Chapter 2 Frostborn Legacy

In the shadows of our modern, neon-lit world, monsters are not nursery tales told to frighten children into obedience; they are the heavy, breathing remnants of legendary existences that once ruled the earth. According to the forbidden archives—hidden deep within the vaults of those who fear the truth—a colossal predator once roamed the primal world. He was a wolf whose fur reflected the cold, unforgiving shimmer of a winter moon, a titan whose very breath could freeze the heart of a sun.

Legend says this beast of destruction and rebirth once carved the great ice mountains of the East with his claws, creating a sanctuary of frost for his kin. That primordial entity bore a name that still carries a weight of ancient terror: Vance.

Revered in the dawn of time as the Frost-Vein Wolf by forgotten tribes who offered blood and bone to appease his hunger, his legacy was eventually smothered by the turning of centuries. His myth was systematically eclipsed by the rise of the modern supernatural order—the sleek, corporate vampire dynasties and the organized shifter clans that now pull the strings of Noctaria from their glass towers. To the world, the Frost-Vein Wolf is a ghost, a bedtime story for the weak.

But blood does not forget. In the veins of his few living descendants, the frost still burns, a dormant volcano of ice waiting for the right moment to erupt. The ancient prophecy, etched in the marrow of the first wolves, remains clear: The true heir will return when the world has forgotten how to fear the dark, and on that day, the foundations of the earth will tremble.

"Haaa… well, at least I tried."

Eric Vance’s voice was a low rumble that echoed off the metallic walls of the nearly empty monorail cabin. He leaned his head back against the vibrating seat, closing his eyes for a fleeting second. Every fiber of his muscles screamed in protest, still burning from the brutal, four-hour workout he had forced himself through at four in the morning. For Eric, sweat was the only currency he had left to pay for his discipline.

Lacking both the time for a real meal and the money to afford one, he gripped a plastic cup of cold crème brûlée brew. It was his only luxury, a sugary hit of caffeine intended to keep his hands from shaking during the most important hour of his life. He was heading toward the beating heart of the city’s power: the headquarters of the Draven group, housed within the architectural titan known as Eternity Tower.

‘The cold wakes me up… it reminds me of who I am,’ he thought, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the cup. To him, the cold wasn't just weather; it was a familiar friend, a reminder of the heritage Gilbert had hinted at but never fully explained.

Around him, the low murmurs of the other passengers pulled him from his dark reverie. Two men in cheap office wear were whispering, their faces pale with a kind of communal anxiety that seemed to infect the whole city.

"Did you hear about the Wood family?" one whispered, leaning in so close Eric could smell his stale coffee breath. "They say they were wiped off the map in a single night. Not just killed—erased. Their entire fortune, their digital assets, even their household staff. Just... gone."

"I saw their daughter the other night," the second man replied, his voice trembling. "She was wandering the outskirts of the slums. She looked unhinged, violent. She was dressed in rags, screaming at shadows as if they were trying to peel the skin off her bones. The police wouldn't even go near her."

"The city is going crazy…" the first man sighed, nervously adjusting his tie as the monorail began to screech against its magnetic rails, slowing down.

Eric listened, his gaze lost on the passing skyscrapers that sliced through the smog of Noctaria like obsidian knives. Mysterious disappearances and the fall of minor noble houses weren't just rumors anymore; they were the daily reality of a city governed by hidden predators.

‘I have to land this job,’ Eric thought, a sudden pang of desperation hitting his chest. ‘Gilbert is getting worse. He doesn’t have the strength to protect the house anymore, and I won’t let him die in that dump.’

He checked his cracked terminal one last time. The news feed was dominated by a single image: the CEO of Scarlet Rouge. She was a brilliant young woman, an heiress whose business genius was said to be matched only by her reputed cruelty.

‘She’s barely my age, and she owns the skyline. While I’m counting pennies for a coffee,’ he noted with a sting of envy. ‘I have to work ten times harder just to stand in her shadow.’

[Welcome to Noctaria Central. Next stop: Eternity Tower. Please prepare for departure.]

"My turn," Eric muttered, standing up. His tall, broad-shouldered frame seemed to fill the cabin, making the other passengers instinctively pull their legs in.

The sticky, oppressive humidity of April 2026 enveloped him the moment he stepped off the platform. The air in Central was different—thick with the scent of expensive ozone and the faint, metallic tang of blood that always seemed to linger near vampire-controlled territory. As he approached the gleaming base of Eternity Tower, he realized with a jolt of annoyance that he was still holding his empty plastic cup.

He scanned the pristine, white-marble plaza. There wasn't a single trash can in sight. In this district, perfection was mandated, and trash was apparently expected to simply vanish.

Upon entering the monumental lobby, Eric felt less like a job seeker and more like a wolf caught in a gilded cage. The ceiling soared hundreds of feet above, covered in gold leaf and intricate carvings of predatory birds. The air-conditioning was set to a glacial temperature, exactly how he liked it.

The lobby was crawling with "elites"—men and women in suits that cost more than Eric’s apartment, all of them looking at him as if he were a smudge of dirt on a diamond. The only person available at the high-gloss front desk was a blonde woman with piercing, cat-like eyes. She was wearing a vibrant red jacket that screamed for attention, a sharp contrast to the clinical white of the room.

‘An intern trying too hard to be noticed,’ Eric judged internally, his pride bristling.

"Hi, I’m Eric Vance. I’m here for the final round of the interview process..." he began, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Mr. Vance, hand over your authorization form and go wait in the West Wing hall with the others," a secretary in a sharp black suit snapped from beside the blonde, not even bothering to look up from her screen.

Eric felt the dismissive tone like a slap. He ignored the secretary and turned his full attention to the girl in the red jacket, who was staring at him with a look of pure, unadulterated boredom.

"Excuse me, Blondie," Eric said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, dangerous growl. "Where’s the trash can in this place? I've been carrying this cup for three blocks."

The young woman slowly raised her head, her eyes locking onto his. Her gaze wasn't just arrogant; it was one of absolute, divine contempt, as if he were a particularly uninteresting insect she was considering stepping on.

"Why would I waste a single breath answering a guy wearing a two-dollar suit?" she asked. Her voice was melodic but laced with a poison that made the air around them feel even colder.

Eric’s jaw tightened. He had spent his last savings on this suit. He had spent two years of his life working double shifts to keep Gilbert alive. He didn't have time for the whims of a corporate brat.

"Look, don’t get hysterical over a plastic cup," Eric countered, leaning over the desk to invade her personal space. "Just tell me where to throw this. I don't give a damn about your opinion on my clothes, but that jacket you're wearing? It’s honestly ridiculous. You look like a fire hydrant."

A deafening silence fell over the lobby. The secretary froze, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. The air seemed to hum with static electricity, and for a split second, Eric thought he saw a flash of crimson in the blonde girl’s eyes.

Without losing his cool, Eric reached out and firmly shoved the empty, sticky cup into the paralyzed young woman’s hand.

"Hold that for me, would you?" he added with a sharp, fearless grin.

Without another look, he handed his form to the trembling secretary, gave her a polite, mocking wink, and walked toward the West Wing with the stride of a man who owned the floor.

‘I hope they train their interns in basic manners before letting them near actual people,’ he thought, his heart thumping with a mix of adrenaline and the realization that he had probably just ruined his chances. But it felt good. Better than he had felt in months.

Eric’s broad, powerful back retreated into the sea of candidates. At the desk, the staff seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. The air temperature in the lobby dropped another five degrees.

"Give me his damn file. Now."

The voice of the girl in red, Catherine Draven, no longer sounded bored or melodic. It was a cold, sharp blade—the voice of a queen who had just been spat upon in her own court. Her hand closed around the plastic cup, and with a sickening crunch, she crushed it into a shapeless piece of waste. With a flick of her wrist, she hurled it against the far marble wall, where it shattered like glass.

She snatched the digital tablet from her secretary’s shaking hands, her eyes scanning the data.

"Ah… Eric Vance. So, the mutt finally decided to show his face," she whispered, a predatory, almost sensual smile stretching across her red lips.

She watched him through the security feed as he took a seat in the hall, looking entirely too comfortable. He had no idea that he hadn't just insulted a "blonde intern." He had just challenged the Sovereign of the Tower herself.

"Miss Draven... should we have security escort him out? Should we cancel?" the secretary stammered, her face white as a sheet.

"Certainly not," Catherine replied, her voice smooth again, but twice as dangerous. "I’ll interview him myself. Personally, this Vance is going to become my personal squire, whether he likes it or not. He thinks he’s a wolf among sheep?"

She stood up, her red jacket fluttering like a battle cape.

"But… he insulted your design! Your personal fashion line!" the secretary cried.

"Exactly!" Catherine exclaimed, a dark light dancing in her eyes. "That mutt is going to learn that no one—absolutely no one—disrespects a Draven and walks away with their pride intact. I’m going to break him, strip that arrogance right off his bones... and by the time I'm done, he’s going to love every second of his leash."