THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

Rough-hewn tables bore the scars of countless battles fought with fists and mugs alike. Ale, spilled in drunken revelry, mingled with the reeking musk of sweat and something far more sinister – blood. Lanterns, their flames flickering like dying embers, danced across weathered faces etched with the hardships life dealt with a cruel hand.

At the heart of this den of iniquity, Gareth held court. He sprawled across a central table, his presence a physical manifestation of malice. His eyes, sharp as a predator's, swept the room, searching for any flicker of defiance.

A gaggle of thugs, their loyalty as questionable as their hygiene, filled the tervan. Blades, glinting in the dim light, rested suggestively across their laps. They sipped their ale, a tense anticipation hanging thick in the air – Gareth's orders were a storm waiting to break.

Behind a bar, overflowing with barrels and bottles that gleamed like forbidden treasures, the lone bartender stood guard. His watchful eyes missed nothing, his weary stance a testament to the battles he'd already fought.

Each bottle held the potential for oblivion, a weapon in its own right, waiting for the right hand to claim it.

But amidst this symphony of depravity, a lone figure stirred on the floor. Vivian, bound tight with rope, lay crumpled in a heap of fear.

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the image of the hulking brute who had snatched her from the market like a wolf snatching a lamb. Every breath was a struggle, every rustle of clothing a harbinger of unknown horrors. Here, in this fetid pit of despair, she awaited her fate, a pawn in a game played by men with no regard for innocence.

Gareth's gaze, sharp and predatory like a wolf's, settled on Vivian. She lay bound on the grimy floor, fear a living thing that pulsed beneath her skin. He circled her, a cruel amusement twisting his lips. In his hand, a wickedly glinting dagger gleamed, catching the flickering lantern light.

The memory of his meeting with the fingers, a grisly reminder of the De Gor boy's tenacity, sent a fresh wave of fury through him. Those incompetent fools he'd sent before had nearly cost him dearly. This time, Gareth wouldn't leave things to chance. This time, he'd take care of the young master himself.

"Seething, wouldn't you say? That is currently how I feel." he snarled, his voice a gravelly rasp. Vivian flinched, a tremor running through her bound form. "I wouldn't have had to resort to this little game if you'd just done as I said."

His tone, laced with mocking amusement, was a cruel prelude to her doom. He was toying with her, a cat savouring the terror of a cornered mouse before the final pounce. Vivian, tears blurring her vision, could only whimper, a sound lost in the cavernous din of the tavern. The stench of stale ale and sweat hung heavy in the air, a suffocating shroud to accompany her chilling premonition: Gareth intended to make her pay for the De Gor's defiance, and the price would be her life but before that, some fun was in order.

"To be honest, I found you quite attractive," Gareth shrugged, his eyes narrowing with disdain. "But now, you're nothing but a sour sight in my eyes. Do you think the young master will come and save you like last time?" He mocked, abruptly halting his predatory circling.

"But don't worry," he continued, leaning in close to her trembling face, "my boys find you... delicious." A depraved smile twisted Gareth's features as he revelled in her fear.

Vivian, understanding the full horror of his words, screamed at the top of her lungs. "Ah yes, scream all you like, but no one is coming for you," Gareth burst into cruel laughter. "Hey, you, shut her up!" he commanded, and one of his goons slapped Vivian, sending her sprawling to the floor.

"Even though I like your screams, I don't recall giving you permission," Gareth barked, his voice dripping with malice. Vivian's eyes were wet with tears, her spirit teetering on the edge. It was clear that Gareth intended to break her mind before he ended her life.

Gareth's voice, a rasp of sandpaper against stone, cut through the ringing in Vivian's ears. "Pin her down," he snarled, his words a prelude to a predator's feast. "Enjoy yourselves until sunrise," he cackled, a sound devoid of humour, "but don't neglect the real prize – break her spirit."

The air crackled with anticipation. A wall of hulking figures surged towards Vivian, a grotesque wave about to crash upon her. Her body, a statue carved from fear, refused to obey. The world swam before her eyes, the brutal slap still stinging on her cheek. A silent scream tore at her throat, forever trapped.

"I'll go first," rumbled a voice that echoed like a collapsing tomb. A silhouette detached itself from the pack, a monstrous shadow looming over Vivian. His hungry gaze swept down her lewd form, a predator sizing up its prey.

Just as despair threatened to consume her, a sound pierced the suffocating tension – a deafening crack. The ceiling, unable to bear the weight of the impending horror, surrendered. A shower of dust rained down as a figure plummeted through the debris. The thugs recoiled, the earth-shattering arrival shattering their predatory glee.

Vivian, momentarily blinded by the dust settling, could only pray. Was this the end, or a reprieve from the nightmare unfolding around her?

Dust motes danced in the fractured moonlight that spilled through the gaping hole in the tavern ceiling. David rose, his muscles ticking as he surveyed the tableau before him. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of fear. It was the scent of men who had tasted power and were about to lose their last desperate grip on it.

Across the room, Gareth, the weaselish man who had orchestrated so much suffering, cowered amongst his goons. Their faces, usually twisted in sneers of forced machismo, were pale canvases of terror. David's gaze snagged on Vivian, his heart twisting with a sickening pang. She was bound, a single, cruel bruise blooming on her cheek like a macabre rose.

For a heartbeat, a wave of despair washed over him. He'd been too late. Then, something primal stirred within him, a darkness that had always simmered beneath the surface, held in check by reason. But reason had no place here, not anymore.

A tremor ran through the room, the floorboards groaning beneath an unseen pressure. The air grew thick, a living, tangible darkness emanating from David. It pressed on the goons like a suffocating shroud, chilling them to the bone. It was a darkness that whispered of primal instincts, of fangs and claws, of the hunt. It was the thirst for vengeance.

David moved, a blur of black fury. One moment he was standing near the broken ceiling, the next, he was a fistful of wrath slamming into Gareth. The force of the blow sent the smaller man sprawling, his head exploding in a sickening crunch against the splintered floor. A guttural sound, half-growl, half-scream, ripped from David's throat. His eyes, usually kind and warm, now blazed with an icy blue fire.

The remaining goons stared, frozen in a tableau of terror. This wasn't a man they were looking at. This was a force of nature, a predator awakened, its eyes promising a swift and brutal end. In that moment, the air itself seemed to shimmer, to warp around David's form. Black tendrils of energy snaked out from him, swirling and coalescing into a menacing aura.

Gareth, his skull throbbing, tried to scramble to his feet, a primal fear urging him to flee. But before he could even manage a whimper, a scream tore through the air. "Attack!" he bellowed, but his voice lacked its usual venom. It was the desperate cry of a drowning man grasping at a straw.

The goons, spurred by a flicker of adrenaline-fueled madness, finally reacted. With a roar, they charged, a desperate tide of steel against an unyielding storm. But David remained unfazed. His voice, a low rumble that resonated in the very marrow of their bones, spoke a single word. "Luna!"

The word hung in the air, pregnant with power. The goons faltered mid-charge, their weapons trembling in their hands as a dreadful pressure sipped in their bones. Then, in the blink of an eye, the room became a whirlwind of shadows and teeth.

A monstrous form, sleek and silver as moonlight, materialized from thin air. Its eyes burned with an unnatural golden fire, a predatory intelligence gleaming as it stared down the hapless goons. This was no ordinary beast; it was a creature of legend, a nightmare given flesh: Luna, the Blood Alpha, Lord of the Beasts.