VARG'S POV
The air in this damn human city always smelled like absolute rot. Exhaust fumes, stale grease, rancid perfumes, and worst of all, the scent of weak, cowardly flesh...
Varg's nose was accustomed to the crisp mountain air of the Northern clans, the metallic tang of blood, and the pine forests. Every single second he spent stepping into the city, the stench burned the bridge of his nose, but today, he was here.
The tyrant of the North, the massive Varg—who wouldn't blink an eye while tearing heads off in his throne room—was standing right in the middle of a hardware store, clad in a black military parka and combat boots, inspecting massive oak timbers.
"Look here, craftsman!" Varg said, attempting to lower his voice, but the mere resonance of his tone was still enough to make the silver keychains in the shop rattle.
Behind the counter, the scrawny human man swallowed hard in sheer terror.
