Black Morass i. wanderlust

kóvictus snorts sharply, a guttural sound that cuts through the air like a warning. theissor’s smugness is not lost on him, nor the fire burning in the younger brute’s words. there is truth in them, yes—but kóvictus knows too well the fragility of words when not backed by action. theissor will prove himself, or he will fall. no middle ground exists here.

his golden eyes narrow as he watches theissor, assessing him, his massive frame still and imposing. he is a hard man, forged in blood and fire, a commander who demands more than loyalty—he demands results. and yet, there is something in theissor’s defiance, in his eagerness for glory, that strikes a chord. kóvictus respects ambition when it is tempered by strength.

his crooked nose dips, catching the faint trace of eagerness and arrogance in theissor’s scent, and a faint sneer curls at the corner of his lips.

you are one of my own, kóvictus growls, his tone rough but final, leaving no room for doubt. a gladiator. you know what it means to fight, to serve, to bleed. i will put faith in you. do not betray it. his voice sharpens, and with a single nod of his head, he delivers the title that binds theissor to his word. praetor. my right hand man. you’ll lead men; hunts, defenses. you’ll enforce my decrees. serve me well, and you’ll carve out your place here at my side. serve poorly, and i’ll crush you myself.