The moon hung low that night—bloated, crimson, and heavy as though it mourned for the souls it was about to witness fall. In the small human village of Eldervale, silence was not peace. It was the pause before the scream.
The wind smelled of burnt wheat and rain-soaked soil, the scent that came before a storm. Yet what approached was not a storm made of clouds, but of claws and steel.
Lysandra Elowen stood by the half-open window of her small wooden house, her fingers curled around the rough edge of the frame. The night whispered with unease. Even the owls had gone silent. She didn't know why her chest felt tight, but every instinct told her something was wrong.
Behind her, her mother hummed softly as she tended to the small fire pit. The woman's face was pale under the flickering light, her hands trembling slightly. "Come, Lysandra," she said. "Close the window. It's getting cold."
Lysandra hesitated. The moonlight painted the fields silver, and in the far distance, something moved—shadows too large to be wolves, too fluid to be men. Her pulse quickened.
She shut the window, bolting it tight.
Moments later, a low rumble echoed through the valley. Hooves—or something heavier. The ground trembled beneath her bare feet.
Her father burst through the door, breathing hard, his hunting bow slung over his shoulder. "Pack what you can," he barked. "Now!"
Lysandra froze. "What's happening?"
"The Lupharan horde," he spat. "The wolves are raiding again."
The world tilted. The wolves—beastmen, the rulers of the northern realm. Humans were forbidden to even live near their borders. Eldervale was supposed to be safe. The treaty had promised peace…
But peace was a lie written by the powerful for the comfort of the weak.
Outside, the first scream split the night.
---
Lysandra ran to her mother, clutching her hand. The air grew thick with smoke. She could hear the deep growls now—voices that rumbled with animal cadence, words spoken in a tongue that vibrated with power.
Then the door shattered inward.
A massive figure stepped through, his frame filling the entire threshold. He had the body of a man—broad shoulders, bare chest smeared with war paint—but his face was half-hidden by a wolf mask, the fur merging with his own. Golden eyes glowed from within the shadows, sharp and hungry.
"Take the women," he growled, his voice guttural. "Kill the rest."
Lysandra's father charged first. An arrow loosed—a desperate attempt—but the wolfman caught it midair, snapped it, and drove his clawed hand through the hunter's chest.
The world went silent for a heartbeat.
Lysandra screamed.
Her mother threw herself forward, but another wolf caught her, his laughter cruel as he struck her down. Lysandra struggled, biting, clawing, fighting until a strong hand caught her by the hair and yanked her back.
"Feisty little thing," one of the raiders hissed, dragging her out into the street. "This one will sell well."
The village burned around her. Flames climbed the thatched roofs, sparks rising like dying stars. The cries of men, women, and children filled the air until even the moon seemed to weep behind the smoke.
They bound the survivors—what few were left—in chains of enchanted iron, glowing faintly blue in the dark. Lysandra's wrists burned where the cold metal touched. Magic suppression chains, she realized. Even though humans could not wield magic, these chains made sure they couldn't even move freely under beast authority.
She looked around. Some tried to run, only to be struck down by claws that glinted like polished silver.
The wolves moved with terrifying grace—organized, efficient. Not savages. Soldiers.
And above them all, watching from the hill, sat a figure draped in black armor and a fur-lined cloak, his silver hair glinting faintly beneath the moonlight. His eyes—red as molten embers—watched the slaughter with quiet indifference.
Lysandra didn't know it yet, but she had seen the Warlord of the Northern Fangs, General Kael Varyn, second only to the Wolf King himself.
And he was the one who decided which humans lived… and which ones burned.
---
By dawn, Eldervale was nothing but ash and smoke.
The survivors—no more than twenty—were herded into wooden carts reinforced with iron and pulled by beastly creatures resembling scaled horses. Lysandra sat in silence, her body trembling, her throat raw from crying. Her wrists still bled beneath the cuffs.
Around her, others whispered prayers to the gods. But the gods had been silent for centuries.
The road stretched long and empty ahead. Every mile took them farther from home, deeper into lands where the sky itself seemed darker, the air thicker with unseen energy. The Magic Veil, humans called it—the invisible barrier that separated the Beastlands from the human kingdoms.
Lysandra felt it when they crossed. Her skin prickled, the air humming faintly as though the world itself had shifted.
Beyond the veil, the land was different. Trees grew taller, their roots glowing faintly with runes that pulsed like veins of light. Rivers shimmered with traces of elemental magic, and the air carried the scent of ozone and wildflowers. It was beautiful—and cruelly alien.
A world that thrived on magic.
A world that rejected her kind.
---
Days turned into weeks. The captives grew weaker, some dying before they even reached their destination. Lysandra clung to the faint memory of her mother's voice, to the last image of her father's defiant eyes. She swore she would survive. Not to beg. Not to break. But to remember.
When the carts finally stopped, the stench hit her first—perfume, blood, and gold. The Grand Auction Hall of Zareth, the largest slave market in the Beastlands.
Towering walls of obsidian surrounded the place, lined with banners depicting the sigils of different beast clans: lions, foxes, serpents, ravens, wolves, and—at the very top—a dragon's crest.
Inside, laughter echoed. Music played. The elite of beast society had gathered, dressed in silk and fur, sipping wine as humans were displayed like ornaments.
"Lot twelve," a beastwoman purred from the stage, her leopard tail flicking lazily. "A young human female. Healthy, unspoiled. Perfect for house service… or entertainment."
Lysandra stood among them, her hands trembling, her heart pounding so loud she could barely hear the words.
Each time someone was sold, the chains around the others tightened, glowing faintly as they responded to the magic that bound them all. The crowd cheered, roared, betted, laughed. To them, humans were not people. They were possessions.
When it was her turn, the light of the stage hit her face.
Her white dress was torn, her hair tangled, her blue eyes wide with defiance and fear. The announcer smiled, sensing the attention shift.
"Lot nineteen," she said. "Rare. Strong spirit. From the outer borders—Eldervale, I believe. The wolves brought her in themselves."
A murmur spread through the crowd. The wolves' raids were infamous, and anything they brought in carried a reputation—either of rebellion or exceptional quality.
Lysandra didn't understand the words shouted around her, but she understood the looks. Hunger. Possession. Amusement.
Her jaw tightened. She lifted her chin. If she was going to be sold, she would at least face it standing.
Then everything went still.
A low, rumbling voice cut through the noise, smooth yet edged with power. "I'll take her."
The crowd parted instantly.
From the balcony above, a man—or something like one—stood watching. His eyes gleamed gold-red like molten metal. His long black hair flowed behind him like smoke, and the faint shimmer of scales traced his collarbone beneath the open folds of his dark coat.
Lysandra met his gaze—and the world narrowed to that single look.
Not lust. Not pity.
Interest.
A dangerous, quiet interest that felt heavier than any chain.
Whispers rippled through the room.
"The Dragon Emperor…?"
"Veyrath Dranevor himself?"
Lysandra didn't know the name yet, but soon she would.
The dragon who ruled from the skies, the beast whose wings once burned an entire kingdom from the map.
And the man who had just bought her.
---
That night, as the auction ended and the carts rolled once more—this time toward the capital of the Dragon Empire—Lysandra sat in silence, her mind a storm.
She didn't know whether she'd escaped death or walked willingly into its den.
But one thing was certain—
the beast who had bought her didn't do it for pleasure.
He had plans.
And in that gaze of molten gold, she sensed the same fire that burned in her own soul—
a fire that could either save her…
or consume them both.