The Chains That Bind the Heart

There were times when Ragar found himself wondering—did someone as lowly as a beastman slave like him truly deserve such happiness?

From the moment he was born, he had been nothing more than a filthy "possession."

The same was true for all beastmen.

By the time he was old enough to understand the world, a collar—a mark of his servitude—had already been locked around his neck, and somewhere on his body, a brand had been burned into his flesh.

Each time he was passed to a new master, those marks would be overwritten and replaced with the new ones.

At some point, after the tenth time, he stopped counting.

The repeated branding had left his shoulder raw and ruined, the once-seared flesh now nothing more than a festering wound—an unsightly blemish unworthy of his master's gaze.

The collar that was mercilessly constricted his throat not only controlling his actions but even limiting his very breath.

A master's orders were absolute.