The screams tore through the evening air like knives.

Ashvale burned. The border town that had stood for three hundred years, where catkin and humans once traded grain and stories, now drowned in blood and ash.

Smoke coiled into the darkening sky, thick and black, carrying the stench of burning wood and flesh.

"Run! They're coming from the east gate!"

A woman clutched her child, a small catkin boy with trembling ears flat against his head. She stumbled over cobblestones slick with blood, her bare feet leaving red prints.

Behind her, the Duke's guards swept through the market square like a plague, their armor gleaming orange in the firelight.

"Demon kin!" A guard's voice boomed, raw with hatred. "Filthy beasts! This is human land!"

His sword came down. A merchant—old, his gray fur matted with sweat—raised his hands. "Please, we've done nothing—"

The blade split his skull. Brain matter sprayed across a vegetable cart. The body crumpled, twitching.

"Kill them all!" Another guard laughed, dragging a teenage catkin girl by her hair. She screamed, clawing at his gauntlet. "The Second Queen commands it! For Lord Havrick! For humanity!"

A spear pierced through a father shielding his daughters. The steel tip burst from his back, dripping. His daughters shrieked as he fell, their white dresses turning crimson. The guard yanked his weapon free with a wet squelch and moved on, not even bothering to finish them.

Everywhere, death. Everywhere, terror.

A boy no older than ten ran past, his tail singed, crying for his mother. An arrow took him in the spine. He collapsed mid-stride, skidding face-first into the dirt, limbs going slack.

"Monsters! You're all monsters!" an elderly catkin woman shrieked from her doorway before a mace caved in her chest. Ribs cracked like dry branches. She coughed blood and dropped.

The treaty—the Thousand Year Accord, signed in blood and magic to let all races coexist—meant nothing now. The Second Queen's brother had fallen in the demon wars, and someone had to pay. It didn't matter that these people had never held a weapon, had never seen a demon. They had fur. They had tails. That was enough.

"Please! We're loyal to the crown! We pay our taxes!" A merchant on his knees, hands clasped. A boot smashed into his face. Teeth scattered.

"Loyal? Your kind shares blood with demons!" The guard spat on him. "You're all the same. Filth."

Through the chaos, a roar cut through—deep, commanding, filled with rage.

"ENOUGH!"

A massive catkin man stood in the town square's center, his orange fur streaked with soot and blood—not all of it from enemies. He wore the leather armor of the town guard, a representative sworn to protect Ashvale. His longsword, chipped and worn, gleamed in his grip. Bodies of Duke's guards lay at his feet. Five, maybe six.

The remaining soldiers hesitated, forming a loose circle around him.

"Has the royal family lost all disgrace?" The catkin's voice thundered, his fangs bared. His yellow eyes burned with fury and grief. "You break sacred law! You murder innocents! Where is your honor?"

"Honor?" A guard sneered. "You speak of honor, beast? Your demon cousins killed Lord Havrick!"

"We are NOT demons!" The catkin's grip tightened on his sword. Blood dripped from his knuckles. "We've lived in peace for centuries! We've bled for this kingdom! And this is how you repay us?"

"You'll bleed more before we're done."

The guards advanced, weapons raised. The catkin shifted his stance, ready to die fighting. Around him, his people huddled—mothers clutching children, the elderly too weak to run. He was their last shield.

Then—hoofbeats.

The guards parted immediately, dropping to one knee. Through the gap rode a horse, black as midnight, and atop it sat a figure that made the air itself feel colder.

A boy. No, a young man—fifteen, maybe sixteen. Blonde hair caught the firelight like spun gold. His face held the kind of beauty that belonged in paintings, sharp and perfect, but his eyes... his eyes were hollow. Yellow, cold, empty of anything resembling mercy.

He wore fine clothes beneath light armor, the crest of Eldoria Kingdom embroidered in gold thread. A longsword hung at his hip, its scabbard adorned with jewels.

"Stop."

One word. Every guard froze.

The boy—Leo Wanhen Eldrian, Third Prince of Eldoria—dismounted with fluid grace. His boots touched blood-soaked ground without even a splash. He surveyed the carnage with the interest one might give a broken vase. Bored. Detached.

His gaze settled on the catkin warrior.

"You're still alive." Leo's voice was soft, almost pleasant. "How amusing."

The catkin's jaw clenched so hard his fangs cut into his lip. "You... you're one of them. The royal family."

"Third Prince." Leo corrected, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "Be precise when you speak to your betters."

"Betters?" The word came out like venom. "You call yourself better while your men slaughter children?"

"They broke the law by existing." Leo tilted his head. "My aunt—the Second Queen—lost her brother to demons. These creatures share demon blood. It's simple mathematics."

"We are NOT—"

"I don't care what you are." Leo's hand drifted to his sword hilt. "But you interest me. You killed six of our men. That takes skill." His lips curved into something that might've been a smile if it reached his eyes. "So I'll offer you a deal. Fight me. If you win, I'll forgive them. All of them. You have my word as a prince."

Silence crashed down. The catkin stared, disbelief warring with desperate hope. Behind him, a woman gasped—his wife, probably, holding their daughter.

"You... you'll spare them?" The catkin's voice cracked. "Swear it."

"I just did." Leo drew his sword. The blade sang as it left the scabbard, pristine steel reflecting flames. "Come. Show me what a 'town representative' can do."

The catkin's face twisted. He knew. He had to know. But what choice did he have?

"Of course you have to," he growled, raising his longsword. "You—"

He moved.

Years of training, of protecting his town, of fighting bandits and beasts—all of it poured into one desperate lunge. His sword aimed for Leo's throat, fast, precise, lethal.

Leo vanished.

No—not vanished. He moved. So fast the human eye couldn't track. One moment he stood ten feet away. The next, he was behind the catkin, his blade already swung.

The catkin froze mid-charge. His eyes widened. His mouth opened, but no sound came.

His head slid off his shoulders.

The body stood for a heartbeat longer, blood fountaining from the neck stump like a grotesque fountain. Then it collapsed, twitching. The head bounced twice before rolling to a stop near a burning cart, eyes still wide in shock.

Leo stood on the other side, his sword lowered. Not a single drop of blood stained the blade. He'd moved through the space between them faster than gravity could pull blood down.

He sighed, disappointed.

"That's why I keep telling Mother I don't need to do training anymore." He examined his sword, bored. "I'm a born genius. There's no one stronger than me in this kingdom. What's the point?"

He sheathed his weapon with a soft click. "Maybe I'll stop attending those sessions. Such a waste of time."

A scream shattered his musings.

"NOOO!"

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