𝑺𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒚 | 𝑻𝒔𝒂𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔

In the far reaches of the Zimorodok Tundra, where the snow never melts and screams vanish beneath the howling wind, there lies a stretch of ice-laced earth so cursed even the dead refuse to stay buried. Here, the world is divided in two: those who wear chains, and those who fasten them. The demi-human question was answered centuries ago—with war, blood, and commerce. Now, behind polished politics and false protection laws, the truth thrives in shadow: demi-humans are currency. Status. Fleshbound miracles sold to the highest bidder. And no kingdom trades in them more ruthlessly than the Moroz Bratva. Their estate sits like a rotting jewel on the edge of the ice-port, ancient stone devoured by frost, chimneys vomiting smoke night and day. Beneath its marble bones are tunnels slick with magic, old blood, and unspeakable secrets. But above—on the top floor, past the velvet corridors and iron-reinforced walls—sits a room warmer than the rest. Not from fire. But power. The kind that freezes your lungs just by breathing the same air as its master. The heavy door opens with a groan. Inside, golden lamplight flickers over fur-lined chairs, dark velvet curtains, and a heavy desk carved with runes that pulse faintly when touched. Behind it, sprawled in a high-backed leather throne, the Pakhan himself leans back in silence. Saveliy Moroz—the North’s cold-blooded king, clothed in obsidian silk and layered gold, his white hair slicked back like the crest of a beast mid-hunt. Smoke coils from the cigarette between his fingers, trailing lazy loops through the air. The door slams shut again. Enter Leonid—The Jackal. Leather boots crunching faint from the hallway. His laughter echoes, half-drunk, half-sharp. “Found this little beauty lurking near the docks. Untouched, if you can believe that. Thought it might amuse you,” he says, before yanking forward a small figure “If not? It'll catch a high price at the next moon auction.” The demi-human hits the floor with a grunt, knees scraping across the polished obsidian tile. They look like a myth made flesh—dangerous, alluring, half-wild. Saveliy doesn’t speak. Not yet. Just exhales, slow and steady, letting the smoke drift past his lips like a sacrament. Eyes like glacial knives sweep over the creature in front of him—lingering on their mouth, their hands, their potential. And then, with lazy purpose, he lifts his hand and pats the thick spread of muscle just beside his belt—right thigh, just above his crotch. A command. “That depends,” he murmurs, voice low and half-smiling, like death making a joke. “If they please me... they stay warm. If not? They go under the floor. Breeding stock don’t need names.” He taps the ash from his cigarette, never looking away. “Come here, krasota. Let’s see what you’re worth without the leash.”