Alaric's body convulsed violently, his skin blistering and splitting open as if fire coursed beneath it. Every nerve screamed as boiling water scalded him from the inside out, his veins igniting in a relentless, molten agony. His quick healing became its own torment, forcing his flesh to knit itself back together only to be torn apart again, a vicious cycle of pain without end.
His chest heaved, breaths coming in short, jagged gasps as steam hissed from his mouth and nostrils. He clawed at the stone floor, his nails cracking and bleeding, desperate for some kind of release. His muscles spasmed uncontrollably, his body trembling as though it might shatter under the sheer intensity of the suffering.
A raw, animalistic scream tore from his throat, reverberating off the cold walls. The witch's lingering magic clung to the air, suffocating him like a heavy, toxic fog. Even as the boiling ceased and his body began to stabilize, the phantom pain of scalding heat seared his mind, leaving him trembling and weak. Still, his rage simmered beneath the surface, molten and ready to erupt.
A faint, pitiful sound broke through the haze—a strained whine, fragile and raw.
Alaric froze, his head snapping toward the noise. His eyes narrowed, locking onto the chained figure slumped in the corner. The man stirred faintly, matted hair shifting to reveal a hollow cheek streaked with dried blood.
Another sound escaped the man, weaker this time, like the dying wheeze of a crushed insect.
Slowly, Alaric rose to his feet, his movements fluid yet radiating barely-contained fury. His entire body still throbbed with phantom pain, the memory of boiling agony etched into every nerve. Each step he took toward the prisoner was deliberate, his anger sharpening into something cruel and petty—a desperate need to expel the torment that had wracked him onto someone weaker.
The man flinched at Alaric's approach but didn't look up, his shallow breaths uneven, as if even breathing had become a battle. Alaric's gaze drifted to the raw, bloodied skin around the shackles—flesh worn down to ribbons. For a moment, his jaw clenched, his mind replaying his own pain as though he could pour it into the man before him.
"You've endured quite the ordeal," Alaric said, his tone light, almost conversational. He stepped closer, his voice a soft blade. "And yet, here you are. Still clinging to life. Why?"
The man let out a trembling exhale, his body curling inward as if he could vanish into himself.
Alaric smirked, crouching down just out of reach. "What sin earned you a place in this charming little dungeon? Or are you just another broken pawn in the game to power?"
For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, with visible effort, the man raised his head. Bloodshot eyes, glazed with despair, locked onto Alaric's.
"P-please..." he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.
Alaric tilted his head, amusement flickering in his piercing gaze. "Oh, I do love a good plea. But you'll have to be more specific, darling. What exactly are you begging for?"
The man's lips quivered. "Kill... me," he croaked. "Please... just end it."
Alaric's smirk faltered, his expression unreadable as he straightened. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, bore into the man like a blade.
"Kill you?" Alaric repeated, his tone laced with mock disbelief. "Now, why would I do that? You've survived this long. Surely, there's still some fight left in you."
The man's head drooped, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the words. "Please..." he whispered, his voice breaking. "I can't... take it anymore."
Alaric crouched again, this time closer, his expression softening into something almost tender—almost. His gaze was fixed, unnervingly intent, as if peeling back the layers of the man's fractured mind.
"Oh, you poor thing," he murmured, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Life has been cruel to you, hasn't it? But isn't that the point? To suffer, to endure... to survive?"
The man shivered, his lips quivering as tears welled in his bloodshot eyes. His response was swallowed by shallow, uneven breaths.
Alaric reached out, brushing a strand of filthy hair from the man's face. The gesture was almost tender, but the amusement glinting in Alaric's eyes betrayed the lie.
"You humans," Alaric whispered, his tone darkly amused. "You cling to so much. Family, dreams..." He leaned in closer, his breath cool against the man's ear. "Hope."
A strangled sob escaped the man as his trembling grew. Alaric pulled back slightly, letting his gaze settle on the man's tear-streaked face.
"I want to ask you."Alaric continued, his voice soft and coaxing. "What were your hopes? Your dreams? If I were to set you free, what would you do?"
The man blinked, his bloodshot eyes widening. For a moment, the faintest flicker of life stirred within them—an ember buried beneath despair.
"I... I had a family," he whispered, his voice trembling but resolute. "Their out there. Somewhere. I always wanted to..." His voice cracked, but he forced the words out. "I wanted to find them."
Alaric's expression remained still, his eyes glinting with dangerous delight. "See? There's still something to live for. A purpose." He gestured vaguely, as though dismissing the thought. "Humans are endlessly fascinating. So resilient. So full of hope, even in the darkest of places."
The man's trembling began to ease. Slowly, he nodded, his gaze distant as if imagining a life reclaimed.
Alaric's smile sharpened like a blade as he straightened to his full height. His shadow stretched over the man, vast and consuming. The man, lost in the fragile dream Alaric had so carefully planted, remained oblivious to the predator standing before him.
Through chattering teeth, he whispered, "I've... been here for days. The man took me... Said he needed... 'food' for someone .I don't even understand that." His voice cracked, a quiet tremor of despair woven through the words.
Alaric knelt before him, his sharp, predatory features softening into a mask of empathy. "Days?" he asked, his voice low, almost reverent. "And you're still alive. Remarkable."
The man nodded weakly, his gaze drifting downward. "I don't know why I'm still breathing... but I... I used to think about home. My wife. My boy..." He looked up, his bloodshot eyes glistening with something unfamiliar—hope. "Maybe they're still out there... waiting for me."
Alaric's smile widened, his pale face almost radiant in the dim light. He leaned closer, his voice a silken whisper. "They could be. Imagine their faces when they see you walk through that door—scarred, yes, but strong. A survivor."
The man's breath hitched as his eyes brightened, the dullness lifting like a veil. "You... you think I can make it?" he stammered, clutching at the spark Alaric had ignited.
"I don't think," Alaric replied smoothly, his tone warm and reassuring. "I know. You've endured the unimaginable. That's something not many can say."
The man's lips trembled, a faint, wavering smile forming.
The man shivered, but he forced himself to look up, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Alaric's face. For the first time, a flicker of something else—something softer—crossed his weary features. "You... you're beautiful," he said, his voice raw but filled with awe. "I've never seen anyone like you... not in person. Not even in dreams."
Alaric's lips curved into a slow smile, his pale features illuminated by the dim, flickering light. "Flattery, is it?" he replied, his voice low and lilting, like the brush of silk against stone. "It suits you."
The man's gaze wavered, but he pressed on, desperation tinged with admiration. "If... if you let me go," he stammered, his voice cracking. "I would be forever grateful. I'd never forget you. I'd tell my wife, my boy... about the one who saved me."
Alaric watched the hope flicker and bloom, his expression unreadable save for the glint of predatory amusement in his eyes. "You see?" he said, his voice coaxing. "There's still a spark left in you. Something worth living for."
The man nodded weakly, his trembling subsiding as his breath steadied. For the first time in months, he looked less like a prisoner and more like a man with a purpose.
"Good," Alaric murmured, his voice soothing yet tinged with a dark amusement. "I like it when my meal isn't tough from fear. Makes it all the sweeter."
The man froze. The words clawed at his mind, their meaning sinking in slowly like poison spreading through his veins. His lips parted as if to ask a question, but no sound came. He stared at Alaric, confusion and disbelief rippling through his expression.
Then he felt it—a sudden, almost imperceptible pressure at his shoulder. Alaric's nails, once ordinary, began to lengthen before his eyes. They darkened and sharpened, the tips glinting like freshly honed blades.
"W-what are you doing?" the man whispered, his voice trembling as he tried to pull away.
Alaric tilted his head, his eyes narrowing with an almost childlike curiosity. "You're trembling again," he said softly, his nails grazing the man's skin. "Such a shame. I liked you better when you were hopeful."
The man's breath hitched, his body stiffening as the razor-sharp nails pressed ever so slightly into his flesh—not enough to draw blood, but enough to send a warning that there would be no escape.
"You said I could make it," the man stammered, his voice cracking as his hope crumbled beneath the weight of realization. "You said—"
"Oh, I meant every word," Alaric interrupted, his tone light, almost playful. "You've survived horrors most wouldn't. You're extraordinary." He leaned in, his lips curling into a predatory smirk. "But I never said how your story ends."
The man's heart pounded wildly as he stared into Alaric's glinting eyes, now devoid of any false kindness. The hope that had burned so brightly just moments ago flickered, threatening to extinguish. Yet he couldn't move—paralyzed by both fear and the haunting allure of the monster before him.
The man barely had time to scream before Alaric lung. His nails, now fully extended into obsidian talons, pierced through the fragile fabric of the man's tattered shirt, cutting deep into his shoulders. Blood welled instantly, warm and thick, and the man's body spasmed against the unrelenting grip.
Alaric's head tilted as his face transformed, the mask of false sympathy melting away to reveal something monstrous. His eyes burned until they resembled twin abysses. His lips pulled back in a grotesque snarl, revealing rows of jagged, razor-sharp teeth that gleamed with an unholy hunger.
"No!" the man cried, his voice raw with desperation as his body twisted and struggled in vain. "You said—I thought—"
"You thought wrong," Alaric hissed, his voice deep and guttural, reverberating through the air like a death knell. His grip tightened, his nails digging further into the man's flesh, sending rivulets of crimson cascading down his arms.
The room was cold, unbearably so, but the man's body was aflame with pain and panic. The faint glimmer of hope that had danced in his eyes moments ago snuffed out, replaced by sheer, unbridled terror.
"I'm sorry," he whimpered, though he didn't know what he was apologizing for—existing, perhaps. "Please… I don't want to die."
Alaric's laugh was low and cruel, vibrating in his chest like a dark hymn. "You won't have to want it, darling. I'll make it quick... for your sake and my own."
And then he struck. His teeth sank into the man's neck with a sickening crunch, flesh tearing under the force. Blood spurted from the wound, hot and metallic, coating Alaric's lips as the man's cries turned to strangled gasps. The sound was inhuman, a mixture of choking and weeping, as the light in his eyes began to dim.
Alaric's senses flared, his body trembling with a hunger that could no longer be ignored. The air, thick with the coppery scent of blood, seemed to warp around him, magnifying his thirst. He inhaled deeply, the taste of it lingering on his tongue, and with a growl that reverberated through his chest, he descended on the man's limp body with brutal efficiency.
His teeth, still sharp and glistening with a dark promise, sank into the tender flesh of the man's neck. The first bite was savage, almost animalistic—his canines tearing through the skin with a sickening crunch. Blood surged from the wound in thick, pulsing streams, hot and sticky. Alaric could feel it, the warmth flooding his mouth, the essence of life being siphoned into him.
He pulled greedily at the wound, sucking in deep gulps of blood, his throat working rhythmically as he drained the man of what little remained of his vitality. The blood was thick, coating his lips and chin, dripping in dark rivulets down the sides of his face. It tasted like iron, like fire—a heady rush that threatened to overwhelm his senses.
Alaric's hands clawed at the man's chest, his nails slicing through fabric and skin alike. The sounds of sucking, slurping, and tearing filled the air, each bite louder than the last, each pull more desperate. His chest heaved as he fed, his hunger growing more insatiable with each passing second.
The man's body, once twitching with the final remnants of life, became limp in his grasp, and yet Alaric did not stop. The blood..the mean—rich, life-giving—was an addiction, a madness that clouded his thoughts and consumed his every action. He felt the life force draining from the man, felt the pulse of it slow to a trickle, but still, he couldn't stop.
Alaric's feeding slowed, his sharp eyes scanning the body in front of him, now drained of its essence and mangled. He let go, panting heavily, blood dripping from his mouth and staining the floor around him. His chest heaved, the sense of power filling him, the hunger finally sated—if only for a moment.
As Alaric licked the remnants of blood from his lips, his eyes slowly began to return to their natural hue—once a deep, hellish red, now a calmer, almost ethereal grey.The hunger, the maddening thirst that had driven him to violence, began to ebb, leaving him feeling strangely light, like a predator finally sated.
He straightened up from the man's limp, lifeless body, his clothes stained with the dark crimson remnants of his feeding. The room felt quieter now, the silence stretching long after the chaos.
Alaric's gaze flickered back to the body at his feet, the pale, bloodless form of the man who had dared to hope. A flicker of something—satisfaction? Pity?—crossed his features, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by the indifference that came so naturally to him now.
And then, without warning, the silence was broken by the creak of the chamber door opening. Alaric's head snapped up, his sharp gaze fixed on the doorway as a figure stepped inside.