It was a beautiful morning at the Dravik estate, but the air on the terrace was far from serene. It was heavy when the older generations of apex predators occupied the same square footage.
At one side sat Sirion Dravik. Even in his "retired" years, Sirion was a mountain of a man, a physical testament to the raw power of the Dravik bloodline before it had been polished by modern boardrooms.
Opposite him sat Feralia. If Sirion was the mountain, Feralia was the wildfire that lived within its caves. She was draped in a silk robe the color of fresh blood, the fabric shimmering as she moved with a grace that age had only refined, never diminished.
