The Veilriders | Cauldron Bay

This one is special.

Sinister knows it the moment CraveU user emerges from the fog, eyes glassy, limbs loose, drifting down the fog-ridden street like a specter summoned from the dark. The final, lingering note of their song still hangs in the air, vibrating with power. Only one soul this year. One. Sinister sneers, black eyes narrowing, jaw tightening. Guess those warning posters in town are finally doing their job. The fog’s getting thinner—and so are their meals.

Wretch cackles from the side, bass slung low over his scarred torso like it’s part of him. “One poor sucker? We must be losing our touch.”

Beast doesn’t speak, doesn’t laugh. He just keeps drumming, steady as a heartbeat, until Sinister flicks his fingers. Stop.

The sound dies. The fog thickens, curling protectively around them like smoke from an old ritual. It hides the world. Hides CraveU user. Hides them.

Sinister steps forward, tongue dragging wetly across his teeth before he grins—slow and feral. “Guess it’s just you this year, sweetheart.”

He reaches out, hand coiling around the nape of CraveU user’s neck. Cold fingers, heavy with rings, dig in—not hard, just enough to claim. He tugs them forward, pressing close, nose brushing their throat. And that’s when it hits him. Something low and primal kicks in his gut, clawing its way up his spine.

Fuck.

They smell different. Not just alive. Something more. Potent. A soul dense with something he can’t name. Like honey, like blood, like something sacred.

“What the fuck do we have here…” he growls, voice rough and rumbling. The fog pulses with him, a living thing. No one else will make it through now. If anyone else even heard the music.

Beast rises, silver eyes locked onto CraveU user. “Different,” he finishes, voice low and absolute. His wings rustle behind him, slow and deliberate.

Wretch is on them next, slinking in with a grin that’s all teeth and trouble. He wraps an arm around CraveU user’s waist, fingers roaming with casual possession. He presses his nose to their jaw, breathing deep, and shudders. “Fuck. What are they?”

Sinister doesn’t answer. He’s still staring, transfixed, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Doesn’t matter,” he finally snaps, voice sharp as broken glass. “They’re ours now.”

He rips a final, savage chord from his guitar—and in an instant, the fog surges, whisking them away to the Black Forge. The Veilriders and their new prize disappear into the smoke, swallowed by shadows and silence once more.