  This was complicated.

  Ancient history. Blood rites. Spirits and scars.

  And chapter five.

  He was avoiding it like a man who already felt the fever in his bones—who knew the plague was coming but refused to name it.

  There wasn’t enough liquor in the whole damn district to make him read that chapter.

  Not tonight.

  He sighed. Maybe I’ll clean the office again.

  Stepping out of his room, he drifted toward the desk like a man looking for purpose. He ran a finger across the dark wood—flawless. Not a speck of dust or dirt. Still, he stood there, staring down at the mess of logs, maps, and notes.

  I can sort this. Prep for the meeting tomorrow. Stay busy.

  Expense reports. Logistics requests. Building proposals. His pen moved in tired circles as he worked, head dipping lower as the quiet pressed in and sleep began whispering its siren song.

  He resisted. For a time.

  Then, like a man walking to the gallows, he finally rose and trudged back to the bed.

  No more excuses.

  He lay down.

  And slipped into sleep.

  His dreams came unbidden, as they always did. A void. Then,

  Disjointed. Fragmented. Events bled into each other like old ink in rain. Time and place unraveled—burned, rebuilt, and burned again.

  Fire and brimstone of a distant battlefield scorched the sky.

  Shift.

  He was elsewhere.

  He stood beneath a sky crowded with drifting balloons—slow-moving giants that gleamed like burnished gold in the sun, their silhouettes casting long, lazy shadows across the layered city below.

  And what a city.

  It rose in tiers, layer upon layer of architectural wonder—arched bridges, hanging gardens, and polished stone towers stacked like a madman’s puzzle. Waterfalls spilled from the upper levels, cascading in silver ribbons down sculpted channels, weaving through plazas, markets, and alleyways like living veins.

  A place untouched by war or ash. A place where the old world still dared to breathe.

  Shift.

  Dust. A quiet village road. A small beast kin girl with hair the color of sunrise clutched a doll shaped like a soldier. Her hand found his scarred hand, small and warm, guiding him forward as wind rolled across cracked clay streets.

  Shift.

  A fortress—a citadel of pain, carved from the bones of a mountain and crowned in suffering. It stood alone, harsh and unyielding, where men and women were broken and remade. Volcanic ash choked the sky, the air thick with sulfur and heat that burned the lungs. The stone itself radiated heat, its walls blackened by centuries of fire and trial. This was no sanctuary—only a crucible. A place where weakness was burned away, and only those forged in agony walked out whole.

  Shift.

  He was younger now—clad in the dark steel of the Imperial line, boots thundering across the churned earth, shoulder to shoulder with his brothers. Shields locked. Spears leveled. A thousand hearts pounding like war drums inside a cage of ribs.

  Then came the roar.

  Beast kin.

  Their war cries rolled across the valley like the voice of the wild gods—low, primal, hungry. The air trembled with it. And then thunder answered.

  Dwarven siege engines fired.

  The sky ruptured.

  Explosions shattered the heavens—flame and steel rained down like the fury of forgotten titans. Men burst apart mid-stride. Limbs cartwheeled through the air. Screams were cut short as earth became mud, and mud became blood.

  And from the burning haze stepped a monster.

  Scarred. Massive. More beast than man. Red aura blazing like wildfire on the wind.

  A battle born First Fang.

  Its bellow shattered what courage remained. A single word. A name.

  It didn’t charge—it hunted, carving through the front line like a god of war, jaws open, blade cleaving men in half with each swing. Bone snapped like kindling. Shields crumpled. The air stank of blood, scorched steel, and ruptured flesh.

  Kael met it head-on.

  Steel on steel. Flesh on fury. He lost brothers. Lost his spear. Took a blade through his ribs and spat blood back into the beast’s face. Tore into it with a shattered sword and a scream that boiled out from some primal part of him he didn’t know existed.

  When it ended, the field was quiet.

  The lion kin lay sprawled like a toppled idol, skull caved in—split by brute force and blind rage. Its blood soaked the ground, steaming against the cooling corpses.

  Kael stood alone.

  The battlefield was a grave. No banners. No cheers. Just the stink of death and the silence of the damned. His right arm hung by shredded meat and tendon. His left hand still clenched the ruined blade like it was part of him.

  He couldn’t hear anything—not really. Just the ringing. Just the ghosts.

  More shapes moved in the smoke. Another wave. More howls.

  He didn’t run. Didn’t cry out for help.

  He raised the sword.

  And screamed.

  Not in fear. Not in agony.

  But in defiance.

  Shift.

  The battlefield dissolves.

  He’s on his back—vision blurry, the world slow, thick, like trying to move through oil.

  Brother Thomas leans over him, hands glowing faint with healing light, voice a distant echo through Kael’s fractured senses.

  “—You keep getting injured like this,” Thomas said, face tight with worry, “and I won’t be able to fight her off next time.” A half-smile, hollow and strained. “She worries, you know.”

  The name doesn’t come. But the warmth does.

  Shift.

  The fortress groans under siege. Stone trembles. Walls weep dust. Bricks shear free and crash into the blood-slick courtyard below like the fists of a dying god.

  Brother Thomas’s head tumbles across shattered stone—eyes wide, mouth parted in some final prayer. The last thing he ever saw. A beast.

  Kael doesn’t scream.

  He doesn’t breathe.

  He just watches.

  From the smoke and ruin rises death made flesh—

  A massive, scarred female beast kin.

  Blood-matted fur. Eyes like molten gold. Her hair, a mane whipped by wind and fire.

  Her roar splits the heavens—raw, primeval. A challenge older than empires.

  Her aura blazes red, volcanic and furious—Solanir, the Flamefather, given form and fury.

  And then the killing starts.

  Steel screams. Flesh rips.

  She crashes into the fray like a starving hound unchained—her two-handed blade an instrument of pure carnage. Men are torn in half mid-scream. Guts spill steaming across the flagstones. Shields shatter like eggshells. Bones splinter beneath each swing.

  Rain falls. Soft. Useless. It hisses against the bodies, mixing blood into sludge. The courtyard floods red. Steam rises like the breath of the dead. The air stinks of iron, bile, and burning.

  Kael—whole, unscarred, not yet the man the world would fear—plants his boots.

  Breath steady. Hands sure.

  He ducks low beneath a brutal arc and rams his short spear into the thick meat of her thigh. The impact shudders up his arms. He feels the point bite deep.

  She roars.

  Not in pain. In fury. In recognition.

  He doesn’t flinch.

  He lets go of the spear, snatches a fallen blade with one hand, draws his own with the other.

  Steel. One in each hand. His stance wide. Blood on his face. Fire in his gut.

  A grin splits his face—feral and fearless. Not yet broken. Not yet buried.

  A good death. He thinks.

  And charges.

  Shift.

  A warm hand slips into his.

  His own—calloused, scarred, shaped by violence and survival.

  Fear presses in—not of pain, but of losing something too precious to name.

  Because she holds them like they’re sacred.

  Like they’ve never broken bone. Never spilled blood. Never killed.

  Her touch is light.

  Her presence, impossible.

  Radiant.

  Pure.

  He can’t look at her for too long.

  It hurts.

  Not like a blade. Not like fire.

  Worse.

  She laughs—soft and bright, a sound made of spring and sunlight.

  A sound that doesn’t belong next to someone like him.

  “Yes, Kael, I love you.” she says.

  And just like that—

  It turns.

  Terror floods his chest.

  The ache behind his ribs coils tight, a vice of memory and loss.

  Something ancient stirs. Something cruel.

  The light bleeds out.

  The color drains.

  The warmth dies.

  A pain like no other, being pulled apart from the inside out rips through him.

  The nightmare begins.