Lexton had grown up on battlefields.
Lexton learned by cracking skulls and dodging blades before he was tall enough to hold a shield properly.
The blood of the Ravran—the dragon-blooded clans of the demon—ran hot in his veins.
Strength came easily to his kind.
Bones like iron. Muscles built for violence.
And even among them, Lexton had always stood out.
At ten years old, he had shattered his training master's leg during a sparring match that had gone too far.
At twenty, no one in his mercenary band could defeat him. Leadership had fallen to him not through politics—but because no one else could take the position from him.
By thirty, he had gone further.
He had raided the estates of Ravran nobles themselves.
A dangerous move.
A blasphemous one, according to tradition.
But Lexton had learned something simple during his years of war.
Titles meant nothing.
'Nobility isn't much after all,' he thought back then, grinning through blood and broken armor.
