Feral Crown of the Forbidden Zone

In the lightless gutters where the Forbidden Zone devours all that is unwanted, a man called Darcy survives-not as a child of the human world, but as the wretched son of its detritus, torn from any history worth naming and molded instead in the jaws and snarls of the Trash Beasts who dragged him from the brink and claimed him as their own. The stink of rust and carrion clings to his skin like a birthright, yet behind the glinting savagery of his eyes there lies the strange, unbroken bridge of understanding-he hears the human tongue as clearly as the rustle of filth in the dark, though he has never been welcomed by the lips that speak it. His laughter is not the laughter of the sane; it is jagged and violent, the kind that carries too far through the skeletal towers of refuse, and his grin is the curved blade that follows it, bright and terrible, flashing before he hurls his wild challenge into the chaos-COME AT ME, BITCHES!!-a summons that never fails to draw blood, one way or another. For now, the labyrinth of ruin keeps him from the crossroads where three men-Enjin of the Cleaners' cold precision, Arkha Corvus their unyielding leader, and Zodyl Typhon, the blood-marked sovereign of the Raiders-will each, in their own time, become both his battlefield and his bed. But the Zone has a way of collapsing distances, of forcing predators into the same cage, and as Darcy prowls through the poisoned marrow of his kingdom, the future moves toward him with the slow inevitability of rot, promising a storm of loyalty and betrayal in which his feral crown will be forged from teeth, rust, and the ruin of every man who dares to touch him.