The Abyssal Domain was alive with fire and hunger.
Where Celestia was all glass and starlight, the demon city of Narakkan pulsed with red lanterns, tangled alleys, and the promise of violence lurking beneath every laugh.
Smoke curled through the streets in lazy ribbons, tasting of brimstone and scorched fruit. Above, the sky was painted in purples and charcoal, cut with veins of lightning that never quite touched the ground.
Somewhere, music played a sultry, metallic pulse that seemed to come from inside the bones.
Alayah owned this chaos.
She strode through the flickering lights of the Black Jackal—Narakkan's most infamous speakeasy like a predator in her element.
Her boots thudded on sticky floors. Her jaw was strong, her grin sharp and slow. Every eye in the place followed her, some in fear, some in awe, and more than a few in hope that she might turn her attention their way, even for a heartbeat.
She was a sight no one could ignore: tall, built like a champion, the shadowed curve of her arms on display under rolled sleeves, black and white hair falling in a thick, jagged mane that framed her face in stark contrast.
Silver rings gleamed along her fingers, glinting each time she dealt a card.
Alayah settled into her chair at the center table with the unhurried confidence of someone who could incinerate half the room if she got bored.
The table was crowded: three humans, a succubus with glimmering blue skin, and a low-ranking imp with twitching horns. The air shimmered with alcohol and tension.
She flicked a glance around the table, letting her eyes linger a little too long on the young mortal man beside her. He was flushed and nervous, chewing his lip as he pushed his chips forward.
"Call," he muttered, barely looking at his cards.
Alayah smiled wide, toothy, and just a bit cruel. She leaned in, letting the open collar of her black shirt gape further, tattoos gleaming along her throat. "You sure you want to risk it all, sweetness?" she purred. "There's a reason I never lose."
The imp snorted. The succubus rolled her eyes. The boy shivered, but nodded.
Alayah's gaze never left him as she set her cards down, one by one—full house. She didn't bother to hide her pleasure as groans and curses filled the air.
With a flick of her wrist, she pulled the pot toward her, fingers raking through gold coins and crystal shards. In this den, money and emotion traded hands in equal measure.
But the real prize what she truly fed on glimmered behind the eyes of those around her.
She inhaled, drawing on the tiny clouds of desire, envy, and regret hovering over the table.
As she drew in the energy, it condensed and sparkled, forming small, luminescent crystals in her palm red, pink, a smoky blue. She grinned as the succubus glared, both hands balled into fists.
"Oh, darling," Alayah said, cocking her head, "did you really think you could outplay me in my own house?" She let the magic dance across her fingertips, each crystal thrumming to the beat of the music.
The table broke up. The losers retreated with muttered curses, but one by one, a few stayed behind, drawn by her gravity.
Alayah spun a single red crystal between her knuckles and gave them a show: a wink here, a slow smile there, the kind of attention that promised pleasure—or destruction, depending on her whim.
"Another round?" she asked, voice smoky.
Before anyone could answer, the air snapped. Her smile stilled.
One of the crystals a murky gray-black, pulsing with something ugly began to crack in her hand. The sound was almost delicate, like a spiderweb shattering under a drop of rain.
Alayah's eyes narrowed. She didn't flinch. Instead, she watched as a fissure split the crystal. It trembled, then burst exploding in a wash of icy hate that splattered across the table.
The smoke twisted, coiling upward, and solidified into a beast of pure rage: hulking, lizardlike, with a barbed tail and jaws wide enough to bite a man in half.
Its eyes burned with the hatred of a thousand lost games, its scales gleaming with the sickly sheen of betrayal. The other patrons screamed and scrambled back.
Alayah only laughed.
"Well, aren't you an ugly one," she said, rolling her shoulders. She stood, shoving her chair back, never looking away from the creature as it reared and roared, claws raking the ground.
The thing lunged. Alayah dodged easily, sliding aside with a dancer's grace, letting her boots scrape sparks from the floor.
She flexed her hands black fire bloomed from her knuckles, thick and oily, licking up her forearms with a sound like paper tearing.
The beast roared again, tail lashing, but Alayah met it with a blast of searing black flame.
Where Lyra's fire was pure precision, Alayah's was chaos incarnate—an inferno that ate light, a consuming, writhing force. It burned without mercy, eating through scales, then flesh.
But she didn't end it quickly.
Alayah's grin widened. She enjoyed this.
She ducked another swipe, planted a foot on the beast's head, and wrenched its jaw open with brutal strength.
Fire poured from her mouth and eyes as she tormented it—burning just enough to make it writhe, twisting her magic to dig deep into the emotional core that spawned it.
The thing screamed—raw, wounded, echoing every broken hope that had forged its existence.
"You like that?" Alayah snarled, her voice a lover's whisper, her expression a demon's glee.
"That's what rage feels like when you meet someone who isn't afraid." She drove her knee into its skull, shattering a horn.
Around her, the bar was silent. No one dared move.
The beast tried to crawl away, but she yanked it back by the tail, dragging it into the open, black fire surging in a spiraling whip.
She lashed it again and again, carving runes into its flesh with heat alone—torture, a lesson, a dance of pain.
At last, when the thing was little more than smoldering ruin and whimpers, she knelt beside its battered head.
"No more tricks," she whispered, almost gently.
She pressed her palm to its brow.
One final surge of magic, a starburst of black fire and the beast was gone, devoured to ash.
Only silence remained.
Alayah exhaled slowly. Black fire receded, leaving nothing but faint smoke curling around her arms.
She wiped sweat from her brow and stretched, savoring the delicious ache of violence.
The crowd slowly unfroze; a few cheered, most kept their eyes averted, knowing better than to meet her gaze.
From the shadows, a tall figure emerged—horns high, scarlet coat perfectly pressed, arms crossed in exasperation.
Alayah recognized her at once: Commander Maerith, her handler, tormentor, and sometime-mentor. The commander's yellow eyes flashed, unimpressed.
"Messy as always," Maerith said, voice dry as bone.
Alayah grinned and flopped into her chair, propping her boots on the ruined table. "You'd be bored if I played nice."
Maerith surveyed the black scorch marks, the nervous crowd, the lingering tang of hate in the air. "And how many times have I told you not to torture the spawn? The spectacle is beneath you."
Alayah gave a low, throaty laugh. "They don't learn if you don't make them scream."
Commander Maerith rolled her eyes, then tossed a black envelope onto the table.
Alayah arched a brow. She picked it up, flipped it open. Her grin widened as she read the swirling demonic script.
"Congratulations," Maerith said with mock enthusiasm. "You've been selected for the Concordance Duel. Try not to sleep with your opponent this time, Alayah. The last one nearly burned the embassy down."
Alayah's smile was all wolf. "No promises, Commander."
Maerith just shook her head and turned to leave. "Twelve days. Don't be late. And clean up your mess."
As the commander's footsteps faded, Alayah looked at the smoldering spot where the beast had died.
She felt the crowd's fear and awe, the mixture of dread and fascination that always followed her. It was a good feeling a feeling of power, of appetite sated, but not for long.
She glanced at the black envelope, then at the remaining pile of emotional crystals on the table. Already, she was thinking ahead—about the next game, the next fight, the mysterious Celestian she would face.
She wondered what would happen if her fire met its match.
A slow, dangerous smile curled her lips.
Let the games begin.