[Time Skip: Year 2]

[Location: The Great Den – Capital of the Beast Tribes]

The Great Den stood as a monument to survival, carved directly into the hollowed-out caldera of an extinct frozen volcano.

Unlike the stone walls of Ironforge or the living trees of the Elven Capital, this city was a sprawling chaos of massive mammoth-leather tents and huts built from ancient bones.

Great fire pits burned day and night, fighting off the eternal winter.

In the center of the city stood the Arena of Fangs, a colossal coliseum dug deep into the permafrost, capable of holding fifty thousand roaring spectators.

Today, the drums of war beat a relentless rhythm.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

The sound echoed off the ice walls, shaking snow from the rooftops.

In the High Lodge overlooking the city, King Scar sat on a throne draped in the pelt of a White Lion, the skin of his own brother.

A massive Lion-kin with a black mane streaked with grey and a jagged scar running down his left eye, he held a goblet of strong wine, watching the preparations below with a bored, arrogant expression.

"The turnout is good," King Scar rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "

The Wolf Tribes, the Bear Clans, even the elusive Panther-kin have sent their champions."

"They have no choice, My King," a hyena-kin advisor cackled, bowing low.

"Since you announced the Beast Games, every tribe wants to prove their loyalty. They fear your wrath."

"They fear my son," Scar corrected, pointing a claw at the arena below.

Down in the practice yards, a massive, golden-furred Lion-kin was sparring. Wielding a greataxe that sparked with lightning, he cleaved a stone training dummy in half with a single swing.

Prince Gorn. The favorite to win.

"When Gorn wins the title of Beast General," Scar said, his eyes gleaming with ambition,

"the Council of Fangs will have no choice but to accept him as my heir. The White Lion line will be forgotten, and my bloodline will rule the North forever."

"Speaking of the North..." the hyena advisor hesitated, his ears flattening nervously.

"There have been... reports from the Border."

Scar frowned. "Reports? The Bear Tribe was supposed to secure the border a year ago. Why haven't they sent tribute?"

"The Bear Tribe is gone, My King."

Scar froze. "Gone?"

"Broken," the advisor whispered.

"Disbanded. Their Chieftain was found half-buried in a snowbank, mumbling about a ghost."

"A ghost?"

"They call it the 'Border Killer'," the hyena said, shivering.

"Or the 'One-Armed Ghost'. Rumors say a warrior appeared out of the blizzard two years ago, wearing a cloak of white fur and wielding a black, metal claw that eats magic."

"It has conquered the outer rim. The Bear Tribe, the Walrus Clans, the Snow-Leopards... they have all knelt to it."

Scar slammed his goblet down, splashing wine onto the floor.

"A bandit warlord?" Scar scoffed. "

In the outer rim? Who cares about the trash that lives in the snow? If they knelt, it's because they are weak."

"But My King—"

"Silence," Scar roared.

"I am focusing on the Games! Once Gorn is crowned General, I will give him the army. He can march North and crush this 'Border Killer' as a celebration gift."

Scar leaned back, dismissing the threat.

"Let the ghost play in the snow. Here, in the Great Den... I am the only predator."

.....

[The City Gates - Lower District]

While the King drank wine in his warm tower, the streets below choked with warriors, merchants, and spectators arriving for the tournament.

The air smelled of roasted meat, wet fur, and testosterone.

Through the crowded main gate, a solitary figure walked in.

Cloaked in heavy, white winter furs that hid her face and body completely, she moved with a strange, heavy rhythm.

Her right arm swung naturally, but her left arm hung stiffly by her side, completely wrapped in thick, oil-stained bandages. It looked bulky, misshapen, more club than hand.

"Out of the way, runt!"

A massive Boar-kin warrior shoved past her, laughing with his friends. "The Games are for warriors, not cripples!"

Unmoved, the cloaked figure simply shifted her weight.

THUD.

Checking the Boar-kin with her shoulder, she sent the three-hundred-pound warrior flying sideways. He crashed into a stall selling roasted nuts, collapsing the entire structure.

"What the—?" The Boar-kin scrambled up, face red with rage. "You want to die?!"

He reached for his axe.

The cloaked figure stopped and slowly turned her head.

From beneath the hood, two golden eyes flashed.

They weren't the eyes of a thug; they were the eyes of a calm, apex predator looking at a noisy insect.

A low, vibrating growl emanated from her chest. Though quiet, it carried a terrifying Intent, triggering a primal fear response in the Boar-kin's brain.

Predator. Run.

The Boar-kin froze. His axe slipped from his sweaty grip. Backing away, he whimpered, his instincts overriding his pride.

"S-Sorry..." he squeaked, fleeing into the crowd.

The cloaked figure turned back around and continued walking.

She made her way to the registration booth outside the arena where an old Turtle-kin with thick glasses sat behind a desk, writing names in a ledger.

"Name?" the Turtle-kin asked, not looking up.

"Leo," the figure replied, her voice raspy and disguised.

"Tribe?"

"None. Freelancer."

The Turtle-kin paused. Looking up and adjusting his glasses, he saw the bandaged left arm.

"The Games are brutal, kid," the old turtle warned.

"You have to be under thirty. And you have to be ready to die. We don't allow weapons in the prelims. Only fists, claws, and natural magic."

"I know the rules," Leo said.

Reaching into her cloak with her good hand, she dropped a heavy bag of gold coins onto the table.

It wasn't the crude, chipped currency of the tribes, but Royal Minted Gold from the Human Empire, funds taken from Damien before leaving.

"Entry fee."

The Turtle-kin eyed the gold, then the mysterious warrior. He stamped a wooden token and handed it to her.

"Block C. You're up in an hour. Try not to die to fast."

Leo took the token.

Walking away, she found a quiet corner in the waiting area. She leaned against the cold stone wall, surrounded by roaring, boasting warriors sharpening their claws and painting their fur.

Under the heavy cloak, Leona smiled, a sharp, dangerous expression.

She touched the communication crystal hidden beneath her furs. It vibrated faintly, a constant, comforting link to the South.

I'm in, Young Lord.

She looked down at her bandaged left arm. Beneath the rags, the Void Gauntlet hummed softly, hungry for the mana of the challengers.

For two years, she had been a ghost, conquering the border in silence and building an army of loyalists who waited for her signal in the snow.

But today, the silence ended.

She looked up at the High Lodge, where King Scar sat on the throne that belonged to her father.

"Enjoy your wine, Uncle," Leona whispered.

"Because the Border Killer is here. And she brought a storm."

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