The stench of rot lingers in the air, though no corpse lies in sight. It’s the rot of essence, a decay that seeps into the marrow of humanity. I watch them from the towering gates of my mansion, cloaked in the shadows of twilight. A thousand years ago, this world was crude, yes—but alive. Back then, their souls burned with a feral kind of light: unrefined, untamed, but undeniable.

Now? They are hollow. Gilded shells walking with heads held high but hearts festering in the darkness of their greed. A thousand years ago, they fought wars over land, spilled blood over honor, cried tears of devotion. Purpose. Instinct. That was their essence. Even their barbarism had a primal dignity to it.

But now, look at them. They prance about in their glittering towers and painted silks, calling it civilization. The truth is, they are cowards—afraid of pain, terrified of truth, yet willing to bend the knee to the cheapest of pleasures. They celebrate the mediocre and worship their own reflection, thinking it makes them gods. Monsters, at least, are honest about their hunger. These people? They lie even to themselves.

I turn from the window, the cold marble beneath my feet resonating with each step I take. The grand doors of my mansion swing open silently, as I step inside, and the dim light of the chandeliers bathes the vast halls in a golden hue, though it fails to thaw the frost in my veins.

Servants bowed in fear. The air inside the mansion carries a quiet reverence, the one that is earned through blood and fear, not affection. I am not a man who inspires warmth—nor do I desire to.

My reflection catches in the mirror at the landing, the gleam of my signet ring flashing against the curve of my jawline. A thousand years have carved me into something sharper, harder, more ruthless. I was a child when I last walked this earth, wide-eyed and untested. Now, I am a blade honed for power, an architect of dominion.

The meeting awaits, a mere formality for appearances’ sake. They will grovel, as they always do, desperate for my approval, my alliance. They do not realize I have already decided their fates. I descend into the study, where the council waits. The heavy oak doors open with a creak that seems to echo the weight of history itself.

I pause before stepping inside, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of my lips. Let them believe they have outsmarted me, these remnants of humanity clinging to their fragile delusions. It will make their fall all the sweeter.

For a thousand years, I have watched. Now it's time to give them a good show. Their death show.

◍⁠✧⁠*⁠。

The journey to Lunaris Serebrum, the Kingdom of the Werewolves, was one I had anticipated with more curiosity than caution. Nestled in the untamed heart of Russia, its name meant "Silver Moonlight"—a poetic ode to their eternal bond with the moon. The land was a sprawling wilderness, both savage and serene, an unyielding beauty. The snow-laden forests whispered secrets older than my thousand-year absence, and the icy winds carried a warning that even the mightiest should tread carefully.

The gates of the werewolf kingdom were wrought in intricate patterns of silver and obsidian, glinting beneath the pale winter sun. As I passed through them, I felt the air thrum with an energy that was distinctly primal yet disciplined—a reflection of their ruler. Andrei Obolensky. The name carried weight even before I met him, a blend of legend and menace whispered across continents.

The palace—or rather, the fortress—stood as a testament to Andrei’s dominion. Towering spires of black stone pierced the sky, their edges gilded with frost. The architecture was both brutal and breathtaking, much like the man himself. Andrei Obolensky was no mere king; he was the czar of shadows, the pulse of the Russian underworld, and the alpha of his pack. A predator, in every sense of the word.

He waited for me in the grand hall, and the first sight of him was as striking as I’d imagined. Andrei was a towering figure, his presence a storm contained within a man. His sharp jawline seemed carved from granite, and his piercing hazel eyes held the chill of Siberian winters. Thick, raven-black hair was slicked back, emphasizing his patrician features, and a hint of a scar traced his right cheek—a reminder of battles survived.

Power radiated from him, cold and unwavering, like the silence before an avalanche. He wore a tailored black suit that fit him like a second skin, but there was nothing civil about the man beneath. This was no aristocrat; this was a wolf clothed in human elegance.

"Andrei." I greeted, inclining my head slightly—enough to show respect, but not submission.

"Veer Suryavanshi." he replied, his voice a smooth baritone that carried a dangerous edge. His accent rolled through my name like a winter gale, deliberate and unforgiving. "The man of the sun finally steps into the den of wolves."

"Poetry is a luxury I rarely indulge in," I said with a faint smirk. "But I’ll admit, your kingdom is... impressive."

"Impressive?" Andrei repeated, his lips curling into a sharp smile. "Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise."

The exchange was a dance of veiled threats and mutual respect, each word a test of strength. Andrei gestured toward the grand staircase, leading me to the left wing of the mansion. The halls were a blend of opulence and intimidation—gold filigree adorned the walls, but the shadows seemed to move of their own accord, whispering secrets I didn’t care to know.

We entered a private study, its walls lined with ancient tomes and weapons from eras long past. A massive oak table dominated the room, its surface polished to a mirror sheen. Andrei gestured for me to sit, his sharp eyes watching my every move.

"I trust you’ve read the terms," he said, sliding a thick parchment toward me.

"I have," I replied, my tone calm, controlled. "And I trust you’ve ensured they’re as ironclad as your reputation."

Andrei chuckled, a low, predatory sound. "Veer, I don’t deal in false promises. When you enter my world, you do so knowing there is no escape. Are you prepared for that?"

I met his gaze, unflinching. "A thousand years have prepared me for far worse."

He handed me a pen, its tip glinting like a fang, and I signed my name with deliberate strokes. The pact was sealed, my entry into the Bratva—a union of the sun and the shadows, an alliance that would shake the foundations of power.

As Andrei leaned back in his chair, a satisfaction gleam in his eyes, I knew one thing for certain: this partnership would not just reshape kingdoms—it would redefine empires.

◍⁠✧⁠*⁠。

Dear readers,

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