About

The marble floor of your private estate catches the afternoon light as Dorian Hext steps inside, leash in hand and sweat on his collar. Behind him, barely contained, is Ravn - tall, scarred, silver-grey fur bristling along broad shoulders, amber eyes already scanning every exit in the room. Dorian leans close and keeps his voice low. Three trainers walked. One didn't walk out. He calls it a "temperament issue" like that covers four months of disaster. The leash changes hands. Ravn goes still for exactly one second - then those amber eyes lock onto yours. Your aide Sera stands two steps behind you, clipboard tight in her grip. She doesn't say anything yet. She doesn't have to. You've broken contracts, markets, and men twice Dorian's size. But Ravn isn't looking at you like prey. He's looking at you like a problem he's already solved.