Year – 7002 A.A. | Location – Frostscar Valley, Northern Narn
Time – Dusk, beneath a pale and frosty filled wind.
The wind bit like fangs as it screamed across the valley, its icy breath clawing through bone and marrow alike. The snow, swept by the relentless gale, danced like white ash over the cracked earth. It was a wasteland of silence and sorrow—jagged cliffs hunched like forgotten gods, watching impassively as the figures below marched on in slow, hopeless procession.
They were no longer men and women, not in the way the world once remembered them. These were husks—captives, their faces hollowed by starvation and despair, their eyes wide and rimmed red from the bite of the cold and the memories that haunted them, their tails curled close to give a comfort that was non-existent. Shackles jingled like cruel bells, their iron music echoing against the mountain walls as the prisoners stumbled forward.
And above them, like wolves at a funeral, the Hyena Tracients barked and snarled, their voices sharp and guttural in the thinning air. Cloaked in furs and arrogance, they strutted alongside the columns of captives, their weapons drawn more out of boredom than necessity. One laughed—a sound like broken glass—as a prisoner slipped and fell to his knees, unable to rise again.
A whip cracked.
The man screamed.
Another guard leaned on his halberd, unfazed by the sound. "He won't last another ridge," he muttered to his comrade with a yawn, as if he were commenting on the weather.
"None of them will," came the reply. "They're already dead. They just haven't fallen yet."
At the ragged rear of the shuffling column, two figures loomed taller than the rest, wrapped in battle-worn armor and bearing the grim insignia of Razik's loyal enforcers. The first was hulking and broad, his body half-obscured by the fur-lined steel of his breastplate, the rank Özel #67 etched across his collarbone in deep violet markings. He walked with the kind of swagger that only brute strength—or unchecked cruelty—could breed.
Beside him, thinner and quicker-eyed, was Özel #95, a wiry silhouette with quick, twitching fingers that never strayed far from the hilts of his twin blades. Where #67 exuded dominance, #95 crackled with unease, every glance over his shoulder a subtle betrayal of his mind's unrest.
"Move!" #67 bellowed, striking his hammer against a rock as he trudged through the snow. "You think Razik cares if you arrive broken? We'll leave your frozen bodies for the crows if you lag behind!"
His voice echoed off the canyon walls, a harsh, metallic boom that startled even the wind for a moment.
The captives flinched. One female tracient whimpered softly, clutching a child to her chest. Others simply lowered their eyes, dull and lifeless, as though they no longer had the strength to react.
Then #95 spoke, low and sharp, like a blade sliding from its sheath.
"Quiet, you idiot," he said through clenched teeth. "You're going to get us all killed."
#67 rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand. "Please. The only thing out here is ice and ghosts. You've let those stories eat your brain."
#95's gaze darted to the ridgeline above, where pale snow clung to the black stone like old scars. His hand hovered near his blade. "This is ambush country. Narrow pass. Poor visibility. Too quiet."
#67 snorted. "Too quiet? What are you, a scout now?"
"I'm someone who prefers not to die in a ditch," #95 growled, his tone darkening. "You heard the reports. The Wild Tiger was spotted near the Akar Trees last week. That's less than ten miles from here."
A tense silence lingered between them. The wind whistled as if agreeing with #95's fears.
But #67 only laughed—a hard, barking sound. "You're still chasing fairy tales. The Wild Tiger is a campfire myth to scare rookies. A relic from a war that ended in defeat. He's dead. Or hiding, like all the other cowards. Either way, I'm not losing sleep over a bedtime story."
#95 said nothing at first, but his fingers flexed on his weapon hilts. Slowly. Deliberately.
"We've lost two scouting parties this month. No bodies. Just blood. Someone's out there. And it's not a coward."
A long pause followed, and even #67 seemed to feel it this time—the wrongness in the air, the weight of something watching. It wasn't just superstition. It was instinct. The kind that pressed into the chest and made the skin itch beneath armor.
Somewhere nearby, snow shifted unnaturally.
But neither of them noticed. Not yet.
Far above the trudging prisoners and the oblivious Özels, atop a crag veiled in mist and wind, two figures stood like sentinels carved from the mountain itself.
Lord Talonir, wrapped in a sweeping cape of shimmering black, brown and silver — that almost gleamed white—-feathers, remained still, his posture regal and calm even in the biting wind. He was like a monument of older days—weathered, unyielding, carved not merely by time, but by centuries of resolve. His eyes, narrow and glinting with quiet intellect, pierced the white valley below with the precision of a hawk.
Beside him stood another—taller, younger, and veiled in a cloak that clung to him like mist, obscuring most of his form save for the distinct silhouette of broad shoulders and a silent, tiger-like poise. The ledge offered them a perfect vantage, and for a long breath, they simply watched.
Below them, the prisoners staggered like wounded ghosts through the snow. The guards barked and cursed and rattled their weapons. But it was the Özels who commanded their attention—arrogant, overconfident, unaware of how fragile their safety truly was.
"They're within range," Talonir said at last, his voice carried gently by the wind. "We should move now, before they reach the pass."
The second figure didn't respond at first. His attention remained fixed on the valley floor. As the storm clouds parted slightly, his cloak shifted in the breeze, revealing striped fur beneath—orange marked with black, and thick around the shoulders like a warrior's mantle.
He took one step forward.
"There's no need," he said quietly, yet his words carried like the crack of a drawn bowstring. "I'll handle this myself."
Talonir turned toward him, studying the younger Tracient's face for a long, silent moment. Whatever he saw there—perhaps pride, perhaps fury, perhaps the burden of a personal oath—he did not challenge it.
He gave only a single nod.
"Do as you wish."
There was no more conversation.
And then he moved.
With a grace that seemed impossible for his size, the Tiger Tracient leapt from the ledge, his body slicing downward like a blazing comet drawn from the heavens themselves. The wind caught the folds of his cloak, spreading it like wings as he plunged toward the valley floor.
The moment he landed, the ground shook.
Snow exploded in every direction as his feet struck earth and stone. The sound of his impact echoed through the narrow gulch like thunder, silencing the guards, startling the prisoners, and driving a gasp from every throat.
Time froze.
#67 turned, eyes wide. "What the—?"
And then the shape stepped forward through the fog.
A tall figure cloaked in tiger stripes, single eye glowing faintly gold, muscles taut beneath sleek fur. His blade sheet glinted on his waist, behind his back, untouched yet heavy with promise. The snow hissed where his paw boots pressed, and the air around him pulsed—thick with the pressure of a Mana Reinforcement so refined it needed no announcement.
Not a guard dared move.
Not a soul dared speak.
And from the ridge above, Lord Talonir watched without expression.
The snow had stilled, and even the biting wind dared not howl. Time itself seemed to hesitate.
Below the crags, the procession of trudging captives froze as one. The Hyena Tracient guards, already unnerved, tightened their grip on their weapons. The Özels turned sharply toward the thunderous descent. Even the very ground, cracked and dusted with frost, seemed to remember who had landed.
From the swirling mist stepped a legend.
The Wild Tiger of Narn. A name once whispered as myth. Now walking forward with solemnity and wrath.
Kon Kaplan.
His presence wasn't one of dramatic flair or self-glorification—it was heavier than that. His every step thudded softly into the snow, yet it seemed to resound like a drumbeat of judgment through the hearts of those who dared stand against him.
His cape, stitched with the symbol of the Kaplan Clan—a great golden clawmark—fluttered behind him, torn and mended many times, a testament to battle past. The Hazël insignia upon his shoulder glimmered like molten light, and inside it, the number "4" gleamed sharp and proud. But it was his face that stilled all breath: yellow hair swept across a black eyepatch, his single remaining eye—scarred but clear—burned with focus.
He said nothing for a moment, letting them see him. Letting the truth settle like frost in their bones.
#95, the wiry one, stumbled backward, breath catching in his throat. The color had drained from his face. "The Wild Tiger," he murmured, as though trying to convince himself he was dreaming. "Lord Kon… Kon Kaplan…"
His voice barely reached the air before dying.
Kon's expression was carved from ice. No rage, no cruelty—just clarity. His eyes swept over the prisoners with the softness of recognition, then landed firmly on the two Özels at the rear.
"Özel #67," he called, voice firm and toneless. "Özel #95. Hand over the captives, and this doesn't have to get messy."
It wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a challenge. It was a choice—given by someone who already knew what decision they'd make.
#67 flinched as the name hit his ears, and for a moment, his mouth opened with no sound emerging. His hand, which had once held his blade with authority, now trembled as though it were a branch in the wind.
"Y-you think we're afraid of you?" he finally barked, voice shrill. "We'd rather die than fail Razik!"
But even as he spoke, the sound cracked at the edges. Kon could hear the cowardice thick in his blood, sense the shudder in his spine.
Still, perhaps for honor—or perhaps for pride that could not bear to shatter in front of his soldiers—#67 barked the command.
"Attack!" he screamed.
Like dogs unleashed, the Hyena soldiers surged forward, screeching and snarling, their weapons gleaming under the waning light. Snow scattered beneath their sprint, forming plumes behind them like ghosts trailing their last breaths.
But Kon didn't move. Not yet.
He closed his eye and drew in a slow breath—cool, crisp, laced with the scent of frost and blood. Then, with one smooth motion, he reached behind his waist and drew his blade: Yırtıcı.
The sword gleamed gold in the fading light, the kind of gold that spoke of memory—of a clan long fallen, and the burden borne by the last son. Mana stirred along its edge, not in an overwhelming flare, but in a quiet hum that vibrated deep into the bones of the earth.
"Kaplan Style," he murmured, as if speaking not to them, but to the ghosts who had trained him, fought beside him, and fallen before him.
His eye opened.
"First Claw: Yırtıcı."
The moment the words left his lips, a radiant arc of energy exploded from his blade.
The light screamed through the air—not in thunderous violence, but with the silence of inevitability. It moved like the judgment of the old gods—calm, swift, and absolute.
The valley lit up as if morning had come too soon.
The blast struck the charging army with the force of a divine gale. Not a single scream finished, not a weapon struck its mark. The Hyena soldiers, their courage crumbling mid-run, were swept up in the radiant whirlwind and cast aside like dry leaves before a firestorm. The snow melted beneath the shockwave, revealing blackened ground. Silence returned, but it was a silence now steeped in awe and terror.
And when the light faded...
There were none left standing.
#67 dropped to his knees. His mouth hung open, trembling. The sword he once clutched clattered to the frozen earth and lay still. He could not speak. Could not flee. Could not even weep.
Lord Kon sheathed Yırtıcı without a word. His footfalls were soft as he walked toward the prisoners, each step a verdict.
He did not gloat. He did not smirk. He merely walked forward.
The captives, though weak and beaten, stared with disbelief, their eyes wide and blinking against the light. Some whispered his name in awe. Others simply cried—not from fear or joy, but from the overwhelming relief of deliverance.
And still above, Lord Talonir stood on the mountain edge, his feathers barely fluttering, and watched as the legend proved true again.
The Wild Tiger had not come to wage war.
He had come to remind them that hope—however long buried—could still roar.
_____________________________________
The air still rang with the aftershock of Kon's blade.
But not all had fallen.
A sharp gasp broke the quiet as Özel #95, limbs trembling with instinctual dread, lurched forward and seized one of the captives—a hooded figure near the center of the line. With claws pressed firmly against the prisoner's throat, he raised his voice in desperation. It cracked with fear rather than fury.
"Stop right there!" he barked, breath coming in panicked spurts. "One more step and I'll—"
The words froze mid-sentence.
Literally.
His mouth remained parted, his pupils shrinking into terrified pinpricks. Around him, a soft shimmer had begun to spread—a translucent ripple, like light bending through water, encasing him and the handful of soldiers who had not yet fled. It was quiet, this magic—quiet and complete.
His minions halted where they stood, claws mid-motion, muscles stiff as stone.
Then, as if the wind itself carried the verdict, Kon's voice sliced through the stillness.
"INTERIUM: Sahte Hâkimiyet."
(False Dominion.)
The words were not shouted. They did not need to be. They were spoken the way mountains speak when they fall: calmly, inevitably.
#95's claws twitched helplessly against the captive's skin, his body locked in the firm grip of Kon's hold. The prisoner—still hooded—stumbled away as the grip fell slack, coughing softly, their voice ragged and hoarse. A thin line of blood traced the place where the claws had touched—but they were alive. That was enough.
Kon's boots whispered through the snow as he approached, his presence bringing both silence and resolution. There was no anger in his eye. Only judgment—and the resolve to leave no cruelty unaddressed.
When he stopped, only a few feet now separated him from the frozen soldiers. He did not draw his blade again.
"You're free to leave," he said simply, his voice neither cruel nor kind. "Disappear."
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then the shimmer broke.
As though a great invisible weight had lifted, the spell evaporated into the air like morning mist under sunlight. #95 gasped for breath as movement returned to his limbs. The other Hyena soldiers did not wait for confirmation—they turned, some tripping over their own feet in their haste, and fled into the snow-blown wilds like hunted prey.
No one followed them. Not even Kon.
The valley returned to stillness.
The wind, humbled by what it had witnessed, softened its cry. The snow, once a veil of death, now merely dusted the fallen and kissed the shoulders of the living. And the freed captives—wide-eyed and stunned—stood in silence, some weeping, others murmuring prayers to gods long forgotten.
Among them, a young child—no more than seven—clung to their mother's ragged cloak, their small voice whispering, "He saved us."
The battlefield had stilled. What moments before had been a scene of chaos, fear, and fury was now quiet—eerily so, like a storm holding its breath after the thunder has passed. The wind no longer screamed but sighed, sifting gently through the ruins of shackles and scattered weapons. And through that fading silence rose a different sound altogether.
Voices.
Not cries of pain or commands barked in anger, but grateful ones—soft, trembling, awash with awe.
The freed captives, as if rising from the very earth itself, began to approach the figure at the valley's center. Slowly, then all at once. Some stumbled, others ran. The weary and wounded pressed forward with trembling arms, murmuring thanks and praises like hymns. For many, it was the first time they'd been allowed to speak in days—weeks, even—and now their words spilled out all at once, as if their gratitude might protect them from ever being chained again.
Kon stood still in their midst, his presence quiet and immovable, like the last fire standing in a snowstorm.
"Please—" he raised a hand, his voice firm yet gentle, "you're safe now. Stay together. Help is coming. Do not wander."
His tone—authoritative but warm—cut through their emotions and anchored them. Slowly, they quieted, forming small huddled groups in the snow, eyes still fixed on the warrior who had shattered their nightmare in mere moments. Some sat, some wept, some prayed. But none looked away.
Kon, however, did.
His gaze had shifted—drawn by something subtle, instinctual. Not a voice, not a movement, but a presence.
A figure had not risen with the rest.
Curled in the snow just a few steps away, the hooded captive lay collapsed—motionless but breathing. The faint rise and fall of her shoulders was barely visible beneath the heavy fabric of her cloak. Without hesitation, Kon strode toward her and dropped to one knee. The harsh steel in his posture melted as he reached out.
"Are you alright?" he asked, voice low and—though few might have believed it—tender.
The figure flinched at his touch, then trembled.
"I… I think so…" came the reply, quiet as snowfall but unmistakably melodic. A young woman's voice, cracked with exhaustion, yet threaded with something stronger—resolve, perhaps, or sorrow that had not yet given way to despair.
Kon's hand moved carefully to her hood, pulling it back.
And then the world stopped.
Beneath the cloak of dirt and cold, her striped fur—dull though it was—bore the unmistakable markings of the Kaplan Clan. Tiger stripes. Her face, streaked with the remnants of tears, bore quiet strength in its fragile lines. And her eyes—oh, her eyes—gleamed amber through the filth and pain, catching the dying light like embers refusing to go out.
His breath caught.
She was like a memory made flesh—familiar and distant, real and unreal. For years, Kon had walked among strangers and enemies, never once seeing another of his kind. Not truly. Not since that day.
Yet here she was.
His voice, when it came again, had softened to a whisper he barely recognized. "What's your name?"
She looked up at him through blurred vision, her lips parting, her strength draining fast. "T… Tigrera," she managed, before her knees buckled and her body collapsed into his arms.
Kon caught her.
Without thinking. Without calculation. His arms moved on instinct, steadying her, cradling her against him. She was light—too light. Thin from hunger, trembling from more than just the cold. But alive. And a Tiger. One of his own.
He did not speak again. He couldn't. There were too many thoughts, too many emotions coiling tightly around his chest. He had prepared himself for enemies, for death, for battle. But not for this. Not for her.
'Tigrera.'
Her name echoed through his mind, reverberating through long-buried places he thought had gone silent. And beneath all else, like a thread being pulled from a tapestry, a strange sensation stirred. Not hope—not yet. But something like it. Fragile and dangerous. Something that felt warm and painful at the same time.
He did not let it rise. Not yet.
For now, he simply held her.
The snow whispered again, curling around them like a curtain. Behind Kon, the freed captives had begun to light small fires and tend to one another. Talonir stood at a distance, his feathered cloak ruffled by the wind, watching the two Tiger Tracients silently. He said nothing. He did not need to.
The Wild Tiger had found another flame in the darkness.
And deep beneath the snowbound silence, something ancient began to stir.
Narn was not finished.
Not yet.