Chapter 1

Lucaris

The deep woods of Rach are a glorious, untamed chaos, and I am in my element. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and strange, exotic blossoms. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the undergrowth, is a promise of a new thrill. Corvak’s warnings echo in my head, something about caution and staying close to the established paths, but Corvak has always been a worrier. He sees a cage in every shadow. I see a challenge.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I sing-song under my breath, my amber eyes scanning the dense foliage. I’m tracking a Razorback Snapper, a foul-tempered beast with a shell like sharpened stone and a bite that can sever a man’s arm. The local humans fear them, which, of course, makes the hunt all the more appealing. A good, clean kill would be a fine story to tell my brothers when we finally reunite. A reminder that even scattered and alone, we are still the deadliest predators in any forest.

I leap over a fallen log, my movements a fluid dance of manticore grace, and laugh as a startled flock of Razor birds takes flight, their shrieks a chorus of outrage. This is living. The rush of the hunt, the promise of danger—it’s a wine more potent than any I’ve ever tasted. Then, a new scent cuts through the familiar smells of the forest. It’s sharp, unnatural. The acrid tang of old metal and the low, humming thrum of contained magic.

Caution, the small part of my brain that sounds like Silas advises, would be to turn back. To mark the territory as claimed and find an easier kill.

“Caution is for old men and cowards,” I mutter, a grin spreading over my face. Curiosity, sharp and bright, overrides any sense of self-preservation. This is new. This is interesting. What sort of creature uses magic and metal in these feral woods?

I change course, my earlier quarry forgotten. Now, I am the one being lured, drawn deeper into a part of the forest the maps mark as forbidden. The trees here are older, their branches gnarled and twisted, blotting out the sun. The air grows still, heavy with a waiting silence. Every instinct I possess screams at me to turn back. But the need to prove myself, to show my brothers that I am not just the reckless youngest, but a warrior worthy of their respect, pushes me forward. One more ridge, one more clearing. I need to see what lies ahead.

The ground gives way without warning. It is not a natural collapse, but a silent, seamless vanishing of the earth beneath my feet. I have a single, heart-stopping moment of weightlessness, and then I am falling. I twist in mid-air, my body already beginning the shift, claws extending, wings flaring to catch the air. But there is no air to catch.

A net, woven from threads of pure, shimmering silver, erupts from hidden channels in the earth, enveloping me in its magical embrace. The moment the enchanted threads touch my fur, they ignite with a searing, white-hot energy. It’s like being wrapped in lightning. The pain is excruciating, a raw, burning agony that short-circuits my manticore form. My body convulses, the shift reversing itself against my will, bones grinding as I am forced back into the weaker, more vulnerable shape of a man.

“Bastard!” I roar, thrashing against my bonds. But my struggles are useless. The net is a masterpiece of magical engineering. Every movement, every desperate pull, only causes the threads to constrict further, the silver burning deeper into my flesh. It’s a snare designed not just to capture, but to inflict maximum pain and humiliation.

The trap is brutally efficient. Ropes, thick and heavy, uncoil from the same hidden channels, attaching themselves to the net. I am dragged, helpless and still cursing, across the forest floor to the base of a massive, ancient oak tree. 

The bark of the tree is carved with glowing, intricate runes, and as I am hauled against it, a new wave of magic, cold and binding, washes over me. Heavy, rune-etched shackles materialize from the air, clamping shut around my wrists and ankles, pinning me to the tree with an unyielding finality. 

The silver net retracts, its work done, leaving me chained and exposed. I am a prize, a trophy, displayed for my captor. The hunt is over. And I am the prey.

For a long time, there is only the sound of my own ragged breathing and the low, humming pulse of the runes that bind me. The magic is a living thing, a cold, relentless pressure against my skin that sears my wrists with every futile tug. My pride, already wounded by the sheer, insulting perfection of the trap, burns hotter than the pain. To be caught like this, like some dumb, lumbering beast… it’s a humiliation I can barely stomach.

“Let me out of here, you coward!” I bellow into the silent forest. “Face me like a warrior!”

Only the rustle of leaves answers me. My shouts are a waste of breath. This is no simple hunter. This is a master. The complexity of the snare, the power of the binding runes—this is the work of someone who has studied manticores. Someone who knows our strengths, our weaknesses. The realization sends a chill through me that has little to do with the cool forest air. This hunter hasn’t just caught a manticore. He has caught manticores before.

My mind races, my initial rage giving way to a cold, calculating dread. Rach is known for its Dark Market, a place where rare and exotic creatures are sold to the highest bidder. A live manticore, a creature of legend from the hidden isle of Osiris, would fetch a king’s ransom. I picture myself paraded in a cage, sold to some depraved dark elf noble to be used as a plaything, a living trophy until he grew bored and had me killed for sport.

“No,” I growl, pulling against the shackles with all my strength. The runes flare, the magic searing my skin, and I roar in a mixture of pain and frustration. The bonds hold. They are as unyielding as the ancient oak they are bound to. There is no escape. I am trapped. Powerless. A beast waiting for the butcher. I finally feel a sliver of true, cold fear.

The sound of footsteps, soft and deliberate, finally breaks the silence. They are light, too light for a seasoned hunter. I school my features, forcing the fear down, burying it beneath a thick layer of my usual arrogance. I will not give my captor the satisfaction of seeing my terror. I will face him with the pride of a Vastan, the defiance of a manticore.

He will see a warrior, not a victim.

But it is not a grizzled, scarred hunter who emerges from the shadows of the trees. It is a girl. Or rather, a young woman, not much older than a human fledgling. She is lean and wiry, dressed in the practical leathers of a hunter, and her long, dark chestnut hair is tied back in a rough, messy braid. She moves with a quiet, cautious grace, her eyes constantly scanning her surroundings.

She stops a few feet away, her sharp, gray-green eyes taking me in. She is not looking at me like a prize, like a monster, or like merchandise. She is studying me like a puzzle she doesn’t quite understand, her gaze analytical, intelligent.

The silence stretches, and an unfamiliar tension builds between us. It’s not the prelude to a fight, but something else. Something I don’t recognize. Her gaze is unnerving, seeing past the snarling beast I am trying to project, to the humiliated warrior beneath.

I decide to break the silence first, to seize control of this strange, quiet confrontation. A slow, mocking grin spreads across my face.

“Well, now,” I say in a suggestive purr that is pure, calculated arrogance. “What have we here? Did the big, bad hunter send his pretty daughter to do his dirty work?”

Her expression doesn’t change, but I see a flicker of something in those sharp, intelligent eyes. Annoyance? Intrigue? Whatever it is, our gazes lock, and in that moment, something electric, something dangerous and undeniable, arcs between us. The hunter may have caught a manticore in his snare. But his daughter… his daughter has just captured my complete and undivided attention.