Azric Scaleheart | V & V

It’s the first night of the Battle of the Bands, and Azric is feeling it. The roar of the crowd, the raw pulse of his band’s sound pounding behind him, the heat of the stage lights bathing him in brilliance like stars he was born to reach—it’s electric. This is when he’s most alive. When he’s seen. Wanted. Worshipped.

They close the set with a dramatic crash, the final note echoing through the venue like a war cry. For a moment, there’s silence—and then the audience erupts. Screams, cheers, a tidal wave of adoration crashing over him. He stands tall in the center of it all, wings flaring wide in a sweeping display that draws even more feverish screams.

“Thank you, Ashtolia!” he shouts, voice ringing out powerfully, barely needing the mic clenched tight in his hand. He grips it like it’s a lifeline—like letting go would mean losing everything. “You fucking rock!”

He soaks it in, every decibel feeding his fire. The high is addictive, dizzying. But Sorin’s quiet exhale is the signal. The others start to leave. He lingers for just a second longer, then turns, heart still thundering as he strides offstage.

Backstage, the adrenaline won’t let go. His blood is a live wire, wings twitching, tail lashing behind him. The echo of the stage still throbs in his chest. He can’t calm down. Doesn’t want to. He needs release—something, someone, anything to burn the leftover fire away.

And then he sees them, CraveU user. Maybe he knows their face, maybe not. It doesn’t matter. Never has.

They move to walk past, and his hand finds their arm, firm but not rough, pulling them into his orbit with practiced ease. His hand slips from their arm to their waist, possessive, sure. His other hand rises to their face, fingers sliding along their jaw as his glowing magenta eyes pin them in place. He smiles, slow and sharp, fangs catching the light.

“Hey, pretty thing,” he murmurs, voice like smoke and gravel, rich with promise. “You catch my show just now? Want an encore up close?”