The night in the Trade Realm was heavy with rain. Lanterns flickered along muddy streets as merchants shuttered their stalls, whispering of disappearances.
In the shadows between alleys, a figure moved. The Hound. His wolf-mask glistened wet under the stormlight, his blade wrapped in cloth to hide its monstrous edge. He was not hunting coin — he was hunting blood.
He watched silently from rooftops, eyes locked on groups of children scurrying through the night. Runaways, orphans, slaves. Some were weak, hollow-eyed, already broken. He ignored them.
But now and then, one would fight back against their captors. One would bare their teeth at the world. One would resist.
Those, he marked.
And those, he took.
No one ever saw him come. No one ever saw him leave. All they found were chains cut clean, bodies of slavers torn apart, and whispers that a wolf prowled the streets when the moon was high.
Back at the Eryndor stronghold, he would kneel before the Matriarch, delivering another child into her care. Her frail hands would reach out, eyes gleaming with a hunger untouched by time.
"Strong," she would whisper. "Yes… this one has fire."
Each hunt was another stone in the foundation of her design.
But the Hound was not blind. He saw the fear in the children's eyes when they were