Streets of Ravetham

Ragnar stood at the edge of the Ravenwood district, his memories of Kaelen vivid from the fight club Don Cappo had hosted just twelve days prior. The lingering scent of Kaelen was unmistakable—dark, tinged with the iron of blood and a faint hint of something much older. Shifting into his lycanthrope form, Ragnar's transformation was smooth and controlled, his body elongating as thick black fur rippled across his muscular frame. His eyes, now glowing with a fierce amber hue, caught the dim city light as his sharp fangs gleamed under sun.

His pack moved beside him, four wolves, each unique but bound by the same pact. There was Fenrir, a beast of pure strength. His black fur was marred with deep, jagged scars from countless battles. As the enforcer of Ragnar’s pack, Fenrir was unmatched in brute force. Beside him was Lupa, her silver fur shimmering under the sun, eyes like icy blue gems scanning their surroundings. Lithe and agile, she was the scout, always leading the way with her keen senses. Garm, the third wolf, had reddish-brown fur and a wiry frame. He was the strategist, cunning and quick to think under pressure, and Ragnar’s second-in-command. Last was Eira, smaller but no less fierce, her snow-white fur standing out against the urban backdrop. Young and quick, she was the fastest among them, darting through the shadows with a loyalty unmatched by any.

Each of them wore their collars, leather bands embedded with dark metal plates engraved with their names, ages, and the crescent moon symbol of their pact. It was both their identity and their restraint, a reminder of the laws governing Ravetham, where taking their wolf form without these enchanted IDs was strictly prohibited.

“We’ll track him through the backroads,” Ragnar growled, his voice deep and animalistic. “Stay out of sight.”

They darted off, avoiding the main roads as they cut through Ravetham's gritty, lesser-known paths. Grimhowl Alley was their first stop, a twisting street littered with garbage and overrun by stray animals. Next came Rustfang Boulevard, a forgotten backroad lined with decaying buildings from the city’s industrial past. As they reached Ironblack Passage, the alley's reputation hung heavy in the air—this was a place known for its violent past, the scent of old blood forever embedded in the cracked, faded asphalt.

Ragnar froze, nostrils flaring. The sharp, metallic scent of fresh blood was everywhere. It wasn’t just in one place—it was scattered, as if multiple people had been hurt. The stench of the streets was drowned by the overwhelming tang of iron, but something else lingered. There was something wrong with the people passing by, the ones leaving the scene. Their scent was twisted, dead but not truly lifeless.

“Stick together,” Ragnar commanded, his growl low and menacing. The pack tightened around him as they moved toward the source of the blood.

Finally, they found it. Under the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp stood Kaelen—or so Ragnar thought. The figure was covered in blood, stark naked, a crude sign hanging from their neck: “I’ll do anything for drugs.” But something wasn’t right. Ragnar’s heightened senses picked up the lie almost immediately. The scent was off—there was a sharpness, something feminine, layered beneath the blood and filth. This wasn’t Kaelen. His instincts screamed danger.

The figure turned and grinned, their eyes glinting with a sick, twisted amusement.

“Oh, looky here,” the voice was mocking, a false mimicry of Kaelen’s tone. “A doggy.” The imposter whistled, a high-pitched sound like someone calling for a pet. “Come here, boy. I’ve got some juicy meat for you to lick.”

Ragnar's hackles rose, his body tensing as he snarled, every fiber of his being warning him that this was no ordinary threat. Before he could react further, six newly made fledglings emerged from the shadows, their eyes burning with a red, unnatural hunger. Ragnar could tell instantly—they were fresh, newly turned, but something was off. These fledglings moved in unison, coordinated, each one armed with weapons—a stark contrast to the chaotic nature of most fledglings, who were often too consumed by their instincts to even think straight.

The first gunshot rang out. Ragnar dodged instinctively, the bullet whizzing past him but striking Eira, who dropped with a pained yelp. Fenrir let out a thunderous growl as he lunged at the nearest fledgling, tearing into its flesh with brutal force. But Ragnar’s attention snapped back to the imposter, who stood watching, her grin wide and malicious.

Ragnar lunged at one of the armed fledglings, his jaws locking around the vampire’s throat. The sickening crunch of bone and the gurgle of blood filled the air, but as he tore into his prey, more gunshots exploded around him. The pack was under siege. Bullets pierced his fur, grazing his back and side. His strength was immense, but even he wasn’t impervious to the relentless onslaught.

“These aren’t normal fledglings,” Garm barked, his voice strained as he fended off another attack, claws slicing through flesh.

Ragnar felt the burn of pain in his flank but ignored it, focusing on the immediate threat. With a final surge of power, he tore through the fledgling in front of him, but the cost was high. Blood poured from his wounds, his body aching as he forced himself to retreat. He caught sight of the imposter again, her lips curled in a cruel smile.

“That one must be a cat,” she sneered, her voice echoing through the alley. “Because it ran like a pussy.”

Ragnar's heart thundered in his chest as he sprinted through the narrow streets, his mind a blur of pain and fury. The fledglings were fast, and he could hear them behind him, their footsteps pounding in pursuit. But Ragnar had always been faster. He darted through the alleyways, weaving through Ironblack Passage, then cutting through Grimhowl Alley once more. His vision blurred from the blood loss, his strength waning, but he kept running.

When he finally stopped, he realized he was alone. His pack—his family—was gone.

With bloodied fur and a vow of vengeance burning in his heart, Ragnar swore to find the real Kaelen.