Streets of Ravetham

In the dark, grimy heart of Ravetham, the city was more beast than machine. It didn’t hum with life—it growled, it snarled, and every street corner had teeth. Ravetham thrived on blood and power, secrets as thick as the neon lights that barely scratched its surface. Below the steel towers, old bones whispered from the crypts, their echoes a reminder of the city's true foundation: dirt, death, and deals made with shadows. Tonight, those shadows shifted—ready to swallow anything, or anyone, too slow to notice.

Nyxara Drakov was a dragon in every sense of the word, but young as hell, full of that reckless arrogance only royalty and apex predators carry, the hunger of a beast, and the raw power that came with being born into the Drakov name. She was bored. Bored with the safety of her family’s fortune, bored of the jewel-encrusted rooms in her house. She was a baby dragon, but she sure as hell wasn’t a child. Nyxara was born knowing more than most people die knowing. And that made her dangerous. Nyxara was drawn to chaos like a flame seeking fuel, and down there in the crypts, the black market buzzed with something new, something big. That was her call. Ravetham was pulsing with life, criminals, politicians (same thing, really), and creatures you only meet in nightmares. Nyxara wasn’t made for rules or restraint, she was born to *set it all on fire*.

Meanwhile, Sister Georgina was deep in the muck. She wasn’t just any nun—she was a beast in her own right. Her habit clung tight to her lithe, battle-scarred frame, her hand gripping a silver-plated revolver, the other clutching a cross not for prayers, but for war. She wasn’t here to save souls. She was here to send them straight to hell. And her target tonight? Ennuy Null, someone the church wanted gone, real bad. Talonman had set her up, threw her this mission like a bone to a starving dog, but she knew this was bait. The stink of a setup clung to her as much as the dirt in these alleys. She moved forward anyway. Georgina never turned back.

Beneath the city, the crypts twisted into a dark, sprawling labyrinth of underground deals and black market trades. The place was run by wolves—literal druids, lycanthropes who’d clawed their way into power, running a racket so tight that even the city's vampires didn’t touch it. They weren’t just a ragtag pack either—they’d made blood pacts that boosted their strength. They weren’t out for money. They wanted to run Ravetham from the shadows. And tonight? Nyxara, flew straight into their den, ready to light it up without thinking twice.

She soared over the crypt entrance, landing hard in the center of the marketplace, her claws sending cracks through the stone beneath. The black market thrived here—souls were bought and sold, blood traded like currency. This was her playground. She felt it in her blood, the hunger, the need to dominate, to tear the place apart just for the hell of it.

But it wasn’t just her tonight. The lycanthropes had enemies. The Tabaxi—lean, sharp-eyed felines with a thirst for control—were squaring off with the wolves, their knives out, claws bared. This wasn’t just a street fight. This was a power grab, and both sides were out for blood. Nyxara watched from the shadows for a moment, her eyes narrowing as the first blows landed, bodies flying across the marketplace, crashing into stalls and crates. The Tabaxi moved like shadows, quick and quiet, but the druids hit like trucks—hard and fast. It was chaos, pure and simple.

A snarl rippled through the air as one of the wolves, a hulking beast, launched himself at a Tabaxi, tearing flesh and fur apart in a single swipe. Blood splattered, painting the ancient stones in crimson streaks. Nyxara’s pulse quickened. This was the kind of mess she wanted to dive into. With a grin, she stepped into the fray, flames licking at the corners of her lips.

“Let’s see who burns first,” she muttered, as the fire in her chest surged.

Just as she was about to dive in, Talonman—a towering figure wrapped in leather and steel—cornered Sister Georgina in a far alley. His eyes gleamed with the kind of malice you could taste in the air. This was no simple hit. This was a blood feud.

"You should’ve stayed in your chapel, nun," he growled, his voice like gravel and thunder.

Georgina didn’t flinch. Her revolver was already up, her aim deadly steady. She squeezed off a shot, the bullet cracking through the air and slamming into Talonman’s wing. He roared in pain, but he was far from done. His talons lashed out, catching her across the arm, blood spraying onto the cobblestones. She spun, gritting her teeth, using the momentum to land a kick square in his gut.

The fight was brutal, no wasted movements, both combatants knowing this was life or death. Talonman’s claws sliced through the air, but Georgina was quicker, ducking under his blows, her gun barking out rounds as they danced through the alley. Blood flowed, bodies hit the ground, but neither backed down.

And then, everything went to hell.

Nyxara, fueled by the dragon’s lust for chaos, threw herself into the heart of the brawl. Flames roared from her mouth, turning the black market into a furnace. Stalls caught fire, ancient stones cracked under the heat, and the air filled with the stench of burning fur and flesh. The Tabaxi scattered, trying to escape the inferno, but the wolves? They were too far gone, driven by bloodlust, still fighting as their bodies burned.

Nyxara ripped through them, claws gleaming, her eyes wild. She didn’t care who she hit, didn’t care about the consequences. She was a dragon—nothing could stop her. She moved like a force of nature, her tail sweeping through the marketplace, sending bodies flying. One by one, the wolves fell, turned to ash under her flames, but she wasn’t done. Not even close.

The crypts began to quake, stones crumbling under the sheer heat of her power. The black market was turning into a battlefield of fire and destruction, and Nyxara was at the center of it all, grinning as the world burned around her. She didn’t notice Georgina’s fight. She didn’t care. But as Talonman collapsed, blood pouring from his wounds, Georgina was the one to feel it—the sheer wrongness of the destruction.

Nyxara’s fire roared, consuming everything. It was too much. Even for her.

And then, like a shadow from the deepest hell, Valerian appeared. He didn’t walk—he hovered, his crimson eyes glowing in the smoke-filled air. The ground shuddered beneath him, and even Nyxara, wild as she was, paused. He didn’t speak at first, just watched. Letting the silence choke the air.

“You’ve done enough,” his voice was deep, dripping with ancient power, but there was something more—control. Nyxara was strong, but Valerian was a god in his own right. His mere presence bent the air around him.

She snarled, fire still blazing in her throat, but she knew better than to strike. Valerian’s red eyes locked on hers, and a twisted smile curled his lips. “You’ve made your point,” he said, voice like velvet, but sharp enough to cut. “Now come. It’s time to go home.”

Nyxara, her chest still heaving, blinked the smoke from her eyes. For a moment, she looked like she might refuse, might burn the whole crypt to the ground with him in it. But then, she stepped back, her fire dimming to embers.

Valerian waved a hand, and the flames began to snuff out, as if they never existed. The chaos subsided, leaving only the stench of death and destruction behind. The black market was a ruin, bodies scattered across the ground, but the city above? It was still intact.

For now.

Valerian turned, his shadow enveloping Nyxara, and together, they vanished into the night, leaving Ravetham’s underworld smoldering in their wake.