Dense fog clung to the rotting rooftops of a small border town in South Bohemia. The horizon was gray, as if even the sky hesitated to begin the day. The air smelled of wet wood, old iron, and the sweat of hungry men. In the taverns, they spoke of monsters in the southern woods, of adventurers returning rich—or never at all. An axe, a job, a few coins: that was life here. Among forges, brothels, and crooked towers beat the heart of a world where hope and ruin were bargained over the same stone.
And on this morning, somewhere between lust and violence, everything was about to change for a certain nobleman—a man whispered about in the brothels and barracks alike. Some claimed he smiled during torture. Others said he took more pleasure in the hunt than in the kill. But whatever the truth, one thing was clear: wherever he went, blood followed.
A dark room, thick with the scent of sweat, stale smoke, and cheap perfume. The air was heavy, saturated with heat and something rotten—like the breath of a city too long left to rot. Only the ragged groan of a bedframe and the guttural breathing of a man disturbed the silence. Outside, the early murmur of the town pressed faintly against shuttered windows, unwelcome and ignored. Stripes of pale light split across a bed of torn sheets, stained with nights long past.
And atop them moved a man—not with passion or care, but with brutal purpose. His groan was one of cold determination, not release, as he drove the woman into the mattress beneath him with a rhythm that spoke more of cruelty than of desire, a hand at her throat, not to choke—but to silence. It wasn't love. It wasn't lust. It was domination. The kind that demanded the world kneel and say "yes, my lord."
Leopold was tall—even for a half-elf. Broad-shouldered, his body was honed and laced with raw aura. Violet eyes glinted coldly in an angular, pale face. His silver hair, typical of his elven heritage, was shaved down completely—a silent rebellion against everything he had inherited from his mother. He concealed his slightly pointed ears with a high, stiff leather collar and dark steel cuffs that looked like part of his armor—camouflage and defiance in one. Humans feared him, elves despised him. And he despised them all in return.
He was Leopold Alarion von Habsburg, Duke of Vienna—at least in name. Actual rule he left to his mother and a cadre of bureaucrats. Administration? He didn't care. The city was a shadow of its former self: impoverished, ruined, overrun with foreign faces and foreign blood. His father, a human, an honorable warrior and beloved ruler, had died in service of the people. A fool, Leopold thought. Selflessness was weakness, and weakness he despised—especially his own.
The brothel door creaked open. Leopold stepped out, tossing a few coins back into the shadows of the room without a word. The woman didn't follow—she knew better. He adjusted the collar of his coat, eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. He strode into the morning like a blade drawn. His breath still steamed from exertion, sweat clung to his shirt.
He passed a baker's stall, ignored a call from a red-lipped vendor, and slowed as he turned a corner—then halted. A soft rustle caught his ear. Ahead, in a narrow alley where sunlight barely touched the stones, two beastkin children sat huddled beside a crumbling crate. One was missing a shoe. The other stared up at him with wide, animal-like eyes, a faint tremble in his limbs.
Leopold froze. For a second, the haze of his morning rage lifted. These were not monsters. Not warriors. Just pups. Forgotten things clinging to life like weeds in stone. And yet, all he felt was bitterness. It clawed at him from inside.
He thought of his own childhood—tutors, cold halls, the echo of elven contempt and human judgment. He had learned young: you survive by never belonging. You kill the part of you that hopes.
He looked away. Spat.
Then he walked on, and halted near the edge of the market square. There, in a patch of sunless mud, sat a group of children—thin, dirty, beastkin. One had small horns. Another a twitching tail. A third hid its face beneath a mop of matted hair.
They huddled around a cracked bowl, its chipped surface resting on the gritty, damp ground. The cold stone beneath them seeped through their thin clothes, and the faint taste of ash hung in the air. When Leopold passed, they flinched.
He stopped. A part of him twisted.
Their smell—earth and fear. Their eyes—too tired for children. He looked at them and felt… not pity. Not anger. Just disgust. Not at them. At himself.
He hated them because they reminded him of what he was—a half-breed with no homeland, no name spoken with pride. A contradiction wrapped in noble steel. Part of him wanted to reach out, the other wanted to crush. He hated that he even felt the conflict. Of not belonging. Not to the elves. Not to the humans. He had no tribe, no bloodline he could wear proudly. Just the scraps of two worlds sewn together by violence.
One of the beastchildren looked up. Wide yellow eyes. Not defiant—just hollow. He reached into his coat, pulled out a half-eaten bun—and tossed it aside.
They didn't move.
"I said eat," he growled.
Still, nothing. One child whimpered.
Then, with a snarl, Leopold kicked the bowl. For a split second after, something in him twisted—an echo of guilt, or shame, or something uglier. A voice he didn't recognize whispered from deep within, but he crushed it like ash under heel. Mercy was for those who had the luxury of belonging. It rolled, spilling thin porridge into the dirt. The children cried out and scattered. He didn't chase them. Just stared, jaw clenched.
"Filthy scum," he muttered. "You live like beasts because you are beasts."
But the hate didn't feel righteous. It felt hollow.
He muttered to himself, "Off to the stables. Those dullards are probably already waiting."
He turned into a narrow alley, boots echoing on the damp stone. The shadows swallowed him.