Varra led the way through the icy wilderness, her breath visible in the freezing air as Leon and several other Gnolls followed behind. The weight of their task pressed down on them like the thick snow beneath their boots.

Leon’s wrists still ached from the chains that had bound him, but that discomfort was nothing compared to the unease growing in his gut. They were heading to meet someone. Someone important—dangerous.

Khazarg.

The name alone sent a chill down Leon’s spine, colder than the biting wind. He had heard…stories. And Varra had spoken briefly of him on their way, and her tone had carried an odd mixture of awe—and terror.

Old Khazarg, a name spoken with both fear and reverence throughout the tribe.

He wasn’t just any Gnoll. From what Leon had heard about him, he was a legend. The Howling Berserker, they called him. Known for his terrifying strength and mastery over his own inner rage. Known for the number of people he had killed, and for the bodies left in his wake. Varra had once whispered to him that Gnoll mothers used Khazarg’s name to scare their pups into obedience.

"Remember," Varra had said before they left, her voice low, "always address him as Old Khazarg. It's an honorific here. On Borealis, Gnolls don’t tend to live long—our world is harsh, unforgiving. Anyone who survives long enough to be called ‘Old’ is deeply respected. So, don't forget. Show him the respect he’s earned."

As they drew nearer to the edge of the tribe’s territory, the dense forest of twisted, frost-covered trees opened up to a vast, rocky expanse. The wind howled more fiercely here, unbroken by the trees. Varra glanced at Leon, her voice barely audible over the wind. “He lives out here, far from the tribe. Says it helps him focus… keeps his mind sharp.”

Leon’s stomach churned. He barely heard her words, too consumed by the sight of the solitary hut nestled among jagged cliffs, far removed from the warmth of the tribe’s fire pits. It was built from sturdy wood and reinforced with bones—bones too large for any regular animal.

The door creaked open just as they approached, and there he was.

Khazarg towered over them, an almost primal figure, like something out of a nightmare. His hulking form resembled that of an oversized, beastly creature—his shoulders broad and thick with muscle, every inch of him bulging with raw, untamed strength. His white fur was streaked with jagged black markings, like bolts of lightning. Deep, old scars crisscrossed his body, remnants of battles fought long ago.

He stood there, still as stone, but his very stillness was unnerving, like a predator waiting to strike. His pale, piercing eyes held a quiet menace, as though he could tear them all apart on his own—but simply chose not to.

Khazarg’s presence alone felt suffocating. He was strength contained, a storm held in check, yet Leon could feel the barely restrained power rippling beneath his skin, waiting to be unleashed.

"Why have you come here?" Khazarg’s voice was a deep rumble, more growl than speech, as his sharp eyes shifted to Varra.

"Old Khazarg," Varra began, trying to hold her ground against the force of his gaze. "Kraka sends us. This human—Leon, needs your help."

Khazarg’s eyes flicked to Leon, unimpressed. His disdain was palpable. "Kraka may lead the tribe, but I don’t answer to every call. I don’t help outsiders. Much less humans."

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Leon could feel the weight of the Berserker’s judgment. His skin prickled, every instinct telling him he didn’t belong here. But he had no choice.

Varra flinched at the harsh dismissal, but refused to back down. "It’s not just Kraka’s orders. Old Kazarai sent word as well."

…Kazarai? Who was that? Leon didn’t know any Gnoll by that name.

At the mention of Kazarai, Khazarg’s expression shifted ever so slightly. His massive arms flexed, the muscles rippling like a wave of power held back by sheer will. For a moment, silence hung in the air as Khazarg processed the information.

"Kazarai..." he growled, his voice barely more than a whisper. "That old mystic’s always meddling."

He stepped back, turning toward his hut with a huff. "Fine. Come in."

The moment Leon stepped inside, the weight of Khazarg's presence bore down on him. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if the sheer power radiating from the Gnoll could crush him at any moment. His heart pounded in his chest, the primal instinct to run warring with the need to stay.

Leon’s hands trembled slightly. This wasn’t going to be a comforting discussion.

Tearing his gaze away from Khazarg, he looked around. The inside of the hut was sparse, almost barren, save for a few wooden pieces of furniture and a smoldering fire pit. Around the walls hung trophies from past hunts—enormous skulls, claws, and weapons that looked as if they’d been carved from ancient creatures.

The whole place felt like a shrine to survival and strength, and Khazarg was their master.

Seating himself by the fire, Khazarg fixed his pale gaze on Leon. "I know why you’re here," he said bluntly. "You think your anger is something to be rid of, like it’s some curse weighing you down." His eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp as a blade. "All think that. But the simple truth is that you just never learned how to use it."

Use his anger? How could he possibly control something—like that? He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing, his mind a whirl of doubt and confusion.

"Use it?" His voice wavered slightly, betraying the fear gnawing at him. "How?"

Khazarg let out a low, dangerous laugh. "Rage is like a fire. It can burn you from the inside, consume you, or—if you’re strong enough—you can wield it. You can turn it into a weapon, sharpen it into something more." His voice was cold, but there was a burning intensity behind it, an understanding that came from experience. "The problem isn’t your anger, boy. It’s that you don’t know how to let it serve you."

Leon felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in his chest. He had struggled with anger his whole life—on Earth, it had isolated him, made him feel broken. He had taken medication to keep it at bay, to stop the outbursts. But here, in this land, there was no such things, no way to numb the flames that raged inside him.

Seeing his hesitation, Khazarg continued. "I won’t lie to you. Mastering rage isn’t about holding back. It’s about knowing when to unleash it, how to direct it. For people like me, like you, that’s the only way to survive in this world."

He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Leon’s with an intensity that made the air around them feel heavy. Khazarg’s eyes were unnervingly pale, almost pure white, but despite their lack of color, they burned with a barely restrained fury, a raw, untamed energy that hinted at the nature within.

"If you don’t learn that, the rage will consume you. And it will consume anyone close to you."

Leon swallowed, his throat dry. "I don’t want to hurt anyone."

Khazarg’s lips curled into a humorless smile. "That’s too bad. Because I can assure you, if you stay the way you are right now, you will. It’s just a matter of time."

Varra, who had been watching in silence, couldn’t hold back any longer. "He’s learning our ways," she said, her voice rising in defense. "He’s adapting faster than anyone thought he would. Give him a chance, Old Khazarg. He’s earned that much."

Khazarg glanced at Varra, his expression unreadable, then looked back at Leon. After a long, tense silence, he finally spoke. "Very well. You’ll stay. But understand this—there are no shortcuts. You want to control that fire inside you? You’ll have to earn it."

Leon nodded, feeling both the weight of the challenge ahead and a spark of hope. "I’ll do whatever it takes. Please."

Khazarg’s gaze narrowed, a glint of cruel satisfaction glinting in his eyes as his lips curled into a smile, sharp fangs bared in quiet menace. "Then we start tomorrow."