"We are not monsters, son. But the world will always call us that. So let them. What matters is that we never bow to anyone."
When Darien closed his eyes, he could still hear his father's voice. That low, deep rumble, like the growl of thunder in the distance. Years had passed... no, centuries, but he never forgot it. Maybe because it wasn't just a simple piece of advice for him.
According to the stories, The Mighty, a divine force that existed and created this world in the first place, made the decision to restore balance after witnessing the chaos caused by humankind's greed, which was destroying the land like rot.
So they poured the essence of the strongest beasts into chosen humans, fusing claw with conscience, instinct with intellect. Lions, wolves, dragons, serpents, each became a lineage of its own. Guardians, protectors. Beastmen.
For a while, it worked.
Humans built temples in their honor, carved statues of their forms, even left offerings at their feet. Darien's ancestors, his people, were worshipped as children of the sky, the dragons whose wings shielded valleys from storms and whose fire purified the plague that devoured forests.
But worship has a strange way of turning sour.
Praise turned to awe, awe to fear. And fear? That always turned into hate.
Humans saw Beastman as demons in disguise instead of guardians when they lost control. There were whispers here and there then the first war soon followed.
The stories were reversed by the time the first war's great fires burned. Beasts instead of protectors. cursed instead of blessed.
The Mighty had gone silent. Beastmen fought to show they weren't disguised demons, while humans fought to survive. And somewhere in between, both sides lost something irreplaceable.
Flying through that war was something Darien recalled. His roar shook the bones of both men and monsters, and his wings tore through the clouds. He had witnessed brothers turn against one another for shards of faith and cities fall like ash.
The war ended, or so the records said. But peace? That never really came. It just changed shape.
Even centuries later, Darien still wondered if the silence was punishment or surrender.
He remembered the second time he'd been called a monster.
On the northern border, a human village had been attacked by a rogue pack of Beastmen. Mostly wolves. Half-mad, half-starved. Before the humans retaliated, Darien had led a unit to stop them.
It wasn't a battle that ensued. It was a massacre. The smell of iron and burnt fur filled the air. It was ruins, not dawn, that gave the forest its red glow.
He ripped through them in his dragon from, flames melting the ground, wings slicing the storm. Even though they were his kind, the lights had vanished from their eyes, leaving behind voids of hatred and hunger.
He didn't stop until the forest was silent.
A human general had spat the word right in his face after a battle. Darien had been standing in a field of bodies, the stench of blood thick in the air. The general's men had fallen to rogue Beastmen, Darien's own kind, who'd turned feral and gone on a rampage. He had led the counterattack himself, sending the traitors up in their own flames.
"Monster," the general said. "You killed your own."
Darien had smiled, a small, cold curve of his mouth. "And you kill yours every war," he'd said. "We're not so different."
The man never spoke again.
When the smoke thinned, he stood among the wreckage. His scales fading, bones cracking, body shrinking until he was human again. The shift always left him hollow, raw. His feet sank into darkened soil, still warm from his fire. Around him lay the corpses of those he was meant to save.
And gods, he hated himself for it.
"Do you ever get used to this?"
The voice came from behind. Theron, his second-in-command. A leopard-born, scarred and too proud for his own good.
Darien didn't turn. "No."
"Thought so." Theron kicked at the dirt, then hesitated. "You know, for someone who claims to hate conflict, you sure know how to make an entrance."
Darien exhaled, smoke still curling from his mouth. "They were killing civilians."
"Yeah, I saw that. You also burned half the forest." Theron grimaced. "Including my favorite den."
Darien half-smirked, though his eyes didn't match it. "You'll survive."
"Barely," Theron muttered, then went still. "Uh… Darien, not to ruin your moment, but could you… maybe put some damn clothes on?"
Darien blinked, looked down. Oh. Right. Naked.
Clothes never made it through the shift.
Theron tossed him a bundle of black fabric without meeting his eyes. "Please. For both our sakes."
Darien caught it easily, one brow raised. "Embarrassed, Theron?"
"Embarrassed?" Theron scoffed, turning away. "No. Just… it's bad for morale, you standing there looking like some mythic statue of sin while I'm covered in mud. It hurts my ego."
Darien chuckled under his breath"I'll keep that in mind."
"Yeah, you do that," Theron said, then paused, more quietly, "You did what you had to."
Darien said nothing. He only covered himself with that fabric. The scent of blood clung to his hands. No matter how much he washed, it never quite faded.
When Theron finally walked away, Darien looked up. The horizon was gray. The world was quiet.
He whispered, almost to himself, "We are not monsters."
But even as he said it, he wasn't sure he believed it anymore.
Years blurred. Wars turned to treaties, treaties to silence. Cities rose, old ruins crumbled beneath skyscrapers.
And the Beastmen learned to hide.
They wore human faces now. Took human jobs. Pretended to live human lives. But their blood was still wild. Their instincts, the hunger, rage, those things never left.
Darien had adapted better than most.
Ispire Inc. started as a business venture, then became something else, a sanctuary. A place for Beastmen who wanted a life among humans and work rather than hunt like how it used to.
If the world only saw another billionaire CEO in Darien Dravik, that was fine by him. It was easier that way.
He'd built his empire with the same discipline his father had taught him. Never ever bow. Not to hunger, rage, or even to love.
Love, he thought with a faint, almost ironic smile, was the worst of the three.
The old belief said that every Beastman had a mate. Not just any partner, but one chosen by fate, a bond written into their very souls. The elders referred to it as their "other half."One who could calm the beast, strengthen their power.
It sounded foolish now. Romantic, even. But Darien had seen it happen.
He'd watched them and their mate reunite after decades apart, both trembling, their beasts quiet as lambs for the first time in years. He'd seen a serpent-born fall to his knees before a woman who'd simply touched his face.
He never said it aloud, but a part of him envied them. Not the romance of it… hell no, Darien didn't believe in that kind of softness, but the peace.
He had searched, once. In the early years. Thought maybe the bond was hiding, or maybe the Mighty had made a mistake.
But the centuries came and went, and the emptiness stayed.
No flicker, spark, pulse of recognition. Nothing like that.
At some point, he stopped looking. Love, like war, was a human luxury. He had other things to protect. Other monsters to fight.
His own beast was silent now, yes, but not because it was calm. Because it had grown used to the cage.
Theron used to tease him about it.
"Maybe your mate's just hiding from you," he'd said once, pouring himself a drink. "Can't blame her. You glare like a thundercloud half the time."
Darien had given him a look. "I prefer solitude."
"Sure you do." Theron grinned. "And I prefer celery over steak."
Elio had chimed in from across the room, wings fluttering lazily. "You're too much, Dari! Everyone dreams of finding their mate. But you're not?"
"Dreams are for those who can afford to sleep," he'd replied.
They'd laughed, but Darien hadn't joined them. He wasn't bitter, not really. Just… detached. He'd stopped expecting fate to care a long time ago.
Sometimes, on nights when the city lights flickered against the window glass, he'd catch his reflection and barely recognize the man staring back.
The eyes were his father's, silver-gray, sharp. The rest was armor, the tailored suit, the calm and posture.
He didn't care what the world called him anymore. He'd played the roles they needed.
And love…?
He glanced once more at the skyline.
Love was a luxury. A distraction. Something people clung to when they didn't have kingdoms to build or wars to survive.
No… Darien Dravik didn't need a mate or love.
He'd endured without it this long.
And he would again.