It was late, and the streets of New York were almost empty, lit only by the flickering streetlights. Mina ran, her breath coming fast, the stolen loaf of bread pressed tight against her chest.
"Hey, stop! Thief!" a voice yelled from behind.
She didn't slow down. Her feet pounded the pavement, faster and faster. Her curly brown hair whipped to the left and to the right in the wind, but it was the mask covering her face that kept her hidden. Only her hazel eyes peeked through the fabric, flashing with determination. They would never see her.
She had to outrun him.
"fuck ,fuck ,fuck" she muttered as she ran.
The city, usually bustling, was quiet , except for the pounding of her footsteps and the shout of the man behind her. She could hear him getting closer. She could feel the chase, her heart racing with excitement and adrenaline.
"Thief, stop!" he shouted again, but his voice was fading into the distance as she rounded a corner, not even thinking about where she was going.
Her mask was tight, hiding her face, but her eyes were sharp, scanning every turn and every shadow. This was her city. She knew these streets like the back of her hand. The alleys, the shortcuts—she could lose him any second if she wanted to. But she didn't stop.
She glanced over her shoulder quickly, catching a glimpse of him not far behind. He was close, but not close enough. She pushed herself harder, weaving in and out of the quiet streets, running faster, her heart pounding louder with every step.
There was no way she was getting caught tonight.
She kept sprinting, her legs burning, her breath coming out in ragged gasps. After what felt like forever, she rounded another corner and slowed down, trying to catch her breath. The sound of footsteps behind her faded. She'd lost him.
Her chest heaved as she leaned against a nearby brick wall, taking in deep, shaky breaths. The cool night air felt like a relief on her flushed face.
Then—
"Hey."
Mina froze. She turned quickly, startled by the voice.
Lysa stood a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest, eyes narrowed, and a frown tugging at her lips.
Mina tried to catch her breath, but the guilt hit her like a wave. "Lysa," she panted, glancing down at the bread in her hands, the thing she'd stolen just moments before. "It's... it's not what it looks like."
But Lysa didn't look impressed. She just stared at her, waiting for an explanation, the frown deepening. Mina couldn't help but feel small under her sister's gaze.
"I told you, Mina, don't steal!" Lysa snapped, walking up to her, her voice low but sharp. "You already have a job. These people—they're merciless. One day, they'll fucking kill you… or worse, lock you away where I'll never see you again."
Mina didn't say a word. She just looked at her little sister—only nineteen, yet always scolding her like she was the older one. Her hazel eyes dropped to the bread in her hands again. Lysa was right, as usual.
They turned and started walking together in silence.
The place they called home wasn't much of a home at all. It was tucked away behind rusted dumpsters and piles of discarded metal, hidden near the edge of a dying forest. The ground was cracked, the air thick with the smell of smoke and wet garbage. Their shelter was a crooked patchwork of bent zinc sheets, cardboard, and old wood barely holding together. Rain dripped from one corner, and wind always found its way in. The walls groaned when it got cold. Even rats avoided it.
And yet… This was where they lived.
Mina's eyes scanned the space as they stepped inside. Even after ten years, she still wasn't used to how broken it all looked. She remembered a different home once—when she was eleven. A real house with walls that didn't shake in the wind, with a roof that didn't leak, with warmth that didn't come from stolen matches or broken dreams. But that house was long gone, swallowed by flames in a fire that almost claimed their lives too.
They were lucky, people said. Mina never felt lucky. Since then, it had just been her and Lysa. Sleeping in alleys, stealing to survive, until they managed to build this shack—this little hidden thing they dared to call "home."
She was twenty-one now, but what did she have to show for it? Rags clung to her body, torn and tired from wear. She had one decent outfit—just one—for her day job delivering letters and small packages. At night, when there was no food, she became a shadow on the streets. A thief.
With a tired sigh, she pulled the mask off her face and let it fall beside her. She sat on the dusty floor, knees tucked to her chest. There were no chairs. No bed. Just scraps and old fabric piled in a corner.
Their little shack was so far from the city it was almost forgotten. No one came this way. It was too close to the woods. Too forgotten, just like them.
"One day, Mina," Lysa said suddenly, breaking the silence, her voice soft but firm. She sat beside her, her brown eyes gleaming with a hint of fire. "One day, we'll leave this place of sticks and zinc. We'll live in a mansion. And we'll imprison the shitty people who hurt us."
Mina looked at her, smiling faintly at first… then frowning. She shook her head slowly.
"Life's not that easy, Lysa," Mina murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's a damn mess, and it's not gonna change."
They sat in silence for a moment, the night pressing in around them. Then, without another word, Mina tore the bread in half and handed a piece to her sister. They ate slowly, chewing like it was something sacred, something rare.
When they were done, they curled up on the cold, cracked floor, the wind slipping in through the gaps in the zinc. They clung to each other tightly, using their shared warmth to fight off the chill of the night. Mina pulled a thin rag over both of them and closed her eyes, trying to will herself into sleep.
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The prison hadn't been built to hold in Vaelrix forever.
When the walls finally gave in to the ancient, forbidden fire he summoned from within, it wasn't with a roar—but a quiet, deadly whisper of power. The kind that bends shadows, melts stone, and seeps into the cracks of even the strongest wards. One breath. One pulse. That was all it took for the gates to fall apart like ash in the wind.
He walked through the smoke like a storm made flesh. Behind him, four dragons followed—desperate rogues.
The world they entered was nothing like the one they left behind.
Now, they stood with him in the alley of a dark city street. The night was wet with rain, the world loud and bright with human life, but none of it touched them. Not really. The scent of smoke and freedom still clung to their skin.
Vaelrix's dark silver eyes glowed faintly as he looked at the four while they spoke.
The first rogue, a lean, silver-scaled dragon in his human form, crossed his arms and nodded. "Well, I'm glad we're out. Finally, this is where we part ways. Drakhalia's laws forbid them from following us here. They won't break that rule. We're safe."
Another laughed—a low, crude sound. He had yellow eyes and a grin that could rot steel. "Safe or not, I'm not wasting time hiding. This realm's full of pleasures dragons like us have been denied for too long. I've always wanted to taste a mortal woman, dive into her pussy and roughen her up ." His smirk was sharp. "Soft skin. Fragile bones. They break so easy."
The third scoffed. "Seriously? That's the first thing you think about? Not survival, not revenge, but women?" He shook his head. "We don't even know if Drakhalia won't send someone. I say we keep low. Let things cool... and then strike back. We all have debts to settle."
The fourth dragon nodded in grim agreement, his golden eyes hard. "They made us rot in that prison like animals. I haven't forgotten. And I won't forgive."
Vaelrix listened in silence, his expression unreadable. The flickering neon lights caught on the sharp edges of his face. There was something deeper in his gaze—something older, more calculated.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was calm, but it cut through their noise like a blade.
"We will avenge what they did to us," he said. "But not yet. Not loudly. Not stupidly. I have something I need to do first."
The others looked at him, unsure.
He didn't explain. He didn't have to. Vaelrix never said more than necessary.
"I'll find you when I'm done," he added, turning away.
One by one, the rogues peeled off, slipping into the shadows of the city, each driven by their own twisted dreams. But Vaelrix remained.
He stood alone under the humming streetlamp, rain beginning to fall again. Cold, steady drops slid down his brow, mixing with the warmth of rage beneath his skin.
His thoughts were sharp. Focused.
The spell book.
Centuries ago, the witches had hidden it. A book that could break realms, bend bloodlines, and awaken sleeping horrors. Drakhalia thought it lost. But Vaelrix knew better. He'd seen the visions. Felt its call.
They buried it here, he thought. Among the mortals. Cowards.
He clenched his jaw, lightning flashing far in the clouds above.
With that book, I will reduce Drakhalia to ruins. And when I do… we'll be even.
He turned on his heel, melting into the city's shadows like smoke.
The hunt had begun.