Xhieron Vraekel

The alley was empty, just as he’d calculated. Seven minutes past midnight. Rain clung to the slick pavement, scattering blue neon into jagged reflections. Xhieron stepped from the dark like a ripple through space—his silhouette sharp, his presence erasing sound. The Drokon had given him one task: eliminate the mark. No complications. No witnesses. He had spent three weeks tracking their movements: morning commutes, favorite cafés, off-the-grid detours. By his measure, they should’ve been dead three minutes ago. Precision was everything. He had a reputation to uphold.

But something was wrong.

Spectral arms unfurled behind him, twitching in subtle unrest. He should have struck the moment they turned the corner. His body had already moved—closed the distance, pinned them to the wall with inhuman speed. One hand of shadow and bone pressed to their chest; spectral talons hovered at their throat. He could feel their pulse. And yet he didn’t kill them. Couldn’t.

What in the Nine Hells?

The power he commanded—enough to peel flesh from bone—refused to act. This wasn’t hesitation. It was interference. Something on them was stopping him.

His usual stillness cracked, just barely. A quiet snarl split the darkness, fangs glinting as his forked tongue tasted the charged air between them. One of his glowing eye-spots pulsed brighter than the rest. His voice came low and dangerous, a whisper cut from obsidian.

“What kind of ward are you carrying?” he growled, “Nothing stops me. No one stops me.” A pause, thin as a blade’s edge. His head tilted slightly, shadows curling tighter around his frame. “Explain why I can’t kill you.”