The scene suddenly shifted, and Eric felt himself being pulled violently as the world spun around him. The chaos seemed endless until it abruptly ceased. He now stood in a grand chamber, illuminated by the flickering glow of countless candles. The room was vast, regal, and ancient, adorned with rich fabrics, towering stone columns, and tapestries depicting conquests long forgotten.
At the door of the chamber, the man stood with his hands clasped behind his back. The golden crown dangled from one of his fingers, its jewels glinting in the faint light.
But it wasn't him who commanded Eric's attention—it was the figure he stood behind.
Alaric.
He had a lean but commanding frame, dressed in dark, elegant robes trimmed with silver accents that shimmered faintly. His long, bone-white hair flowed like a waterfall of silk down his back, its strands gleaming with a spectral glow.
Alaric's presence filled the room, an aura of raw, unyielding power emanating from him. He wore a long, luxurious coat of animal fur, its rich brown hue alive with subtle shades of gold that seemed to shift with every flicker of candlelight. The fur's thickness and weight gave him a feral, almost predatory air, as though he had draped himself in the pelt of a beast he had conquered.
Beneath the coat, his attire was a vision of ancient opulence. A dark tunic, belted with a thick gold band, clung to his body, highlighting his broad shoulders and lean, muscled frame. His trousers, made of supple leather, disappeared into knee-high boots that bore intricate carvings, the craftsmanship reminiscent of a forgotten era. Every detail of his clothing was regal, yet carried a brutal edge that hinted at his dominion over more than just men.
His face was a paradox of beauty and menace. High cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a perfectly straight nose framed his striking features, but it was his eyes that truly captivated. They burned with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the soul, their dark depths promising both pleasure and ruin. His lips were full and slightly parted, curving into a small, knowing smile that made Eric's pulse quicken.
As Alaric turned slightly, the fur of his coat shifted, exposing more of his flawless, pale skin and the sharp angles of his collarbone. His movements were deliberate, almost sensual, as if he were fully aware of the effect he had on those around him.
Alaric stood over a woman's lifeless body, a grotesque gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. His lips curled into a savage smile, blood smeared across them like a macabre mask. Thick, fresh blood dripped down his chin in heavy, crimson rivulets, staining his pale skin and staining the air with a metallic scent. He held a severed finger between his teeth, slowly chewing as if savoring a delicacy, the soft, sickening crack of bone accompanying each bite. His fingers, slick with blood, absently twisted the ring off the woman's finger, inspecting it with a detached fascination as he slipped it onto his own, the cold metal clinking against his skin like a twisted trophy.
The woman's body lay sprawled across the floor, her once regal form now reduced to a lifeless husk. Eric assumed it was the wife of the headless king.Her eyes were wide, frozen in a look of horror, as if the last thing she saw was the horror of Alaric's cruel, predatory grin. The floor beneath her were soaked in blood and her skin, now pale and waxen, seemed almost too fragile in the stillness of the room. The severed finger in Alaric's mouth twitched faintly, a disturbing imitation of life, as though it longed to escape the grotesque fate it had met.
The room was thick with the stench of death, the air heavy with a silence punctuated only by the slow, rhythmic crunch of bone beneath Alaric's teeth. His movements were calm, almost languid, as though he were indulging in an everyday ritual, the horror of it all lost on him. His dark, intense eyes flickered toward the man standing near the door and slowly he smiled widely.
Eric, still floating in the shadows of the room, could feel the weight of despair surrounding the castle. This—this was the Alaric he knew: dangerous, sensual, and unapologetically violent. The blood on his lips, the casual grace with which he chewed the finger, the seductive allure he wore like a second skin. It was both repulsive and magnetic, drawing Eric's attention in ways he couldn't escape.
The man with the crown approached Alaric, a strange gleam in his eyes as he raised the golden artifact. With a deliberate motion, he placed the crown on Alaric's head. The weight of it seemed to change the very air in the room, as if the atmosphere itself had bent to the new power it signified.
Alaric's eyes widened with delight, his lips curling into a wild grin that spoke of unrestrained joy. His entire posture shifted, becoming more defined, more commanding as if he were mocking all those that wore it before. The crown rested on his head like a birthright finally reclaimed, as though it had always been meant for him. His blood-soaked vest, the tattered leather straps, and his bare skin—all of it suddenly seemed to shimmer with a kind of strange elegance, now elevated by the symbol of power upon his brow.
Giddiness bubbled up within Alaric, an energy that surged through him as though the crown itself had unlocked something in him. He couldn't help but giggle—high-pitched and almost childlike—as he bounced on his heels. He turned toward the tall, bloodied man with a glimmer of excitement in his eyes.
"Look at me!" Alaric chirped, his voice bright, as though the world had just shifted into something far more entertaining. "I look like royalty!"
The man's lips twitched upward, a rare and amused smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He watched Alaric for a moment before nodding, his eyes softening, as if amused by the younger man's giddy joy.
"Isn't it a fitting look?" the man said in an almost thick accent Eric never heard before, his voice low but warm, as if sharing an inside joke with an old friend. There was a camaraderie in his tone, a bond forged in blood and battle. "The crown suits you, Alaric."
Alaric, barely able to contain his excitement, spun around in place, feeling the weight of the crown on his head. His long, white hair, which had once been pristine, now hung untamed, streaked with blood. He could feel the power coursing through him, even if it was still tinged with madness.
"I look like a king," Alaric said again as he gazed into the mirror that took up half a wall, laughing at the thought, his eyes sparkling with wild joy. He clapped his hands together, the blood on his fingers leaving streaks across his skin as he approached the mirror closer.
The man, his face blank but somehow affectionate in the way he watched Alaric, gave a quiet chuckle. He followed behind Alaric, who stood before the mirror, eyes wide with anticipation. The mirror reflected Alaric's transformation: his pale skin was now flushed with a devious kind of vitality, his eyes now gleaming like polished jewels, and the blood that clung to him only made him seem more striking, more dangerous.
Alaric stared at his reflection, his lips parting in disbelief. "I'm magnificent," he whispered to himself, then let out a high-pitched giggle that made the air around them feel lighter, almost like a shared secret between them.
The man grinned, a flash of approval in his green eyes. He placed a hand on Alaric's shoulder, a firm but warm gesture, as though grounding him in that moment. "You always were," he said simply, his voice laced with affection, his gaze locked on the younger vampire.
Alaric looked up at the man, his eyes full of playful mischief. "I knew you'd agree with me," he teased.
Alaric turned back to the mirror, admiring himself once again, running his fingers through his hair, the blood from his previous meal smearing onto his pale skin. He looked untamed, yet strangely regal, as if he had been born to rule in a world of destruction.
Alaric's eyes flickered with playful mischief, but as he continued to gaze at his reflection, a sudden frown twisted his lips. He pouted dramatically, tilting his head to the side, his expression turning downcast. The smile he had worn just moments ago faded, replaced by a sulking, almost childlike look.
"I wanted to kill him," Alaric whined, his voice thick with mock sadness. "That was my kill, you know. I was all set to rip his throat out and bathe in his blood, but you just had to do it first."
The tall man—still drenched in blood and carrying the air of a battle-worn warrior—smirked at the display. His dark eyes softened with amusement as he walked over to Alaric. The immortal's pout deepened, but before Alaric could even protest further, the man leaned in and pinched his cheeks, his fingers tightening with playful firmness.
Alaric gasped and swatted at the man's hand. "Ow! What was that for?!" He tried to pull away, but the man's grip was too strong, and the pinch was more affectionate than painful.
"Stop pouting," the man teased in a low, rich voice, the words laced with a dark humor. He squeezed Alaric's cheeks once more before letting go. "You look like a petulant child, and I'm not in the mood to deal with that."
Alaric rolled his eyes, a mischievous glint still present behind his annoyance. "I don't care," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest, though it was clear his sulk was losing its edge. "I wanted to play with him. Rip out his insides. Drink from him slowly while he begged for his life. You know the kind of fun I enjoy."
The man chuckled darkly, a sound that resonated through the room with an almost eerie warmth. "You are very cruel," he said, the affection in his voice obvious despite the underlying menace. He stepped closer, his broad form towering over Alaric, who remained pouting but also completely entranced by the man's presence.
"I know," Alaric purred, the sulk quickly giving way to a devilish grin. "And I think you like it." His eyes twinkled with a dangerous mischief, his fingers tapping against his own jaw as if considering something wicked.
"Perhaps," the man replied with a glint of amusement in his green eyes. He leaned in just enough to make Alaric's breath catch in his throat. "But you will learn to share, little one." The words were dripping with mock sternness, but they only made Alaric grin wider.
"Fine, fine, I suppose I'll forgive you for stealing my fun," Alaric said, with an exaggerated sigh, as though it pained him. He turned back to face the bloody scene the man had created, his gaze briefly flickering to the limp body on the ground. "I still want to make somebody scream," he muttered under his breath.
The man chuckled again, this time with a dark edge that sent a shiver through the room.
Alaric's laughter echoed through the blood-soaked room, his eyes gleaming with glee as he finished eating the finger in his arm and suddenly turning back to the corpse and tore off the arm with sickening ease. The sound of cracking bone was drowned out by the satisfying squelch of flesh being torn apart. Without missing a beat, he stuffed the arm into his mouth, savoring the warmth of it as his teeth sank deep into the muscle, ripping and tearing with a twisted kind of pleasure.
The man watched with a small, approving smirk on his face, though there was something almost wistful in his gaze. Alaric always took things too far especially now that he held an entire arm in his hand, but in the end, it was a quality the man admired. As the younger vampire's bloodlust reached a fever pitch, the man couldn't help but wonder just how much further Alaric could be pushed before he finally broke.
But just as Alaric was about to take another ravenous bite, he froze.
A sharp inhale—almost like a gasp—cut through the air, slicing through the sickeningly heavy atmosphere. Alaric's head snapped up in an instant, his teeth still glistening with blood, his body stiffening as he scanned the room.
The man didn't move, but the air around him seemed to shift as his eyes darted to the shadows, narrowing in concentration. He could sense it too—the unmistakable presence of someone hiding, holding their breath.
Alaric dropped the severed arm with a sickening splat, his lips curling into a twisted, amused smile as he slowly turned in the direction of the sound. "Well, well," he purred, his voice low and dangerous. "Looks like we've got a little guest."
The man's eyes flicked to the shadows, his muscles tense but relaxed in the way only someone used to violence could be. His stance remained casual, though he kept his attention fully on the figure lurking in the darkness.
Alaric smirked, his eyes glinting with delight. He could feel the presence even before he saw the figure step from the shadows. The faint rustle of fabric, the shift in the air—the scent of fear mingled with something else, something familiar.
A human.
His eyes glinted with a fresh wave of excitement. He turned to the bloodied man beside him, who simply leaned against the wall, watching the unfolding drama with casual indifference. There was a strange kind of ease in the way the bloodied man stood, as if he had seen this all before.
Alaric, however, was still grinning, eager for the chase. His feet took silent steps toward the corner where he sensed the intruder. "Come out, come out," he taunted, his voice high with amusement, but edged with a dark undertone. "You thought you could sneak past me?"
The figure remained hidden, breathing heavily. Alaric stepped closer, the excitement evident in the way his posture shifted—agile, lethal, like a predator sensing prey. The moment of tension stretched.
With a swift motion, Alaric reached into the shadows, his hand grabbing the figure's arm. The intruder let out a small, panicked gasp as Alaric pulled them into the light.
The figure stumbled forward, face pale with fear, eyes wide and filled with panic. He was an ordinary man, regular in every sense—wearing simple, worn clothes, a tattered cloak, and his face twisted in terror as he looked up at Alaric. He wasn't a fighter. He wasn't a threat. He was just a man, trembling under the weight of the immortal's gaze.
Alaric's grin deepened. "Gotcha," he whispered, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. The man tried to squirm, but Alaric's grip tightened, his strength far superior to anything the man could hope to escape.
With a single, effortless motion, Alaric flung the man forward, sending him crashing to the floor in front of the bloodied figure standing against the wall. The man's face hit the ground with a sickening slap, his body limp and heavy from the sudden force. The bloodied man didn't flinch, though there was a flicker of something in his expression—a moment of curiosity and amusement, as he looked down at the prone figure.
The man groaned, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, but stopped when the bloodied figure crouched before him. His face was unreadable, save for a faint curl of his lips that hinted at amusement.
"Running won't save you," Alaric said, voice light, almost teasing, as he stepped closer, his boots clicking against the floor. The trapped man's breath quickened, his hands trembling against the ground. He muttered something under his breath—words barely audible but laced with desperation.
The air shifted, a ripple of energy sweeping through the room. The bloodied man's eyes narrowed, catching the faint shimmer of magic forming around the intruder. A protective instinct flared in Alaric but he kept his face neutral knowing what it meant for the man.
"Ah, a warlock," Alaric clapped his hands giddily, stepping back slightly as the man raised his hands. Sparks of blue light danced between his fingers, crackling with unstable energy. "Interesting. I was wondering how you could have hidden from me for so long."
The warlock's voice steadied as he chanted, the sparks growing brighter, the energy in the air thickening with tension. He turned his gaze to Alaric, his fear now laced with determination.
"You won't take me!" he yelled, thrusting his hands forward. The spell erupted in a burst of light, aimed directly at Alaric.
But before it could strike, Alaric disappeared, vanishing from sight. The warlock's eyes darted wildly, his breathing ragged, panic rising once again.
Behind him, Alaric materialized like a phantom, silent and swift. The warlock barely had time to react before cold hands gripped his shoulders. "Too slow," Alaric whispered into his ear, the smirk audible in his tone.
The warlock struggled, but Alaric's grip was unrelenting. With predatory precision, Alaric sank his teeth into the man's neck. The warlock's scream filled the room, echoing off the walls as the bloodied man watched with detached fascination.
The glow of the warlock's magic flickered, then dimmed but that was when Alaric pulled back his eyes now engulfed in black.He looked up at the man smiling broadly teeth stained red."It's you're lucky day."
The man stepped forward with an unnatural grace, his shadow stretching across the dimly lit room. The warlock, now trembling and weak from Alaric's attack, struggled feebly in the vampire's vice-like grip. His breaths came in short gasps, his magic sparking faintly at his fingertips but unable to coalesce into anything substantial.
As the man came within an inch of the warlock, Alaric loosened his grip, shoving the warlock toward the approaching figure. "Let's see it, then," Alaric said, his voice a venomous purr, as though relishing the spectacle about to unfold.
The warlock stumbled but managed to remain upright, his wide eyes locked on the approaching man. His lips moved, perhaps to summon another spell, but the man silenced him with a single movement.
The man's mouth began to open—not in a human fashion, but as though his jaw unhinged entirely. The warlock froze, paralyzed as a strange force tugged at him. The sparks of blue light that had danced at his fingertips surged to life again, only to be drawn toward the man's gaping maw like water swirling down a drain.
The air itself seemed to darken, the warlock's essence pulled from his body in luminous streams of blue and gold. He screamed, clawing at his chest as though trying to hold onto whatever power was being ripped away, but it was futile.
The man's head tilted back slightly, his throat pulsing as he devoured the energy, the glow traveling down his throat like molten light. His eyes burned with a newfound brilliance, and the warlock collapsed on the floor in pain.
The warlock writhed on the ground, clutching at his chest as if trying to hold onto something invisible. His breath hitched in ragged sobs, tears streaming down his face as he choked out, "Why? Why are you doing this?"
Alaric tilted his head ignoring the warlock, his blackened eyes narrowing with wild interest. "You make it look so… theatrical," he said, a grin spreading across his face as if the suffering before him was a delightful performance.
The man chuckled low and dark, stepping over the trembling warlock. "Because it's what we do," he said simply, his voice calm, almost conversational, as if discussing the weather. "We make art out of despair."
The warlock's cries grew louder, his voice cracking. "Please… I can't… I can't feel my magic anymore! Please stop!"
Alaric crouched down before him, his movements fluid and almost gentle. He grabbed the warlock's chin, forcing him to look directly into his unblinking, inhuman eyes. "Stop?" Alaric repeated, his tone mockingly sweet. His grin widened into something too sharp, too manic. "Why would I stop? This is fun."
He burst into laughter, wild and unhinged, before leaning in close, his voice dropping to a whisper, "Don't you get it?We have no reason to take what is rightfully ours.To return all the suffering we have suffered back tenfold."
Before the warlock could utter another word, Alaric's hand snapped forward, his fingers
crushing the man's throat with supernatural precision. The sickening crunch of bone and cartilage shattered the silence, and blood erupted in a crimson spray, soaking Alaric's face and clothing. The warlock's eyes went wide in a brief flash of shock before his body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.
Eric stood frozen, his chest tight, his breath shallow. He wasn't scared—at least, not in the way fear was supposed to feel—but there was an unsettling weight pressing down on him, something he couldn't name. He tried to speak, to ask Alaric what had just happened, but the words stuck in his throat.
Before he could gather himself, a slow, measured clap echoed through the room.
Eric's eyes returned back to the man his presence commanding and unnervingly calm as he gazed deeply almost obsessively at Alaric.
Then, Alaric's voice cut through the silence his face morphing into pure joy at his fresh kill.
"Killian."
Eric's breath hitched, the name crashing into him like a tidal wave. Killian. It resonated deep within him, stirring something he couldn't grasp. His head spun, flashes of fragmented images and emotions surfacing only to slip away before he could catch them.
He stumbled back a step, his legs suddenly weak. The room seemed to tilt around him, his vision narrowing as his pulse roared in his ears.
Why does that name feel like it's mine?
Before he could think further, a crushing wave of darkness swept over him, and the world vanished.