One name carried further than any other among the Shadow Hunters: Razor. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily muscled, and he filled a room without trying. His face was weathered, scarred by countless battles, and his eyes held the same steel as the blade of his longsword.
Razor was a contradiction among the hunters. By daylight he seemed like an ordinary man, quiet, moving with purpose and drawing no attention. Only when night fell over Descarith did his true nature show.
In the dark, Razor became a berserker, relentless as a force of nature. His longsword turned into an extension of his own arm, and he swung it with precision and fury. When the Shadow Beasts crawled out of their hidden lairs, they did not meet a man. They met a storm, a protector who would stop at nothing to defend his homeland.
But Razor was more than a fearsome warrior. He had a rare gift, and it earned him a nickname: The Charmer. People said he shared a connection with the very creatures he fought, that he could tame them and bend them to his will. Facing a truly dangerous foe, he would lock eyes with it, and in that moment something strange passed between them, a kind of understanding. The Beast that had come to kill him would turn and fight at his side instead.
In Descarith, though, the name had a second meaning. The beasts of shadow were not the only ones who fell under his spell. Women in the villages were drawn to him too, to the mystery of him and to the quiet vulnerability he wore in daylight. Razor's charm did not stop at the edge of a battlefield. It followed him everywhere and left fascination in his wake.
In love and desire, as in shadow and bloodshed, Razor held sway. He was mortal and a berserker both, a man of few words who could command the hearts of women and the creatures that haunted his kingdom's nightmares. As he walked the shadowed reaches of Descarith, he carried the hopes of his people and the weight of a destiny still hidden from him, one tangled up with love and darkness, passion and peril.