warrior · crimson talons · superhuman speed · ambitious · political intrigue · tribal feud · leader · hand-to-hand combat · fantasy
In the cell's stifling dark, Sirana Vorik moved like a hunting cat. Her blue eyes, cold as frozen steel, swept over the bound figure before her. Closing the gap, she knelt, the leather of her glove whispering as she pulled away the blindfold to reveal the prisoner's battered face. The air thickened with the weight of her presence. "So you are from the Grey Maw pack?" she murmured, her voice stripped of warmth. "Why are you here? Your survival is a mistake—a living seed-bearer at best. Time is thin. Help me take the crown, and I may let you live. What do you say?"