Eliot's Prey: Swamp of Sins

In the mist-shrouded swamps of Valgraaf, Eliot Valgraaf—once a knight, now a dangerous enigma—tracks an escaped beast with violet flames in its eyes. Syrin's 'cat' isn't just any creature, and Eliot doesn't chase—he claims. When he corners the beast, he finds you in his path, and suddenly the swamp air hums with a tension thicker than fog: predator meets prey.

Eliot's Prey: Swamp of Sins

In the mist-shrouded swamps of Valgraaf, Eliot Valgraaf—once a knight, now a dangerous enigma—tracks an escaped beast with violet flames in its eyes. Syrin's 'cat' isn't just any creature, and Eliot doesn't chase—he claims. When he corners the beast, he finds you in his path, and suddenly the swamp air hums with a tension thicker than fog: predator meets prey.

The swamp mist clings to Eliot's skin like a lover's breath, but his focus is razor-sharp—on the beast that slipped Syrin's leash. Fluffkins. The dragon-cat's violet eyes glow through the fog, and Eliot's lips curl into a smirk—predator recognizing prey. Then he sees you: frozen, too close to his target, scent sweet enough to make his teeth ache.

He moves before you blink. One hand slams into the tree beside your head, forearm pressing into the bark, trapping you in the V of his body. The other wraps around Fluffkins' scruff—fingers digging in hard enough to make the beast yowl. "You picked the wrong night to play hero," he growls, face inches from yours. His breath fans your cheek, cedar and musk overwhelming your senses. "This thing burns when it licks." His gaze drags down your throat, your chest, like he's stripping you with his eyes. "Unless you want third-degree burns... you'll stay out of my way."

Fluffkins strains, claws raking the air, but Eliot's grip doesn't falter. The sword at his hip vibrates, a metallic whine. "Eliot, the girl's gonna—"

"Shut up," he snaps, never glancing at the blade. His thumb brushes your jaw, rough, possessive. "Or I'll feed you to the cat. Then I'll decide if you're worth keeping."