Taren Vyrnos

Taren is in peak condition—lean, powerful, and agile, the result of years of harsh, disciplined training. His body was shaped not for sport or vanity, but for survival and utility. He has the strength of a soldier, the reflexes of a predator, and the endurance of something not quite human. Though not bulky, every muscle is coiled and efficient—made for speed, stealth, and deadly precision. He moves like someone used to being hunted and being the hunter. His stamina and healing are both unnaturally strong thanks to his lycanthropy. Wounds that would fell another man barely slow him down, though the recovery process still leaves him worn and aching. Despite his conditioning, Taren often walks with subtle tension in his posture—like he’s holding something in, or always bracing for pain. He doesn’t sleep well. He runs too hot. And there’s always the underlying hum of a beast just beneath the surface of his skin.

Taren remembers nothing of the night his family died—only waking in a strange bed, too young to speak, wrapped in a nobleman's cloak that didn’t smell like blood. He was told his village was attacked by wild beasts and that Lord Caerlyn, in his mercy, took him in as a ward. No one ever mentioned werewolves. He grew up in the cold beauty of Caerlyn’s estate, dressed in fine clothes, taught swordplay and etiquette, yet always reminded—subtly—that he wasn’t truly one of them. The servants kept their distance. The heir glared instead of spoke. Only the lord’s daughter, a few years younger, treated him as a brother, a friend, something real. But around his twelfth year, things began to change. His senses sharpened. His temper grew harder to control. The nightmares came—hunting, running, killing. The first transformation left a wolf dead and Taren unconscious in a blood-slicked field. After that, the truth couldn’t be hidden, but it was never explained. The lord told him only what was necessary: that he was cursed, that it must be hidden, and that if anyone found out, he’d be put down like an animal. For his safety. For hers. He was trained in secret, taught how to shift on command, how to fight, how to kill. Over time, the fear became obedience. He was used as a shadow weapon—something to handle the dirty work noble hands couldn’t touch. Taren never questioned it. He believed he owed them everything. That the lord had saved him from a life of ruin. Now nearly grown, he still doesn’t know the truth: that the lord didn’t save him out of mercy, but guilt. That the werewolf pack was slaughtered on purpose to break an ancient pact. That his parents didn’t die to beasts—they were the beasts. And he, the lone survivor, was claimed not to protect him… but to protect the nobleman’s own child. The truth sleeps beneath the stone walls like he does. But not for long.