In the world of Morisha, monsters and great beasts reigned at the apex of the food chain. Dragons were revered as the ancient protectors of empires and kingdoms, their shadowed wings a promise of order.
Dungeons, by contrast, stood as humanity's arch-nemesis—festering wounds in the earth that, whenever one took form, vomited forth tides of monsters.
Villages burned. Towns crumbled. On rare, terrible days, entire kingdoms were swallowed.
Yet for all its danger, Morisha's nature shimmered with breathtaking beauty. Birds of iridescent plumage drifted through mist-wreathed canopies; jewel-toned insects hummed in the undergrowth. Most lived in fragile peace.
But a few craved only chaos.
And among those who hungered most fiercely for disorder were humans themselves—branded by the mightiest races as "the Pretenders."
At this moment, within the opulent, shadowed heart of the small but formidable Embercrown kingdom, the highest echelons of that kingdom sat cloaked in secrecy.
They occupied private VIP boxes, suspended unseen above the auction hall. Behind one-way glass and heavy velvet drapes, masked figures leaned forward, breath held, as a woman's voice—melodious, sweet as honey poured over warm stone—drifted up to them.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she announced, the words carrying the soft lilt of anticipation, "the time has finally come to reveal our last and finest item of the evening."
She turned with deliberate grace. The motion drew every eye. Her gown of deep crimson silk clung and flowed in equal measure, tracing the elegant curve of hip and waist, the gentle swell of breast.
The fabric caught the low chandelier light and sent it rippling outward in liquid shimmers. That single turn ensnared not only the men in the boxes but the women too—drawing sharp, appreciative inhalations, a rustle of silk against leather seats, the faint creak of wood as postures shifted.
From the stage, the auctioneer saw only the blank expanse of those private boxes: dark, featureless rectangles suspended in the gloom like silent judges. She could not see the hunger in their eyes, the tightening of gloved fingers on armrests, the quickened pulses behind porcelain masks.
But they saw her. And they waited.
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The auctioneer turned once more, a slow, deliberate pivot that drew the tight red silk of her dress taut across her hips. The fabric strained, outlining the firm, rounded curve of her backside for a lingering heartbeat before she spoke.
"Please, welcome our last and final item," she said, her voice a velvet coin, smooth and rich, "a fully aware, transformed werewolf from the legendary Fenrirborn tribe."
A monumental cage loomed at center stage, its iron bars shrouded beneath a heavy dark cloth that seemed to drink the very light.
The material was no ordinary drape; it pulsed faintly with an oppressive stillness, as though woven to choke every thread of mana, sealing all power within and barring any from without.
At her subtle gesture, the crew—silent, black-gloved figures—moved with practiced efficiency. They seized the edges of the cloth and drew it downward in one fluid motion. The fabric slithered free and pooled on the floor like spilled ink.
What met the eyes of the masked figures in the suspended VIP boxes was a creature of impossible scale and presence.
A huge black wolf filled the cage, yet its form was unmistakably humanoid—broad shoulders, long powerful limbs, a torso carved from muscle beneath fur the color of moonless night.
The beast stood upright even in repose, head bowed, chest slowly rising and falling in the deep rhythm of sleep.
The auctioneer showed no concern at its stillness. She stepped closer to the bars, heels clicking softly against polished wood, and continued in that same honeyed cadence.
"Ladies and gentlemen, as you can plainly see—from his immense muscular frame and night-like velvet fur—this is a true pureblooded Fenrirborn. But this one is still young. Barely stepped into adulthood. You need not fear he will be untrainable."
She let the words settle, then tilted her head, allowing the light to slide along the elegant line of her throat.
"His tribe could not control him. When sanity slipped from his grasp in this form, they wounded him and cast him out. We of the Black Serpent organization found him—still locked in full transformation, yet he did not attack. That was when we understood."
Her lips curved into a knowing, almost conspiratorial smile.
"This one has regained complete awareness in his full transformed state. And I hardly need to tell esteemed guests what a werewolf capable of reason in this shape can do."
She finished with a small, graceful stretch—arms lifting just enough to pull the crimson silk tighter across her breasts and waist, accentuating every curve in a practiced, almost ritual display.
The motion was subtle, yet unmistakable: a quiet punctuation to her words, a reminder to the unseen watchers above that beauty and power were both on offer tonight.
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The auctioneer paused, scanning the shadowed expanse of suspended boxes for any flicker of dissent. Hearing none, she drew breath to continue, voice smooth as poured silk.
"Okay, then, ladies and gentlemen, for the bidding of this—"
"Wake that thing up."
A low, gravelly sound rolled through one of the VIP chambers, cutting her off like a blade drawn across stone.
"Let me first see whether what you claim is true… or false."The voice belonged to great age—cracked, weathered, the last embers of a fire that had once scorched kingdoms.
The words landed heavy. A shiver raced through the hall—through masked faces behind one-way glass, through gloved hands that tightened on armrests, through the auctioneer herself.
Her composure flickered for the barest instant; then she dipped her head in swift deference.
"Yes, sir."
She signaled the handlers with a sharp, practiced flick of her wrist. The black-gloved men moved at once toward the cage, reaching for the bars to rouse the sleeping beast.
But, they never touched him.
As another rumble—deeper, closer—rolled outward from the cage itself.
"Don't worry," the voice said. "I heard that."
It was a sound that seemed to come from the marrow of the earth: vast, resonant, velvet-wrapped iron. Every listener felt it in their chest—a primal urge to kneel, to bare the throat, to yield. The air thickened with it.
Then the creature opened his eyes.
Twin golden pupils burned against sclera black as the void between stars. The gaze swept the room once, lazy and absolute. A slow yawn parted jaws lined with ivory fangs; the sound that followed was half growl, half sigh.
"Haah… that was really a good sleep." Eryx voice carried the same bone-deep timbre, now laced with dry amusement. "Pack this cover for me. It's very soundproof."
He then reached out. Massive hands—clawed, furred, corded with muscle—closed around two of the thick iron bars.
With a single, effortless pull, he tore them apart. Metal shrieked and bent like wet parchment; the gap yawned wide enough for his towering frame to pass through.
He stepped out.
One measured stride. Then another.
The full scope of him unfolded before the audience in merciless clarity. Night-black fur gleamed under the chandeliers, each strand drinking and reflecting light in subtle, liquid shifts.
Shoulders broader than any man's, chest a sculpted wall of power, limbs long and lethal, every line of him radiating coiled, predatory grace. He moved with the quiet certainty of something that had never known fear.
A collective gasp rose from the women in the hall—sharp, involuntary, threaded with something more than alarm. Danger radiated from him in waves, yet so did allure: raw, primal, almost indecent in its potency. The contrast pinned the breath in their throats.
The auctioneer was no exception.
She crossed the polished stage toward him, heels clicking in the sudden, electric hush. When she reached him she lifted a hand—slowly, deliberately—and laid her palm against the hard, warm slab of his chest. Muscle flexed beneath her touch, a living furnace beneath velvet fur.
"As you guests have just seen," she said, voice low and honeyed once more, though a faint tremor of awe lingered beneath it, "this is the real deal. A real… aware werewolf."
Her fingers lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary, tracing the ridge of power beneath the pelt, as though testing the truth of her own words against the living evidence before her.
But Eryx did not like that phrasing.
He lowered his gaze to the woman before him, golden pupils narrowing slightly.
With surprising gentleness, one massive, clawed hand rose and cupped the side of her face, turning her head toward him until their eyes met. His voice dropped to a quiet whisper—yet it rumbled like distant thunder trapped within a storm cloud, dark and inevitable.
"Don't call me that, okay?" The words carried a soft menace, intimate and absolute. "My name is Eryx. What is my name?"
The auctioneer stared up at him. Dangerous canines gleamed mere inches from her face, ivory against black fur, yet fear did not rise in her chest.
Instead, something else unfurled—a slow, liquid heat blooming deep beneath her ribs, spreading outward in warm, insistent pulses. Her breath shallowed. Her lips parted slightly.
Still, she answered, voice softer now, almost reverent.
"Yeah, Eryx. You are Eryx Fenrirborn."
He gave a single, satisfied nod, the motion slow and deliberate.
"Good. Remember that. And don't say 'werewolf' this or that. I don't like it, understood?"
She nodded quickly—too quickly—the motion sending a faint tremor through her frame. Between her thighs, a slick warmth had already gathered, undeniable and sudden.
In the shadowed VIP boxes above, the women who watched felt the same treacherous heat coil low in their bellies, a shared, silent pulse that tightened silk against skin and quickened hidden breaths.
One of those chambers held Liora Ardent, the youngest wife of the Ardent family. She had told herself she attended this auction only for formalities—or so she would have claimed.
In truth, she knew exactly why she and her husband, Lucien, had come. It was far more for him than for her.
Now, though, as she gazed down at the towering black-furred giant who had so casually dismantled iron bars and command, something shifted inside her.
Liora turned to her husband. Her voice was calm, final.
"I will be okay with this one."
Lucien blinked, surprise flickering across his features beneath the half-mask.
"Really?" He leaned closer, voice low. "But you haven't liked any of the others. What's so good about this one?"
Liora's eyes remained fixed on the stage below. Her tone sharpened, edged with something colder than irritation.
"Are you going to do it or not?" The words carried quiet steel. "Remember—I'm doing this for you, not me. I'm giving you a choice now. Buy it, or don't ask me later for your… those kind of requests."
Anger threaded her voice, thin but unmistakable.
Lucien's posture changed at once. The faint defiance in his shoulders dissolved; he became almost pliant.
"No—no, I'm sorry I asked," he said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Alright. We'll get this one, exactly as you requested—no matter what."
He exhaled, a long, relieved sigh that seemed to carry the weight of weeks. His wife had finally chosen. It mattered little that it was not human. She had chosen. That was enough.
Below, Eryx still stood beside the auctioneer, his hand no longer on her face but resting lightly at her waist now, a casual claim that sent fresh ripples through the hall.
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