Streets of Ravetham

Arian stood in the hallway, the cold blue light of his hovercar casting long shadows across the polished stone floor. His eyes caught movement—a flash of red, a pulse of life. Nason had arrived. Arian’s friend, if he could call him that, was a tad... well, stupid, to put it kindly. But Nason had his uses. His gullibility made him a perfect guinea pig for Arian’s many experiments.

Tonight, Arian had brought something special. He slipped a pair of sleek, black-rimmed sunglasses from his coat pocket—the Talk-in-Other-Language Shades. Arian smirked. The glasses would make even the illiterate understand and speak foreign tongues by showing the spoken words in flashes of mana, combining vision with ancient ritual. They were perfect for someone like Nason, who probably thought Latin was a type of pasta.

“Nason!” Arian called, his voice echoing down the cold, sterile halls.

Nason turned, grinning, his wild, untamed hair bouncing as he waved eagerly. “Arian! What’s up, man?”

Arian didn’t answer, just slid the shades onto Nason’s face with a flourish. The lenses immediately began to glow with a pulsating energy. Nason blinked, his eyes wide behind the dark glass as the magic of the shades kicked in.

"Try it," Arian urged, his voice low with barely contained excitement. “How do you feel?”

Nason’s face twisted in confusion, and then his lips parted as he spoke in a thick, awkward Jamaican accent. “Me seein' close, not open, but mi nah go close mi eyes, man! Mi white, devil, but inna really odd, alien way...”

Arian's smirk faltered as Nason rambled on, his words spilling out in a jumbled mess, the cadence alien even to him. Nason raised his hand and threw up a peace sign, grinning like an idiot behind the enchanted glasses.

Arian snatched the glasses off Nason’s face, his patience worn thin. The thrill of the experiment had dulled. Without thinking, he snapped them in half, letting the pieces fall to the floor. Nason barely seemed to notice, still waving his hand in a dazed peace gesture.

Before Arian could comment further, Xyra appeared, the green-eyed viper that she was, with More trailing behind, her face smeared with frosting. Xyra’s steps were deliberate, the very picture of manipulation in motion. She handed a piece of cake to Nason, who eagerly took it before offering it to Arian.

“I don’t eat that,” Arian said coolly, refusing the cake as though it were beneath him. “My diet involves... other things.”

His eyes drifted to the dark vials of pills he fabricated, tucked neatly in his coat pocket. His blood sang for them, but even more so, it craved something richer, more potent. He felt his heart stir. Blood. The thought made his mouth dry.

Xyra, always too perceptive for her own good, cocked her head to the side and asked, “Even on your family reunion, Big Brother?”

Her words sliced through him, leaving a bitter sting. She said it sweetly, like honey dripping from a blade, but he knew her games. Xyra’s manipulations were endless, always turning the smallest thing into her advantage. She knew how to dig under his skin, how to twist his desires into something twisted and grotesque.

And yet… he wanted the cake. His resolve faltered for the briefest moment, and in that instant, Xyra’s green eyes glittered, almost imperceptibly. Arian found himself taking the smallest bite from her slice. His senses exploded with sweetness, and before he realized it, he had taken another bite. And then another.

The realization hit him like a brick wall. His own mind snapped back to reality, and his hand froze mid-motion. Frustration boiled in his veins. Xyra had gotten to him again. Her spoiling nature, her manipulation. The sweet poison of her words had once more found its way into his heart.

Just then, Kaelen, their father, appeared, his presence as commanding as ever. He walked up to Xyra and took her hand, his eyes narrowing, though his voice remained deceptively calm.

“Not on family, understand?” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Xyra, ever the actor, batted her eyes at him and smiled innocently, the very picture of sweetness. “Here, Father, try some cake,” she cooed, holding the fork toward him.

Kaelen paused for a moment before patting her head, his eyes softening. “You’re such a sweet girl. Enjoy your dessert. I’ve already had my fill... with seeing you all finally.”

Arian’s fists clenched at his sides. Jealousy roared within him, dark and bitter. Why was it always Xyra? Why did she always command their father’s attention so effortlessly? The bitterness gnawed at him, deepening the pit inside his chest.

Before Arian could dwell on it further, a strange sight caught his eye. Celesse entered the room, riding on her mother’s back. Mira, in her druid lycanthrope wolf form, padded silently into the room, her fur glistening under the dim light. The scene was bizarre—a twisted mockery of a child’s game. Celesse, perched on Mira’s back, held a goblet filled with more blood wine, her eyes gleaming with pride. She was pleased with herself, basking in her own sick, perverse sense of satisfaction.

Selene walked beside them, her face emotionless as she devoured a slice of cake, her movements almost mechanical. Arian watched her with a mixture of disdain and fascination. It was all too much, the overbearing presence of his siblings, the grotesque display of power and manipulation, the sheer chaos that was his family.

Celesse handed the chalice to Kaelen, looking pleased with herself, a twisted sense of accomplishment in her expression as her mother prowled silently beside her. Kaelen took the blood wine without hesitation, not even acknowledging the gruesome spectacle of it all.

Arian watched the scene unfold, a sickening sense of alienation tightening around him. His family—his twisted, broken, manipulative family—was a puzzle he couldn’t solve, and no amount of genius or inventions would ever fix it.

He was alone. And no one cared.