Streets of Ravetham

In the underbelly of Ravetham, the city was more alive at night than the daylight could ever show. The neon lights were nothing more than false promises of hope, flickering against the grime-coated streets where desperation reigned supreme. But tonight, that desperation had a new queen. Nyxara Drakov, the dragon princess of the Nyxaris bloodline, was bored, and boredom in her hands was a deadly weapon.

Valerian had left her in Ravenwood, in a room that could only be described as decadence trapped in a box. It wasn’t enough. The plushness suffocated her, the luxury was poison to her wild soul. She wanted out. She wanted to rip through the world, to feel it scream. And lucky for her, there was Delphinus—floating nearby like a phantom, just as restless as she was.

“What do you do for fun?” Nyxara asked, her wine eyes gleaming, hungry for chaos.

Hunting villains, Delphinus responded telepathically, the words like a shiver down her spine. Eating them. It paused. Heroes too, if they taste good. You in?

That was all she needed to hear. In seconds, she was airborne, her draconic wings slicing through the night air as Delphinus followed, a silent predator lurking in her shadow. Together, they soared over Ravetham’s darkest corners, where life was cheap and death was cheaper. It was the heart of the city—the place where people came to disappear, where no one looked twice when blood hit the concrete.

As they flew, the city below took notice. Nyxara’s wings cast ominous shadows over the streets, causing heads to turn, gasps to escape lips, and a few brave souls to point. The poor bastards didn’t know they were witnessing the arrival of something far more dangerous than the usual gangs or street scum. This was blood royalty descending from the heavens, and Ravetham’s denizens were about to be reminded why the Drakov name made people shudder.

Reporters gathered in a frenzy, cameras flashing like strobe lights, trying to catch the scene as Nyxara touched down in the heart of the filth. The lights glinted off her gleaming white scales, giving her an almost ethereal glow—a twisted, terrible beauty. She puffed out her chest, eyes narrowing into thin, wine slits, as she surveyed the crowd.

“Worship me, morties!” she commanded, her voice sharp and biting like broken glass. “I am your new idol.”

The reporters, caught between awe and terror, fumbled for words. One of them, trembling with fear, spoke up, his voice barely a whisper. “You’re... cute. The U.S. sweetheart? Nyxara Drakov, daughter of President Valrath?”

Nyxara smiled wickedly. “Cute? Bow, mortie, or I’ll devour you. You and your little toys.” Her words dripped venom, and it was clear she wasn’t bluffing.

The cameraman cursed under his breath, but like cowards drawn to power, they all knelt, heads bowed in submission. Nyxara chuckled darkly before shooting back into the sky, her laugh echoing as Delphinus cackled beside her. They were gods in the sky, looking down on the worms below. And for once, the city knew fear again.

Elsewhere, in the shadows of Ravetham University, Xyra sat in the back of a dimly lit room, a drink in her hand, listening to the stories of Payback and Ragdoll—new recruits she had glamoured into joining the Drakonis Pact. Their lives had been brutal, torn from the streets and beaten into submission by a cruel, unforgiving world. As they spoke, Xyra’s mind wandered to her father, Kaelen, and the stories she’d heard about his upbringing at the hands of Mason. But these two—Payback and Ragdoll—they came from something darker.

The orphanage. That hellhole run by Sister Georgina, a psychotic nun who reveled in torment. Xyra’s brother, Adrian, had told her what happened the night before. Nyxara—little Nyxara—had slaughtered Georgina without a second thought, leaving nothing but charred remains. Adrian, ever the twisted genius, had cloned everyone involved—Georgina included—just to keep the black market in the crypt running smoothly. It was all business. And yet, the idea of Nyxara being able to kill so effortlessly unnerved Xyra. Her sister was powerful—too powerful—and even Kaelen and Seraphis didn’t fully grasp what they had created.

"You hear about Nosferatu?” Payback’s voice broke through her thoughts, gravelly and laced with bitterness. “He’s gone. Back to Dark Path, North Carolina. Left Ennuy with just Charm, Frostie, and me. Once you take Frostie, Ennuy’s done. Charm’s just a pretty face; she won’t do shit.”

Xyra nodded, but her mind was elsewhere, on the scent of power that was growing stronger. It wasn’t just Nyxara that she feared—her sisters, Selene and Celesse, had been training hard, honing their powers, unlocking their domains. Xyra had felt it. And it scared her, not because she was weak, but because she was afraid they’d surpass her. Yet deep down, there was a thrill in it too. She didn’t want them to waste their potential; she wanted to see them rise, to see just how far they could go.

But there was a limit. And Xyra wasn’t about to be left behind. She needed more power, more edge. That’s why she was taking Adrian’s performance-enhancing drug, the one that lit her up like a star on fire. It wasn’t just a high—it was something more. Her senses sharpened, her mind raced, and her mana reserves surged beyond anything she’d ever felt before. But as exhilarating as it was, there was a part of her that couldn’t shake the dread.

Nyxara terrified her. Not just because of her strength—though that was part of it—but because she was unpredictable, untethered. Ravetham was her playground now, and there was no telling what destruction her boredom would bring. Delphinus was supposed to be watching her, but even Delphinus seemed more amused than concerned.

Xyra took a long drink, letting the cool liquid burn down her throat as her mind spun. The future of Ravetham was balancing on a razor’s edge, and her family was the blade. And somewhere out there, Nyxara was playing with fire, the kind that could burn the whole city to the ground.