"Hunger is the worst form of violence."
— Mahatma Gandhi
New Year's mornings always started the same—Dad waking me up early so I could write.
"How can I make Victor an even worse father?" I muttered, eyes glued to my laptop screen.
"What?" Dad called out from the kitchen. How did he always hear me from that far away?
"Not talking to you!" I shouted.
"What did you say?" His voice rang out again, perfectly proving my point.
Groaning, I left my desk and headed to the kitchen. He stood at the counter, wearing an apron that said "World's Okayest Cook."
"What're you making?" I asked, plopping onto a stool.
"Apple pie. It's done. Here—taste." He cut a slice and handed it to me, no plate, just straight into my hand. Classic Dad.
I took a bite and made a face. "Too much sugar. You used to make these differently when I was younger."
"Well, you're not young anymore, and… neither am I the same," he said, his voice trailed away.
"Clearly not."
"So, what were you mumbling about earlier?" He untied his apron.
"I wasn't talking to you!" I sighed. "I was trying to figure out how to make this emperor in my book, Victor, even less likable."
"Victor?" He raised an eyebrow. "The name sounds familiar."
"You never read my stuff."
"Of course not," he said, feigning offense. "But I hear you talk about it all the time. I'd be the first to read it, though, if you asked."
"No, that'd be my girlfriend."
"Sure, sure," he said, waving it off, but I caught the small smile.
It was true—he was always the first to read it. He just didn't know it yet.
"So, Victor's evil, huh?"
"Evil? He's the worst!" I scoffed. "He favors his son Theron—the antagonist—over Magnus, the hero. Total nightmare of a dad."
He flinched, then nodded. "Uh-huh. Your story's written from Magnus's perspective, right?"
"Right."
"Then you don't need to make Victor worse."
I blinked. "What? If I don't show him doing evil things, how will readers get the impression I want?"
"You don't have to make him evil—you just need him to be perceived that way by the readers"
I frowned. "So, lie to the readers and then go, 'Surprise! He was a good guy all along?'"
"No." He shook his head. "That's not what I mean."
He paused, glancing at the pie, then brightened. "Alright, look at this pie."
"What about it?"
"If you were describing it in your book, how would you do it?"
"Uh…" I leaned back, crossing my arms. "Probably something like, 'My dad woke me up before dawn and fed me this diabetic nightmare that nobody asked for.'"
"Exactly," he said, grinning.
"Huh?"
"But if I were describing it, I'd say, 'A delicious apple pie, lovingly baked to celebrate New Year's with my ungrateful, dramatic son.'"
"I'm not dramatic!"
"Point is," he continued, ignoring me, "the pie's the same. The difference is in how we see it."
I stared at him for a moment. The wheels turned, and then it clicked. "OH!"
He smiled. "There you go."
"You're saying Victor doesn't need to be more evil—Magnus just has to see him that way."
"Exactly. The pie stays the same, but the story changes depending on who's tasting it."
I nodded slowly. "Huh. So, it's not about what's actually happening—it's about how it's perceived."
"Now you're getting it."
I squinted at him. "How do you know so much about writing? Did you used to write too?"
He froze for just a second, then scoffed. "Nah. I had better things to do when I was younger. This is just common sense."
"Hardly." I smirked, taking another bite of the overly sweet apple pie.
…
The memory resurfaced watching Theron stuffing his apple pie, not offering a single bite.
"Shouldn't we be leaving for Haldor by now?" I asked.
"We should," he replied, biting into the pie with nonchalance.
"It's already evening."
"It is." He stabbed a piece with his fork and shoved it into his mouth.
"Why are you then…"
"Then what?"
"The pie—why—"
"Why not?" His sharp tone cut through me like his knife through the crust. "What's wrong with having my pie before we leave?"
"Fine. Have your damn pie."
"Good apples only show up once a year. No apples, no pies, after this month's over. And now…" He dusted his hands off and stood, with an annoying smug grin. "I'm done. Time to go."
"Wait."
"What now?"
"Nyx. Leave Nyx here, like last time."
Theron scoffed. "Oh, that again? You think you can take me down just because Nyx isn't by my side?" His eyes glinted, dark and dangerous. "Not a chance."
I sighed, "save your paranoia, I still very much need you."
I couldn't let Nyx follow us—if he had found out about Eira, it would've only invited trouble.
Nyx, hidden inside his shadow stretched away, fading into darkness with only a glance from Theron, as he opened the door—turning around to leave, "time to go."
I smirked. "You seriously think we won't get caught walking straight out the front?"
"Of course. I brought this cloak." He held up a dark, frayed garment. "I know all the routes with the least security. Unless you'd like to suggest teleportation?" His smirk widened. "Oh, wait—there's no teleportation circle between the palace and the Haldor's temple."
"Keep your cloak, mortal." I unfurled my bat-like wings, giving them a single, gentle flap—as the torches blew out, completely darkening the chamber. Highlighting the moon light, peeking through the window.
Theron froze, staring. "What the—"
"I'll fly. High enough in the night sky that even the owls won't spot me."
"Annoying as always," he muttered, rubbing his temples.
"And you" I continued, with a cocky smirk, "you can take your little shaky carriage. Without me to stir up trouble, I'm sure you'll arrive safe and sound."
I wasn't simply bragging—though I'd earned the right to that.
After lifetimes of cramped carriages and the nauseating hum of teleportation magic, these wings were a liberation I never knew I craved.
With them, I wasn't bound to the earth anymore. I was free.
I stepped onto the window, letting the cold breeze blow my hair. "Should I take off?" I called to Asta, grinning.
"Careful, Just as I taught you—slowly and with caution."
Asta had spent the afternoon teaching me to fly. His patience surprised me.
With a few careful flaps, I soared into the night sky.
the empire shrank below me until its people were no more than specks of dust.
"This view…"
It was breathtaking—I mean, it really would take your breath away. In a literal sense.
Empire looked different—different than the view you'd see on earth through a plane. Torches lit the alleys—snow-covered streets reflected the warm light. All houses looked the same—the palace along with manors of many nobles stood out.
No cars, smoke, or even noise—just a melodies hum, made up of joy and laughter of many standing below.
This… was the world I had made.
And surely no earth could match it's beauty.
"Its devoid of joy—not a single one here of my kind." Asta said, hovering around me—with an expression of one who had lived too long.
He was right, it was majestic—yet devoid of joy for him, for me. Because none of the people I loved lived here. I understood how he felt—a familiar feeling, losing each person you loved. But watching the world stay the same.
"Didn't you devour your own kind?" I asked, half-teasing, half-curious. "Now you miss them?"
"You brat," Asta smacked, his voice dropped. "You don't know anything."
"Then enlighten me."
"Let it be, its a long one."
"our journey Is hours long—and you can always cut short on details." I smirked, convincing him into answering.
In the original story—astaroth remained a myth. During Magnus's reign, a group of vampires began a cult that worshipped Asta after acquiring his blood—possibly through the Auction.
They wished to reawaken the monster—Magnus slaughtered each and every vampire within the cult, and purified Astaroth's blood with holy water, killing his soul.
But we never saw his real story—one before his passing.
He hesitated, then broke the silence. "I was captured," he finally said, the words bitter and raw.
My wings faltered, "By who?"
"Humans," he spat, as though the word itself was poison. "A lowly kind. Those frail, insignificant worms."
Impossible, humans capturing vampires? The idea seemed absurd, laughable even. But the pain in his voice was undeniable.
"They confined me to a sunlit room," he said. "It burned my skin, day and night. They threw me scraps of food, blood—just enough to keep me alive."
"Then?"
Months on end. I stopped eating, I carved the count of the days passing on the walls—using my nails until the skin peeled away.
later consuming the very skin, like a monster.
"…"
"Hunger changes you. It makes you do things you swore you never would."
"And just like that, a year went by. Lack of blood didn't kill me, but only enhanced my misery. immortality is a curse, I understood it better than anybody as I waited for my death holding the chains bound to my feet."
he looked away, closing his eyes. "I began consuming my own blood," he admitted, his voice breaking.
"I tore at my flesh until there was nothing left. Pulling my own organs as the blood crystallized when it left my body. The hardened blood only broke my bones, stabbing in its own organs, as I devoured the stones till my teeth fell out.
In the end… all that remained was my head."
He said it casually, which only made it more daunting.
The image churned my stomach. Asta, proud and regal, reduced to a cannibal. It was almost too much to bear.
"And then?" He remained silent.
"I have a question."
"Tch, ask."
"Your wife and presumably your kids… did you ever devour them as the story goes?"
He flinched, then exhaled, "the… food." He looked away "The food and blood I was supplied for months—the meat, all of that..."
"...had been of my wife and children."
My wings quivered, almost breaking my balance. How could one do something so abhorrent?
"is that...when you stopped consuming the blood provided by them?"
"Yes… one day the flesh thrown for me to eat had… a ring—one I gave her. Stuck, burnt, faded but I recognized it. it was one I gave to my wife. Their blood only crystallized more inside my body. Poking my veins with their sharp, stone like edges."
"...and when you died, they extracted your blood from your last remaining organ, your head. Whilst knowing a vampire's soul resides within its blood."
"I was dead by then, hardly noticed it."
"Why?" I asked, angry. "Why would they do that?"
He remained silent, gaze fixed on the horizon. "We've reached Haldor," he said. "Time to land."
I didn't press him. Whatever haunted him, he perhaps wasn't ready to share it—not yet.
A myth… a few words I wrote in my book—held a story never could I have imagined. All buried under… Magnus's perception of the world?
Father once said: History was written by victors, but perhaps it was more than that. The truth itself was shaped by the hands that Wielded the pen.
And as one who held that pen, I couldn't help but wonder: How many stories had I twisted without ever realizing?
How many lies had I told, believing Magnus's point of view to be absolute?
What if...the story told by Magnus was nothing but...his own delusion.
One that carried his insecurities, impressions and assumptions of his own. Holding little to no relevance to the reality.