Killian's breath came in ragged gasps, his feet pounding against the earth beneath him as he fled. The book—the one he had stolen—was clutched tightly in his hands, his knuckles white from the force. He didn't look back, not once, afraid that the woman might be following him, her anger boiling over for what he had taken.
He ran until his legs felt like lead, until the darkness of the woods stretched endlessly before him, mocking his exhaustion.
And then, just as his body threatened to collapse, he saw it— a river, its waters dark and swift, stretching wide across the path. For a moment, he stood frozen, torn between the desire to keep running and the need for a moment of peace.
Without another thought, he dropped to the ground, the book still clutched in his hands. He sat cross-legged by the river's edge.
With trembling fingers, he opened it.
The pages were old, the ink faded, but the words were clear. Every line seemed to pull him deeper, as though the book held secrets meant only for him. His heart quickened, not from fear, but from the knowledge that this was the key. The key to unlocking everything he needed to understand about himself—and about what he was running from.
Killian's hands trembled as he turned another page. Each page was filled with strange, ancient symbols, but as his fingers brushed over the worn parchment, the air around him seemed to hum with power. His golden eyes flickered with an intensity he couldn't explain, the energy building within him like a storm ready to break.
He lingered on a particularly intricate page, one that seemed to pull at something deep inside him. As if the book had sensed his thoughts, it suddenly began to shift on its own. The pages turned, the sound of rustling paper filling the silent night, until it came to a stop on a page he hadn't intended to find. The page was no longer filled with complex spells or incantations. No, this page was different—this page bore a name. Alaric.
It was as though the book had known that this was the name Killian had been thinking about, the name that had haunted his mind. The words on the page shimmered with an otherworldly glow, as if the book itself had recognized that Alaric was more than just a name—.
Without even realizing it, Killian whispered the name aloud, the word slipping from his lips like an incantation: Alaric.
Killian's eyes remained locked on the page as the book seemed to pulse in his hands, its pages flipping with a life of their own. The words on the page, once cryptic and indecipherable, now became clear to him, as though the book were speaking directly to his very soul. He barely noticed the golden light still flickering in his eyes, his heartbeat quickening with each word he read.
The page seemed to shift again, the ink on the paper rearranging, forming new sentences that explained what Killian hadn't been able to piece together before. The book now offered him an explanation.
'The Omnius must feed on humans until his 22nd birthday, when he will gain control over his hunger, and it will no longer rule him.'
Feed. Alaric's hunger. The book went on to explain in chilling detail the consequences of Alaric's inability to feed—if he didn't receive enough sustenance, if he couldn't feed when his hunger rose, something terrible would happen.
'If the Omnius does not feed, the hunger will become unbearable. A burst of uncontrollable craving will overtake him, and he will not be able to resist. He will kill, and many will die before he succumbs to weakness, growing immobile until death claims him.'
The words burned into Killian's mind, his pulse racing faster with every sentence. The thought of Alaric dying was unbearable. His chest tightened, his breath shallow, as his thoughts collided in a frantic swirl.
Alaric. He couldn't let that happen to him. Not when there was still so much left to uncover, so much left to do. If Alaric died, it would be the end of everything—the end of whatever connection had begun to form between them, the end of everything Killian had hoped for.
The book continued to glow in his hands, as if urging him to understand the gravity of what he was reading. Killian's mind snapped into focus. If Alaric was to survive, if Killian had any chance of keeping him alive, he would need to feed him. He would need to kill.
A cold thrill surged through him, a dark realization settling over him like a shroud. He would have to do it. He would have to kill. To feed Alaric. To keep him alive.
The thought of killing, of taking lives to sustain Alaric, didn't seem so far-fetched anymore.
If he was going to take Alaric, if he was going to protect him, he would have to become something he had never imagined.
And as he looked down at the open page, Killian knew one thing for certain: there was no turning back.
---
The sun had barely risen when Killian stumbled into the small village,his limp exaggerated as he dragged one foot in front of the other. His body ached from the previous night's events, his muscles still tense from the strange energy that had pulsed through him. He kept the book hidden safely under his cloth.
The village appeared peaceful enough—its cobbled streets lined with small houses, children running and playing in the distance, and the low hum of activity in the air.
As he limped into the heart of the village, the sound of a bustling tavern caught his attention. His stomach growled, a reminder of his own need for sustenance, and he could already smell the roasted meat and bread wafting through the open door. With a final, exaggerated step, he pushed the tavern door open, stepping inside.
The tavern was warm, its low ceilings filled with the sounds of laughter and clinking mugs. It was crowded, filled with farmers and traders, men and women in rough clothes sitting at tables, talking, and drinking. The fire crackled in the heart. A couple of serving girls darted between tables, balancing trays of food and drink, while a bard strummed a lute in the corner.
Killian's eyes scanned the room, his gaze sweeping over the patrons until it landed on a tall man seated near the bar. The man's broad shoulders and dark, intense eyes stood out among the crowd, his posture casual but exuding strength. He was watching the room with an air of quiet authority, and as soon as his eyes met Killian's, something flickered in his expression—a mixture of curiosity and something more protective.
The man studied Killian for a moment, his sharp gaze narrowing as he took in the sight of the young boy standing in the doorway, limping with apparent pain. Without hesitation, he stood up, his long strides carrying him across the tavern floor with ease. People parted as he made his way through the crowd, and Killian stiffened, instinctively taking a small step back, his hand tightening around the hidden book under his coat.
The man reached him with a quiet intensity, his voice low and gentle despite his imposing figure. "You look like you've had a hard journey, boy," he said, his gaze moving over Killian's bruised appearance, the limp in his step. "You need help?"
Killian hesitated for a brief moment, pretending to be hesitant. His mind raced, calculating his next move. He forced a slight wince, as if the pain from his leg was more severe than it truly was, and leaned on the doorframe for support.
"I... I was just passing through," Killian said, his voice quiet but strained, playing the part of the injured traveler. "I didn't expect to find a place like this. I was hoping... maybe... I could sit for a moment."
The tall man's eyes softened slightly, his brow furrowing as he looked Killian over.
"Of course," the man said, his voice steady and warm. "You can rest. I'll get you something to eat. Stay as long as you need."
Killian nodded, forcing a small, grateful smile. He watched as the man turned to make his way to the bar, his commanding presence drawing the attention of the room as he gave orders for food.
He slowly made his way to an empty seat near the window, carefully lowering himself into it with a controlled wince, making sure to show the signs of weakness. The tall man returned a moment later, setting a plate of warm bread and stew in front of Killian.
"There," the man said, offering a reassuring smile. "Eat. You'll feel better."
Killian looked up at him, studying his face. The man didn't seem to be like the others here—there was a quiet strength to him, a sharpness behind those dark eyes that made Killian uneasy. But for now, the act had to continue. He reached for the spoon, his fingers brushing the warm bowl, pretending to be ravenous, pretending to be just another lost child in need of care.
The hunger—both his and Alaric's—was growing inside him, and soon, the man's kindness might not be enough to keep the darkness at bay.
Killian ate until his little body was now full.After weeks of not eating properly, he felt truly full.He slowly came out of the tavern ignoring the man's intense gaze.
The air in the village was thick with tension, a quiet undercurrent of fear running through every corner. Killian could feel it—the weight of superstition and hatred that clung to the very stones beneath his feet. This was a time when the very mention of witches would send people into frenzies of accusation and terror. He had read about it, but to feel it, to sense it all around him—was something entirely different.
The villagers moved with purpose, keeping their distance from one another. Conversations were hushed, and eyes darted nervously to the edges of the square, as if expecting someone to jump from the shadows and point a finger. The women dressed in plain, dark clothes, their faces drawn tight with suspicion, while the men seemed to walk with their heads lowered, as though afraid to make eye contact with the wrong person.
The fear of witches—real or imagined—was palpable. Killian knew this all too well,his family despised them as well. Witches were the enemy. They were the scourge of the land, hunted and burned at the stake without mercy.
His chest tightened as he walked through the village square, the sun low in the sky, casting long shadows that made everything feel eerily still. It wasn't the first time he had stumbled into a town like this, but something about this place felt different.
Then, as he limped, a young woman approached him. She was a striking figure—tall, with dirty blonde hair and a heavy, full-figured frame that was not typical of the women in the village. Her wide, round eyes were a deep green, full of warmth and concern. Her clothes were simple, but they clung to her body in a way that caught the attention of every man in the square.
She stopped in front of him, her face softening with a genuine concern as she looked at him.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice gentle, but with an underlying curiosity.
Killian's breath caught in his throat, his heart racing. For a split second, he wanted to pull away, to keep his distance. But the sorrow in her eyes—the raw compassion—kept him rooted in place. He swallowed hard, forcing the sting of fresh tears in his eyes.
"I... I..." He choked on the words, his voice trembling as the story spilled out before he could contain it. "A witch killed my family," he said, his eyes wide with raw grief. "She killed everyone... my parents, my little sister. And... and now she's after me. I don't know how much longer I can run. I... I have to warn everyone. If I don't... If they don't know, they'll be next."
His breath came in ragged gasps as the weight of the lie fell from his lips. He hadn't planned to speak of it like this, but something about her face, her softness, made him want to say everything.
The woman took a small step forward, her hand reaching out as if to touch him, though she hesitated just before making contact. "A witch?" she asked quietly, as if she too feared the very word. "How can you be sure?"
Killian nodded vigorously, his hands trembling.
"I've seen her," he said, his voice shaking with the weight of the truth. "She's coming for me, and if I don't get away... if I don't warn you all... she'll kill everyone. Just like she killed my family. You have to listen to me. Please. You have to warn the village. The witch will come for all of you next."
The woman looked at him, her expression hardening for a moment as if she was trying to process his words, to understand the depth of his fear.
"Alright," she said, her voice firm. "I'll go. I'll tell them. But you... you have to stay safe. Hide. Don't let her find you. You're not the only one here who fears witches."
Killian looked at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of gratitude and dread. "Thank you," he whispered, but inside, the knot of fear only tightened. The woman turned to go, her steps quick and sure as she moved to speak to the others in the square.
Killian stayed where he was, watching her go, his heart heavy with the knowledge that his lies, however well-intentioned, would lead to something darker. The witch trials would come for them all, and soon, the village would turn on itself in fear.
But it had already begun.
Killian's pulse quickened as he felt the eyes of the villagers shift to him, uncertain but still on edge. The weight of the moment bore down on him, and without another thought, he pushed forward.
His limp was forgotten, his desperation clear. His voice rang out through the square, louder than before, commanding attention.
"A witch!" Killian shouted, his voice filled with terror. "A witch is coming! She's going to kill us all!"
The villagers froze, their eyes wide with panic. The word "witch" was like a curse in this town, and they knew what it meant. They didn't need proof. They didn't need to question. A witch meant death, and death meant destruction. The children, the innocents, were always the first to suffer.
"She lives in the forest!" Killian continued, his voice frantic, eyes wide as if he could barely breathe from the weight of his own words. "She's taken children, she's taken people! I saw her with my own eyes! She's going to come for all of you! For your families! For your children!"
The villagers' murmurs grew louder, voices filled with fear and disbelief, but Killian pressed on, adding to their terror. He could feel their fear, like an electric current running through the crowd.
"I escaped, but I barely made it out alive!" Killian shouted, his eyes wild with panic, making sure every word seemed soaked in his own experience. "She's in the forest right now, waiting to strike. You have to leave—before it's too late!"
A woman in the crowd gasped, clutching her child to her chest. "Children," she whispered, the word breaking through her trembling lips. Killian saw the fear in her eyes, the motherly instinct that kicked in.
The crowd began to stir, and soon the whispers began to spread like wildfire. The villagers' fear was palpable now. They knew of the witches in these parts, knew of their powers, and above all, feared them. The thought of their children being taken—killed—was enough to send any of them into a frenzy.
"Don't let her take anyone else!" someone shouted, and the panic spread even further. Voices began to rise.
"Get the pitchforks! Get the torches!"
Killian smirked to himself, a cold, calculating expression settling across his face. He could see it now—the villagers were already mobilizing.
Within moments, men and women rushed into action. Some grabbed their weapons, while others ran for the doors, calling out to others to help.
"Save the children!" someone screamed. "We can't let her take anyone else! To the forest! We'll burn her alive!"
Killian now stood at the edge of the village, the air thick with the tension of the impending chaos. His eyes darted around as the villagers began to mobilize, their panic and fear palpable. He could hear their hurried footsteps, the rustling of their clothes, the clinking of weapons being grabbed from behind tavern doors and from various sheds.
They were so easy to gullible.
They were already believing him. They didn't even stop to question it. A witch? An easy target, a convenient scapegoat for the fears they already carried in their hearts. What would they do when they found her? They didn't know. They couldn't possibly understand.
The irony wasn't lost on him—Killian knew the woman wasn't a witch. She was just someone who practiced the dark arts from the very book Killian had stolen. A book that didn't recognize her as its master, a book that only responded to Killian's touch. The moment he'd read it, his golden eyes had confirmed what he had suspected all along—he was meant for this. A sorcerer. The blood of his great-grandfather coursed through his veins, and his family, in their ignorance and fear, had cast him aside. They had left him to die in that forest, assuming he would never survive, never unlock the dark power buried within him.
He didn't care about her life. He didn't care about the people who would be caught in the crossfire.His thoughts drifted back to Alaric, the first real family he had ever had. The first true friend. Alaric was the one person who had ever shown him what real connection could be, even if it was a twisted, complicated bond. Alaric had been more than a companion—he had been the one to awaken something deeper in Killian, something that made him feel like he was part of something more than the bloodline of a cursed sorcerer.
It was strange, the way Alaric had embraced him, even though they both knew what Killian was. But Alaric, despite his own dark nature, had never turned away. And Killian... well, he had never felt more alive than he had with Alaric.
"I need him," Killian thought suddenly, his eyes flashing with a brief, twisted desire.
But to keep him alive, to ensure Alaric didn't succumb to the hunger that would consume him before his twenty-second birthday, Killian would have to kill. He would need to feed him—feed Alaric the blood he needed to survive.
A sudden shout snapped him from his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. The villagers were already marching toward the forest. He could hear their angry cries, the calls to arms, the sound of boots stomping in unison.
This was the chaos he craved. The destruction. The blood.
And the witch would pay for their ignorance. But Killian wasn't worried about her. He wasn't worried about the villagers. He wasn't worried about anything except getting closer to his ultimate goal.
---
Killian's dashed through the dense forest once more, the sound of hurried footsteps muffled by the soft underbrush. His mind was set on one thing: protecting Alaric. The villagers were on their way to the woman's house, but that wasn't where Killian was headed. He knew Alaric wasn't there.
No, Alaric was somewhere far more sacred, far more pure in his mind— Alaric was in the open field, the one place where he could still play without fear, where he could still be a child. Killian couldn't bear the thought of him losing that innocence but it was the only way to have Alaric grow into a strong young man .
Slipping quietly through the trees, Killian gathered materials along the way—twigs, leaves, and vines, crafting a mask of camouflage. It wasn't just to blend in with the forest; it was a shield. A shield to protect his identity from Alaric. He couldn't let Alaric know who he was, not yet. Killian had made a promise to himself, and that promise was sacred. Alaric was still so young. He needed to remain untouched by the ugliness of what Killian was going to do for him.
The mask, when completed, fit snugly over his face, only leaving his eyes visible. Those eyes a bright blue ,began glowing golden with the power he had come to harness, remained sharp and focused. The rest of his features were concealed, just as his true intentions remained hidden. Alaric wouldn't know the depths of the darkness Killian had embraced, not until the time was right. And that time, Killian told himself, was not now.
He had been abandoned once, and he wouldn't let that happen to Alaric. He would be his protector, his shield against the horrors lurking beyond the forest's borders.
The field came into view as he pushed past the final line of trees. Killian stopped at the edge, just far enough to see Alaric—Alaric with his wild companions, the animals that had become his friends. Killian's heart softened for just a moment as he watched the child laugh, running through the field, barefoot, playing without a care in the world.
For a moment, it almost seemed like everything was right. Almost. But Killian knew that this wasn't reality. The world was about to change, and that innocence wouldn't last forever.
By nightfall, the woman would be dead. If she was lucky, it would be quick—no drawn-out suffering, no unnecessary pain. The villagers would tear her apart, as they did with anyone they called a witch. But Killian would make sure Alaric see it.
He crouched low in the tall grasses, watching over Alaric like a silent guardian, the mask of leaves and twigs his only veil between the boy and the dark truth of his intentions. His fingers brushed the ground, the earth cool beneath him, grounding him as his thoughts swirled with a plan already set in motion.
Alaric could never know about the blood that Killian would spill in the future. He couldn't understand the sacrifices Killian was willing to make to ensure that Alaric would survive long enough to grow, to gain control of his hunger. If Killian had to sacrifice others, so be it. The blood would keep Alaric alive until he was ready, until he could stand by Killian's side without losing his soul.
Killian's heart twisted, a mix of love and sorrow bubbling within him. He was the only family Alaric had, the only one who truly understood the child. No one else could protect him the way Killian could. No one else could keep him safe from the horrors that lurked on the horizon.
As Alaric twirled in a circle, giggling as he spun with abandon, Killian emerged from the shadows of the woods. The boy's curious eyes met Killian's, and he stopped in his tracks, his plump face lighting up with a mix of wonder and excitement.
A few moments passed before Alaric, unable to contain his joy, bounced forward on his feet, grinning widely. "Hey!" he shouted, his voice filled with a bright, innocent enthusiasm. "Are you here to play with me?" His small hands waved in the air as if inviting Killian into his world of simple, childlike fun.
Killian said nothing, his expression unreadable beneath the mask he had crafted. Instead, he nodded once.
Alaric's smile widened, seeing the small gesture as an invitation. "Yay!" he shouted with glee, his body now wiggling with excitement as he clapped his hands together. "Come on! Let's play!" He ran toward Killian.
Killian remained still, his eyes fixed on the boy.
Alaric's small hands gripped Killian's, the warmth and innocence in his touch sending a pang through Killian's chest. The boy's face beamed with happiness, his eyes alight with a joy so pure it almost hurt to look at.
"I've never had a friend before," Alaric said, his voice full of wonder.
Killian's heart skipped a beat. The words were a familiar echo—words he had heard before. When Alaric had first spoken them, he'd been with different memories, and yet the sentiment remained the same.
Killian smiled softly, a gentle expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Neither have I, Alaric."
But that peace didn't last.
As they sat on the ground, giggling, the distant sound of shouting reached Killian's ears. His smile faltered as his senses sharpened, recognizing the angry murmurs and hurried footsteps. His pulse quickened. It was the mob.
Killian's instincts flared.
Alaric, still full of energy, looked up at him, his curiosity undiminished. "What's that sound?"
Killian crouched down to the boy's level, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Do you want to see something cool?"
Alaric's eyes widened, his face lighting up at the prospect. "Yes! What is it?"
Killian's lips curled into a dark smile. "Come on," he said, his hand wrapping around Alaric's and pulling him up from the ground. "I'll show you."
The two of them moved swiftly, Killian guiding Alaric. They moved away from the open field and deeper into the woods, the sounds of the approaching mob growing louder. Killian led Alaric to the edge of the village, hidden behind a thick line of trees that shielded them from view.
Alaric tugged gently on Killian's sleeve, his eyes wide with excitement. "What are we doing here?"
Killian crouched down once more, his hands resting on Alaric's shoulders. "Shh," he whispered softly. "I want you to watch. But you need to stay quiet, alright? Don't make a sound."
Alaric nodded eagerly, his wide eyes focused on Killian's every word. He didn't understand what was happening.
Killian's eyes narrowed as he peered through the trees, watching the angry mob march closer, their torches blazing in the night. He could hear their shouts now, the cries for justice, the murmurs of fear. And he knew exactly who they were after.
The woman.
Killian's gaze flickered to Alaric, who was staring at the mob, utterly fascinated. The boy's innocence would soon be shattered, but Killian had promised himself that he would protect him. He would shield him from the truth for as long as he could, even if it meant losing his own soul in the process.
Killian's lips curled into a small, sadistic smile as he waited for them to pass, for the woman to meet her end.
Villagers dragged a woman, her hands bound, her face streaked with tears and dirt. She was yelling, her voice sharp and desperate, a wild, frenzied scream that cut through the night air. The words she screamed were unintelligible at first, just a tangled mess of curses and defiance, but it didn't matter. To the mob, she was already guilty.
"Kill the witch!" The chant rang out, growing louder as the mob marched with purpose, pulling the woman along with brutal force.
Alaric's eyes, wide with confusion and innocence, followed the scene in front of him. Killian's mask of leaves and twigs blended him into the surroundings, making him less noticeable, but Alaric was transfixed.
Then it happened. A recognition.
"Mama…" Alaric's voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it was enough to stop Killian's heart.
The woman's wild, frantic eyes darted through the mob, her gaze searching desperately for something—someone. When her eyes landed on Alaric, they widened in horror. And then, a second later, they locked onto Killian's masked face.
She gasped. A sharp, painful intake of breath.
"NO!" She screamed, the word filled with agony as she struggled against the villagers holding her. Her voice broke with each word as she fought to break free, her body twisting against their grip. "You... You're with him?"
But it was too late.
Alaric's mother, seeing her son through the haze of panic, tried to twist in the mob's grip, her eyes pleading now as she locked on to him. The once powerful curses she had spoken turned into desperate cries. "Alaric! No!" she screamed.
Alaric's hand twitched in Killian's, and for a moment, Killian feared that the boy would rush out of hiding. But he stayed still, his gaze fixed on the woman. Alaric's lips trembled as his mother's face twisted in pain.
The mob did not notice. The chants of "Kill the witch!" rang out louder than her screams, and with a violent shove, the villagers forced her onto a large wooden cross, pinning her arms out to each side. Her body strained against the ropes, but there was no escape.
The cross was positioned upright, and the woman was left there, struggling, her eyes searching frantically for Alaric.
"Shh, Alaric." Killian whispered, bending low to the boy's ear. "It's alright. She's not your mother anymore. She's just a part of what I need. What you need."
Alaric looked up at him, his innocent face twisted with confusion. "But… she's my mama…"
Killian smiled gently beneath his mask, though the expression was far from kind. "Not anymore. Not for you."
Alaric stayed quiet, but his small body trembled in Killian's grip. He didn't fully understand, but something inside him felt the loss,
The fire crackled in the distance, the villagers preparing the pyre, the flickering flames reflecting off the tension in Alaric's eyes.
Killian leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a soft whisper. "Alaric," he said gently, but with an edge of coldness that made the boy stiffen. "She was going to let them burn you too."
Alaric's eyes widened, his lips trembling as the weight of the words sank in. "No," he whispered, shaking his head violently. "She wouldn't—"
"She was going to expose you," Killian continued, his tone smooth, calculated. "She was going to tell them about you. About what you really are. And they would've killed you too, just like the others."
Alaric's breath hitched, and a sob tore from his throat as he struggled to understand. "But… she's my mama," he cried, his voice cracking with distress. "She wouldn't… she wouldn't do that…"
Killian gently reached out and wiped the boy's tears away with a slow motion, letting his fingers linger on Alaric's damp cheeks. A dark smile tugged at his lips as the boy's sobs grew louder. The innocence, the confusion in his eyes—it was all so pure. So easy to manipulate.
"Alaric," Killian said, his voice soothing now, laced with warmth as he brushed his thumb gently over the boy's cheek. "She was going to throw you to the fire, just like the others. She was going to expose your secret. She would've let them kill you. She betrayed you."
Alaric's sobs grew more frantic now, his little body crumpling as he finally grasped the twisted reality of what Killian had said. His mother—his supposed protector—had never been that. She had been a threat to him, a betrayal waiting to happen.
"Why? Why would she do that?" Alaric cried, his voice ragged and broken.
Killian's smile widened, his heart racing as he watched Alaric's pain unfold. This was it. This was what needed to happen.
"She was afraid of you, Alaric," Killian whispered, his voice low and dark.
As the villagers lit the pyre, the flames roared to life, licking hungrily at the wood piled high beneath the woman. Her screams pierced the night, raw and filled with agony. The mob shouted over her cries, chanting, "Burn the witch!" with venomous fervor, their torches casting flickering shadows across the scene.
Alaric's wide, innocent eyes stared in horror at the sight before him. His small body trembled as recognition dawned in his gaze. "Mama," he whispered, his voice breaking. He tried to step forward, but Killian's hand clamped tightly onto his arm, holding him in place.
"No," Killian said softly, but firmly, pulling the boy back into the shadows. His mask of leaves and twigs hid his expression, but his icy calm betrayed no sympathy.
The woman, thrashing against the ropes binding her to the cross, screamed louder. "Alaric! Alaric!" she cried, her voice hoarse but desperate. "Don't trust him! The boy —"
Her words were cut off as Killian reached over and quickly covered Alaric's ears, muffling the sound. "Shh," Killian whispered, crouching beside him. "Don't listen to her, Alaric. She's only trying to confuse you."
Alaric struggled against Killian's grip, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Mama! Mama!" he wailed, his voice muffled by Killian's hand. He squirmed harder, trying to break free, but Killian tightened his hold, his strength belying his small frame.
"You can't go to her, Alaric," Killian said, his tone eerily calm. "She's not your mama anymore. She's the witch they say she is. She's dangerous."
Killian didn't relent. Instead, he shifted his grip, one hand over Alaric's mouth to silence him and the other around his waist to hold him still. He forced the boy to stay rooted in place, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before them.
"You need to see this, Alaric," Killian murmured, his voice low and steady. "You need to understand what happens to people like her. She was going to let this happen to you. She was going to let them burn you too."
Alaric's struggles weakened as his sobs overtook him. He stopped fighting and slumped against Killian, his small body trembling with every ragged breath.
When the fire finally died down, leaving only charred remains and the stench of burnt flesh in its wake, Killian let his grip on Alaric loosen. The boy collapsed to his knees, his face buried in his hands as his cries echoed in the quiet that followed the mob's departure.
Killian crouched beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "She's gone now, Alaric," he said softly, his voice almost tender. "She can't hurt you anymore."
But Alaric didn't respond. He stayed on the ground, trembling and broken, his sobs the only sound in the stillness of the night. Killian stood, his cold gaze sweeping over the remains of the woman who had once called herself Alaric's mother.
One day, when Alaric was older, he would thank him for it.
Killian adjusted Alaric on his back, the boy's small frame feeling heavier than it should because of his limp, unresponsive body. Alaric's face was buried against Killian's neck, his silent tears dampening Killian's skin. Killian's expression beneath the mask remained calm, even as his legs moved briskly through the dark forest, weaving between trees and ducking under low-hanging branches.
The woman's hut loomed ahead, hidden beneath a canopy of thick leaves and surrounded by overgrown foliage. It was a miracle the villagers hadn't found it during their search. Killian's sharp eyes scanned the area cautiously, ensuring they were alone before slipping inside.
The air inside the hut was musty, with the faint scent of herbs and old wood lingering in the small space. Bottles of strange liquids and jars of preserved plants lined the shelves. A cauldron sat cold in the corner, and a bundle of dried herbs hung from the ceiling beams. The place was untouched, as though the woman had been away when the villagers stormed through the forest.
Killian gently laid Alaric on the small cot in the corner of the room. Alaric curled into himself, his tear-streaked face hidden in the crook of his arm. Killian stood over him for a moment, his masked face unreadable.
He turned and surveyed the hut. The woman had left behind too many traces of herself—books filled with forbidden knowledge, symbols etched into the walls, and the pungent aroma of her craft. All of it was evidence of what she was, and now it was a threat to Alaric's safety.
Killian set to work, moving quickly and efficiently. He began pulling books from the shelves, flipping through them briefly before tossing them into the cold hearth. He grabbed the jars, smashing them outside to ensure no one could use them to trace back to Alaric. The symbols carved into the walls were scratched out with a knife he found on a table, the sharp edge biting into the wood as he erased every mark.
The cauldron, heavy and rusted, was dragged to the edge of the forest and buried under dirt and leaves. Every trace of the woman's craft was destroyed or hidden, as though she had never lived there.
When he returned to the hut, Killian paused to check on Alaric. The boy had stopped crying but remained curled on the cot, his breathing uneven and his eyes unfocused. Killian crouched beside him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"It's all gone now," Killian whispered, his voice soft and soothing. "No one will find this place. No one will find us."
Alaric didn't respond, his small body trembling slightly. Killian sighed and turned back to his task.
"We're leaving," Killian said firmly, his voice calm but commanding. He walked to the cot and crouched down, placing a hand on Alaric's shoulder. "It's not safe here anymore. We have to go."
Alaric didn't respond at first, his gaze fixed on the floor. Then, slowly, he nodded and reached out for Killian. Without hesitation, Killian picked him up, the boy's weight light in his arms despite their similar height.
"Hold on tight," Killian murmured, adjusting Alaric so the book was still securely in his grasp. He stepped out of the hut into the cold night air, the forest around them eerily silent. The only sound was the faint crackling of the fire inside the hut as it consumed the remnants of the woman's life.
Killian moved quickly but carefully, his steps silent as he navigated through the dense woods. The mask of leaves and twigs still concealed his face, and he made sure to keep Alaric close, shielding him from the chill.
Alaric buried his face against Killian's neck, his small hands clutching at Killian's tunic. "Where are we going?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
"Somewhere safe," Killian replied, his tone steady. "Far away from here. No one will hurt you, Alaric. Not ever again."
Alaric didn't ask any more questions. He simply held on, trusting Killian completely.
As they moved through the forest, Killian's mind raced. He thought about the woman's screams, the way she had called Alaric's name in desperation.
Killian tightened his grip on Alaric and the book. He had plans now, plans that would ensure Alaric's safety and his future.
Eric stood frozen, his mind reeling from the images unfurling before him like an unstoppable tide. Time surged forward in chaotic bursts, the years flickering like scenes from a nightmare. He watched as Killian, ever unseen, became Alaric's silent guardian and provider.
The vision shifted, showing a young Alaric wandering the forest near the now burnt remains of his mother's hut. His eyes shone with a lonely innocence as he sat in the clearing each morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was leaving fresh food and water by the tree stump. Day after day, he called out, his voice soft and pleading, but no one ever answered.
Killian, hidden in the shadows, watched silently. His small frame had grown wiry and strong over the years, but the same psychotic glint burned in his eyes. He had perfected his role as Alaric's unseen protector, never allowing himself to be caught.
The vision jumped forward again, showing Alaric tentatively returning to the village. He was older now, taller and stronger, but the villagers' hatred hadn't softened. Eric's heart clenched as he saw them sneer, mock, and shove Alaric into the dirt, calling him cursed, a monster.
Killian's presence loomed just beyond the edges of the scene, his fury evident. That night, Eric saw Killian hunting those who had hurt Alaric. He dragged them into the woods one by one, his mask still concealing his face, and dealt with them swiftly and mercilessly. The screams of the villagers faded into the night, their lives snuffed out without hesitation.
Eric flinched as the vision shifted again, this time showing Killian meticulously preparing the meals he would leave for Alaric. The meat, dark and glistening, was cooked with care, seasoned with herbs Killian had gathered himself. Alaric, oblivious to the truth, ate the meals without question, savoring the taste as if it were the only comfort in his life.
The years rolled on, and Eric saw the village change. The streets grew quieter, the houses abandoned. The once-thriving marketplace became empty, its stalls rotting and covered in dust. Killian's campaign of terror left the village barren and desolate, its inhabitants either dead or too fearful to remain.
Through it all, Alaric remained unaware. He spent his days tending to the animals in the forest and exploring the ruins of his childhood home. He stopped trying to find his mysterious benefactor, accepting the food and supplies as an unexplainable kindness.
Eric's breath hitched as the vision began to slow.
Killian, watching from the shadows, smiled faintly. He had done everything to keep Alaric safe, even if it meant turning the village into a graveyard.
The vision faded, and Eric found himself awakening from a nightmare that felt like it was going on for years. Killian's love for Alaric was twisted, obsessive, but undeniably consuming. It was a love that would destroy anyone and anything that threatened Alaric's safety or purity.