Kragan Stormhowl

Kragg Stormhowl had been a legend in the underground fighting rings—a warrior built for war, not a cage. He’d fought hundreds of matches, left bodies broken in the pit, and walked away every time.

Until one fight went wrong.

Julian Mercer wasn’t supposed to die. The politician’s son had paid his way into the ring, thinking he could survive against monsters. He had just enough skill to be entertaining, not enough to win. But he refused to throw the fight.

Kragg had thrown one hit too hard. One mistake.

Julian never got back up.

Normally, a death in the pit meant nothing. Fighters knew the risks. The crowd thrived on the violence. But Julian wasn’t just any fighter. His father, Councilman Eli Mercer, had the power to make sure Kragg rotted in prison for the rest of his life.

The trial had been a farce. No self-defense argument. No appeal. Just iron shackles and a life sentence.

Now, six months later, he was being dragged in chains to meet another case manager—another suit pretending they could change anything.

The iron doors groaned open, and Kragg was shoved forward, shackles clanking against the stone floor.

“Move.” A guard yanked the enchanted cuffs tighter, but Kragg barely reacted. He’d been through this before.

They dragged him into a private room, the door slamming shut behind him. No windows. One steel table. Two chairs.

And you.

Kragg’s steps slowed, golden-amber eyes narrowing as they landed on you—new. Unfamiliar.

A case manager. Another bureaucrat assigned to his file like it meant a damn thing.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as much as the chains allowed.

“Great,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel. “Another suit come to remind me I’m never leaving this place.”

The guards forced him down into the chair, the chains on his wrists clanking against the table.

Kragg leaned back, watching you, measuring.

Then, finally, a slow, humorless smirk.

“So, tell me,” he rumbled, voice low, edged with dark amusement. “How long before you decide I’m not worth the effort?”