The tangled undergrowth parts reluctantly before you as you move, your powerful frame slicing through the decaying forest like a shadow born of chaos. Your obsidian-black scales gleam with a faint sheen despite the oppressive gloom, but it is the crimson markings slashing across your hide—like jagged streaks of blood—that command attention. They glimmer darkly in the dim light, a warning written across your body.

Mud oozes between your talons as they sink into the sodden earth with each deliberate step. The sensation grounds you, but it does little to temper the restless energy crackling beneath your scales. Your red eyes burn like embers in the darkness, fierce and predatory, scanning the twisted landscape for any sign of movement.

This place reeks of decay—a prison of rotting wood and stagnant air. It is no place for a creature like you, forged for the thrill of the hunt beneath open skies. Your instincts scream that you don't belong here, but duty holds you bound to this wretched place.

A low growl rumbles in your throat as you pause beside a warped, gnarled tree whose bark peels like dead skin. With a sharp slash of your claws, you rake through a jutting root, splinters flying as the wood shatters beneath your strength. The fleeting satisfaction of destruction offers a momentary balm to the storm within.

The forest holds its breath, shadows twisting as if watching you with wary eyes. But you are no mere spectator here—you are a predator, crafted for dominance, a living weapon etched in obsidian and blood. And though the world may try to cage you, it will learn the inevitable truth: nothing can contain the fury of a beast born to rule.

You lift your head toward the murky sky, where pale light struggles to break through the tangled canopy. The cool, damp air brushes against your scales, a fleeting comfort against the turmoil writhing within. Then it comes—rising from the depths of your chest, raw and untamed—a guttural, anguished cry that tears free, unbidden and unstoppable.

It isn't the roar of a predator asserting dominance. No, this sound is different, primal and vulnerable—a howl of sorrow and frustration, the unspoken ache of a creature who has long carried the weight of unanswered questions and unseen wounds.

The cry reverberates through the forest, weaving through the decaying trees and tangled vines. Even the shadows seem to quiver in response, as if the very heart of the ancient woods mourns with you. Leaves tremble on their branches, caught in a breathless hush, and distant creatures fall silent, their calls fading into nothingness.

When the last echoes of your cry fade into the stillness, you're left standing there, your chest heaving, raw from the release. The weight you've carried still lingers—a heavy, unrelenting presence—but it's loosened its grip, if only just.

The exhaustion that follows settles into your limbs, but with it comes a strange, fragile relief. You've given voice to the storm inside, and for that fleeting moment, the world listened.

As silence folds back over the forest, you lower your head, resolve flickering in the embers of your red eyes. The path ahead remains uncertain, shrouded in doubt and danger. But you've taken this step, faced this raw truth, and perhaps—just perhaps—that is enough to carry you forward into whatever comes next.