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Last Night.
Wyfkeep Castle, Wyfellon.
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Last night Alaric waited until Salviana had drifted into a deep sleep, her breath steady and warm against his chest before he decided to leave but he lay still, watching her with an unusual softness, reluctant to leave her side.
But tonight was a night he could not ignore his other responsibilities.
Silently, he slipped from the bed, threw on his gloves, and slipped into the night.
The wind was brisk, slicing through the air as he moved with supernatural speed, each stride carrying him effortlessly toward the seediest quarters of the city.
His destination was an inn on the dark side of town, cloaked in shadows where dubious figures prowled, and grim deeds went unnoticed.
Alaric had long since memorized its alleys and hidden entryways; he could travel this path in his sleep.
In mere minutes, he'd arrived at the inn's rear entrance, lingering for a moment in the silence, waiting with calculated patience.
A scream pierced the night, faint and muffled, but enough to make his lips curl into a dark smile. He tugged his gloves tighter, inhaled deeply, and entered the inn through the back.
The innkeeper, a greasy man with an unsettling grin, glanced at Alaric but did nothing to stop him—too caught in the web of enchantment Alaric had weaved.
Under Alaric's influence, the innkeeper only managed a nod of acknowledgment, completely unaware of the danger that had just stepped across his threshold.
The cries of pain echoed through the narrow, dim hallway leading to a room at the far end. Alaric could smell the stench of spilled blood long before he reached it—a sickly sweet aroma mixed with the fear permeating the air.
He approached the door, knocked once, and waited. Within seconds, the door creaked open, revealing a man whose face shifted from arrogance to fear in a split second.
Inside, three men encircled a young woman, who was strapped to a chair, her skin pale and marked with shallow cuts from which they were greedily drinking.
They called themselves the 'Vamparys', a group of sadistic humans who sought the thrill of torturing and bleeding women and children.
Alaric had uncovered their existence years ago, a disgusting parody of his kind who claimed the mantle of "vampire" for the thrill it brought them. They had no idea what true darkness was, no real understanding of the creatures they mocked.
One of the men sneered as Alaric stepped inside. "And what business does a fine gentleman like you have here?"
Alaric's gaze swept across the room, his eyes gleaming with lethal intensity as he took in the scene—the bloodied knife in the man's hand, the ropes biting into the woman's skin, her pleading, broken expression.
"I came for my usual drink," he replied coldly, his words dripping with an irony that was lost on the group of pretenders.
"Your drink, eh?" the man sneered, trying to mask his unease. "Then take your turn like the rest of us."
Alaric smiled, a predatory gleam flashing in his eyes. "Oh, I intend to." Without a moment's hesitation, he lunged, faster than their eyes could track, and seized one of the men by the throat, his grip unyielding. The man's bravado shattered, his face twisting in terror.
Alaric didn't break eye contact as he sank his fangs into the man's neck, drinking deeply, relishing the surge of power and satisfaction as he drained the body.
When he finally released him, the man's lifeless form crumpled to the floor, an empty shell.
The remaining two men stared, frozen in shock, their faces pale as death itself.
Alaric straightened, blood staining his lips, which he wiped away with an almost casual flick of his thumb. "Humans," he said, his voice low and laced with disdain. "Always pretending to know darkness."
The two men staggered back, their earlier arrogance dissolved into terror. One of them attempted to stammer a question, "What… what are you?"
"More than you'll ever understand," Alaric replied, his voice a chilling whisper. He leaned toward them, his gaze locking onto theirs as he spoke, his tone almost hypnotic. "You will forget everything you've seen here tonight."
The men nodded, dazed, their eyes glassy under his hypnotic command. Their bodies sagged as Alaric's influence overtook them, and with a casual flick of his wrist, he rendered them both unconscious.
He glanced at the woman, her head hanging low, her breathing weak but steady. Blood trickled from her wounds, her skin a ghostly pale.
She looked up at him, dazed and barely conscious, her eyes filled with a desperation that made his chest tighten.
For an instant, his instincts pulled him toward her—her blood would sustain him, he could feel it calling to him in her every heartbeat.
But he reined himself in. With a resigned sigh, he loosened the straps binding her wrists and scooped her into his arms. She was limp and unresponsive, her head lolling against his chest as he carried her toward the door.
Alaric hated this part. Compassion was not something he indulged in often, but tonight, he felt compelled to make sure she would live.
With a final glance at the room of fallen predators, he left the inn, moving at a supernatural speed through the empty streets, carrying her toward safety.
He slowed as he approached a healer's quarters on the quieter edge of town, a place he knew could tend to her injuries without too many questions.
He'd always come here with whomever he saved because he couldn't take them to the castle and he wasn't a saint.
If the saved people knew who he was they would perhaps worship him or make the kingdom remember and he didn't want that.
None of his men knew about this escapades but he suspects Lucius did but pretends since he knew that Alaric wanted to keep it secret and wouldn't want to speak on it.
Alaric wanted to be seen as evil instead of a pretending saint.
Though there was one man that fought to right his reputation repeatedly.