Âlfred
Âlfred (waking up): The air felt thick, heavy with smoke. Something was wrong. He stirred, groggily rubbing his eyes, the usual warmth of his bed now replaced by a suffocating heat. His ears rang with distant cries, the terrifying sounds of something burning. At first, he thought it was just a nightmare, but as he blinked awake, the scent of smoke and something more… burning flesh, filled his nostrils. It felt all too real.
Âlfred (shakily standing): His eyes darted around the room, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw the flames creeping along the walls. His mother's frantic voice echoed from the other side of the room.
Mother (urgent): "Âlfred! Get up! We need to go now!"
He didn't waste a second. His body, still in his pyjamas, felt sluggish as he threw the bed sheet off and stumbled to his feet. Something was very wrong. They had been celebrating his birthday just hours ago—family, music, laughter—but now? Everything was burning.
Âlfred (thinking): "Is this real? No... it can't be real. It's just a nightmare, right?"
His mother's grip on his hand tightened as she led him through the smoky hallways of the mansion. The once-grand walls were now fading, scorched, the portraits of his ancestors—old and new—falling from their frames, consumed by the flames. The heat was unbearable, the smoke stinging his eyes, but she didn't stop. She didn't even look back.
Âlfred (shaky voice): "Mom… What's happening? Why are they…?"
His voice faltered, the weight off fear making it hard to think. He couldn't understand. His mind raced, but his body moved without question. The stairs ahead loomed, and suddenly, his feet began to hesitate, questioning how they had made it this far unscathed. The mansion was burning down around them, but not a single injury had touched him yet.
Mother (firm): "Hurry, Âlfred! Don't stop!"
As they approached the stairs, they suddenly gave way under their feet, crumbling like wet sand. His heart dropped into his stomach as he and his mother plunged downward. For a moment, everything went silent. No cries, no flames, just a heavy, suffocating stillness as they fell.
Âlfred (sobbing): "Mom…!"
When he came to, everything was dark and painful. His leg was bent at an unnatural angle, but somehow, he could still move. His body, broken but functional, forced him to crawl. He dragged himself through the wreckage, pulling his mother's lifeless body behind him, feeling the heat of the flames even though he wasn't close to them anymore.
The front door, the last thing standing in this collapsing mansion, was in sight. His heart raced as he crawled toward it, his strength draining with every movement. His mother's body felt like dead weight, but he pulled her, determined to escape. The Varyndor crest, tarnished by the flames, loomed above him as he finally reached the door.
Âlfred (weakly): "I… I made it…"
He dragged his mother out of the house and into the yard. The pool was in front of him, still pristine, untouched by the chaos. He collapsed at its edge, his tiny, broken body finally giving in to exhaustion.
Âlfred (whispering, broken): "Is this real? Where… where is everyone? Is father still alive?"
His mind spun with questions, each one too heavy for his young mind to handle. His observation skills, which had always been sharp, had failed him here. He could see the smoke billowing from the mansion, could hear the screams of the dying, but his thoughts felt clouded, like he was losing grip on reality.
As he sat there, his body numb, a shadow fell over him. He turned weakly, barely able to keep his eyes open. A figure stood before him—a maid. She had just started working for the family, someone his father had brought in from one of his business trips. She was wearing her usual maid outfit, her glasses gleaming in the dim light of the burning mansion.
Âlfred (dazed, voice cracked): "You… you're safe?"
He didn't have the strength to even sit up properly, but her presence did little to comfort him. She was the last person he expected to see in this chaos, but in a strange way, she was a relief. His father had picked her up during one of his business trips. She was new, unknown. But at least someone was alive.
Maid (in-disgust like what she planned didn't work out ): "I'm fine, young master. But we should leave. There's nothing left here."
He turned his head back to the mansion, the flames licking at the sky. His eyes stung, and his heart felt cold. His mother was gone. His family—gone. Was his father alive? Were his sisters alive? His mind couldn't process it all. His sharp observation skills couldn't make sense of the disaster unfolding.
Suddenly something fell to the ground behind him it was heavy and something liquid touched his face opening his eyes he notice it was the maid head cut beatifully before this he heard it—the sound of metal, cold and precise, unsheathing from behind him. His heart stopped. A deep chill washed over him, tightening his chest, making it impossible to breathe. His senses screamed, every fibre of his being told him to run. But his body was frozen. He couldn't move.
Âlfred (barely audible): "W-Who...?"
It was a feeling he had never known before—a primal, instinctual fear, like being hunted by something far beyond his understanding. He could feel it in his bones, the presence of something... something much stronger than a mere human. The air itself seemed to thicken with danger.
He couldn't see the person in front of him, but he could feel their gaze. Like a predator locking eyes with its prey, the air around him crackled with an oppressive weight. He looked up, but the figure's face was obscured. All he could see was the faint glimmer of a blade, cold and sharp.
Âlfred (voice shaking): "What are you?"
His heart pounded in his chest, his body unable to move, paralysed by fear. His mind raced, but the only thing that made sense was the overwhelming sensation of danger. It was unlike anything he had ever felt. This was not a mere assassin, not a human threat. This was something far greater. Something powerful.
And then, as quickly as it came, the pressure seemed to intensify, like a weight pressing down on his soul. He knew, deep in his bones, that whatever this thing was, it was beyond his comprehension. His mind screamed at him to run, but his body refused to obey.
-----
🩸Lord Ãñøs Voldigoad🖋️
The Night of the Fallen - The Mark of Fate
The full moon illuminated the night sky as Lord Ãñøs Voldigoad walked through the dense shadows of the forest. His black, fur-lined cloak billowed behind him, an artefact of great importance, worn only on his most significant journeys. As the leader of the Illuminati, every action he took had purpose, and tonight, the purpose was clear. He was headed toward the Varyndor estate.
The mansion, a symbol of wealth and power, was burning. He had watched from afar as flames consumed the structure, the cries of its inhabitants filling the air. Yet, Anos's mind was not on the fire itself, but on the family that had lived there—the Varyndor family. Their tragic end was written long ago. Tonight, it was finally being realised.
Earlier that night, in the quiet chambers of the Illuminati hidden mansion, the head of the Varyndor household's wife, a woman named Eveline, stood before Lord Anos. She was a member of the Illuminati, bound by his will. Her eyes were downcast, filled with unspeakable sorrow, for she knew the price she would pay for her loyalty to him.
Anos stood tall, his gaze piercing her soul as he spoke in a calm, unwavering tone.
"Your children are strong, Eveline. But the moment Alfred turns twelve, human higher-ups will come for your home. Your house will fall, and you will die. It is fated. It is inevitable," Anos declared. His voice was neither kind nor cruel, just the cold truth. "But you are not allowed to interfere. Not with their fate, and not with mine."
Eveline's heart dropped, and her knees buckled beneath her. She had always known that serving under Anos came with a price which is knowing one fate, but to hear it spoken so plainly, to know that her death—and her family's—was written in the stars, was too much for her to bear.
She swallowed her tears as Anos continued, his gaze unflinching.
"However, as you are loyal, I will grant you one wish. Ask for anything in this world—anything, aside from changing fate—and I will see it done."
Eveline's voice barely escaped her lips, trembling with desperation. She fought back tears as she dared to speak.
"Lord Anos… I wish… I wish for you to choose one of my children. I know I cannot protect them from the coming storm, but I want them to have the strength to survive it. I want them to be yours in some way. Let them serve you, as I have."
Anos's eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he nodded. His silence spoke volumes—he would honour her request.
"And the second wish?" Anos prompted.
Eveline hesitated, her breath shaky, but she gathered the courage to speak.
"Grant me a spell. A sexually pleasure spell. One that will give me… escape. I can't bear the thought of living in this cage any longer, knowing what's to come. Please… grant me that mercy."
Anos regarded her silently for a moment. "It will be done. Your wishes shall be fulfilled, Eveline. But remember this—once your wish is granted, you must leave your past life behind. You will walk the path I've set for you, and fate will not be kind."
Eveline's heart shattered as the weight of her words sank in. But she had no choice. Her tears fell freely, and she could only hope that, in the end, her children would survive.
The dark sky was heavy with the weight of the full moon as Lord Ãñøs Voldigoad made his way through the night, dressed in a long, old and furry black cloak. The air around him hummed with power, and the ancient cloth—stored in a dimensional pouch—was a relic, an item tied to many centuries of his existence. His steps were quick, precise, as his mind was focused on one thing: the family of House Varyndor, now caught in the throes of fate, about to lose everything they once held dear.
Anos stood still for a moment, feeling the gentle blessings of the moon wash over him. The cool air soothed his ancient soul, reminding him of his long journeys and the trials he'd endured.
"It's been long..." he muttered under his breath before disappearing into the night with a burst of speed.
As he moved, his surroundings changed with incredible speed. He crossed fields and forests, ignoring the usual dangers of the world. A battle erupted nearby between a pack of werewolves and a group of men—Anos didn't spare them a glance, though he did pause to witness the final, lethal moment. He moved like lightning, his finger piercing the heart of the last wolf in a single, fluid motion. As the beast fell, a dark, illuminated card dropped from his hand, landing with a soft rustle on the ground. It read: "The Illuminati was here."
With that, he spread his wings and turned into a bat, soaring through the night until he reached the house of Varyndor. His eyes scanned the estate as the flames engulfed the mansion, the fire a brutal reminder of the family's impending demise.
Anos landed on a rooftop and observed from the shadows. The chaos inside was palpable. Alfred's mother, desperate, was trying to escape with her son. The flames roared around them, but Alfred, only a child of twelve, moved with an almost unnerving calm, making swift, sharp decisions even in the chaos. Anos felt a flicker of interest—this boy was different. It was rare for a human to show such composure, especially in such a dire situation.
The family's escape was futile. Anos watched as Alfred's mother—sensing the fate she could not escape—prayed quietly in her final moments to her lord meanwhile Anos have been using his telekinesis power to control the flames and burning plank from touching the child in return his mom will suffer the pain alone, hoping her son would remain unaware of the tragedy unfolding around him.
She was destined to die here...
The words echoed in Anos's mind. Fate was inescapable.
The staircase they climbed finally crumbled under the relentless heat, and Alfred's mother held him tightly to ease the impact of the fall, her body taking the brunt of the damage. The light of life drained from her eyes as she died in her son's arms. Alfred, without a sound, dragged his mother's body with what little strength he had left. Anos had seen enough.
He turned to leave, but as he prepared to fly away, a sound caught his ear—a weak voice, a girl's voice. It was coming from the charred wreckage of the mansion. He stopped and hovered, his sharp eyes scanning the ground below. There, lying amidst the destruction, was Alfred, holding on to his mother's charred body. Blood trailed behind him, leading toward the door.
It seemed the child had managed to crawl out of the wreckage despite his broken legs, his body covered in his own blood, dragging his mother's lifeless form through the remains of the family mansion. It was then that Anos noticed something else—standing above Alfred was the maid. She stood unscathed, a sinister intent radiating from her. She held a blade, and from her posture, Anos could tell she was preparing to strike.
The rage bubbled inside of him, though he quickly suppressed it, focusing on the situation. His eyes glinted with a deadly light, and for a brief moment, his bloodlust flared out of control. His gaze sharpened, locking onto the maid's neck. He had no intention of letting her harm the child.
In an instant, Anos summoned the dark powers of his blood magic. His eyes flared with power, and with a single flick of his wrist, the magic cut through the maid's neck from the inside. The clean cut was almost surgical, executed with flawless precision. Anos had long mastered the art of blood manipulation, but he hadn't realised how far his rage had taken him until it was too late. The maid's head dropped silently to the ground, her body crumpling at the feet of Alfred, still gripping his dead mother.
Anos blinked in surprise, realizing the depth of his fury. He had not meant to kill her in such a manner, but his bloodlust had overwhelmed him. He quickly calmed himself, feeling the familiar power of his vampire form surge within him. His blood calmed, and he reverted to his human form, standing over the child as the flames continued to ravage the mansion behind them.
"Such a fragile thing, this world…" he muttered, his gaze shifting to the child. "But you are not so easily broken, are you, little one?"
-------
Âlfred 🤵🏽♂
The air crackled with the remnants of destruction, the roar of the flames growing distant in Alfred's ears as his world narrowed to the figure before him. Black fur framed its silhouette, a shadowy monolith against the inferno consuming everything he had ever known. In its stillness, it exuded an authority that felt almost godlike—and utterly infuriating.
Alfred's young mind, shattered by grief and pain, grasped desperately for meaning amidst the chaos. There had to be a reason. A why. Something, someone, to blame for the agony burning in his chest. He couldn't accept the randomness of it all—the betrayal, the death, the loss of his family's legacy. No. This wasn't chance. This was malice.
And in the figure's impassive presence, he found his answer.
"You..." he rasped, his voice trembling with raw emotion. "It's because of you!"
The dagger trembled in his grasp, its blade glinting wickedly in the firelight. Alfred didn't know—or care—that it had been meant to kill him. To him, it was now an extension of his fury, a piece of the hatred swelling inside him. He clung to it like a lifeline, though every nerve in his body screamed at him to let go, to lie down and surrender. But surrender was unthinkable.
Rage boiled over, consuming his rational mind. His pain, his sorrow, his fear—they coalesced into a single, blinding force that drowned out everything else. Tears streamed down his soot-streaked face, their warmth indistinguishable from the blood dripping down his chin. The world had stripped him of everything, leaving him a hollow vessel for wrath.
A wounded wolf, stripped of its pack, abandoned all logic. Instinct was all that remained.
And so Alfred lunged.
His broken body was a marionette of fury, dragging itself forward against the screams of his nerves and the weight of exhaustion. He bared his teeth like a feral beast, his voice tearing from his throat in a guttural, primal roar. It was the sound of a boy forsaking all reason, pouring his anguish and despair into a single, reckless act of defiance.
The dagger gleamed in his trembling hand, raised high above his head. Each agonizing step forward was a triumph of will over flesh. He knew, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, that he was no match for the figure before him. Its aura alone pressed against him like an unmovable mountain, suffocating and cold.
But none of that mattered.
"If you're the one who did this…" he growled, his voice a low, feral snarl, "then I'll tear you apart, even if it's the last thing I do!"
The figure didn't flinch, its presence unwavering. Its eyes, though unreadable in the shadows, seemed to pierce through Alfred, not with malice but with something else—pity? Curiosity? It didn't matter. Alfred didn't care. All he saw was an immovable object, a monument to the cruelty of fate, and he was the storm that would try to destroy it.
As Alfred closed the distance, his broken leg trailing uselessly behind him, the air grew colder. His survival instinct screamed at him to stop, to turn away, but he silenced it with a roar that echoed across the ruins of his life. His attack was reckless, his form crude, but his intent was clear: he would give his all in this moment, even if it meant his end.
His final step brought him face-to-face with the figure. And in that instant, he swung the dagger, every ounce of his broken soul poured into the strike.
----
🩸Lord Ãñøs Voldigoad🖋️
The boy's cry tore through the night like a wounded animal's howl—a sound drenched in rage, pain, and the desperation of one who had lost everything. Ãñøs Voldigoad, cloaked in the shadows of his ancient fur-lined mantle, did not flinch. He had heard countless such cries in his centuries of existence, yet this one was… different. It carried with it a purity, an unbridled force that refused to be extinguished despite the weight of the world pressing down on its bearer.
From his vantage point, he watched as Alfred—a mere child with a shattered leg and trembling hands—dragged himself forward, a blade clutched tightly in his grip. The boy's movements were unrefined, primal, his body a testament to willpower triumphing over injury and despair. Ãñøs could see it clearly: Alfred was wielding the dagger meant to end his own life, utterly unaware of its original purpose. Now, it had become the boy's weapon, his declaration of war against the perceived cause of his suffering.
A flicker of something ancient stirred in Ãñøs's chest. Not pity, no—he did not indulge in such shallow emotions. It was closer to intrigue, an acknowledgment of the boy's defiance. Here was a fragile human, his body broken and his soul battered, yet he pressed on, throwing aside his survival instincts for a chance to strike at what he believed to be the source of his torment. Such unrelenting fury… It was almost poetic.
The boy screamed, a sound raw enough to carry the weight of every loss, every betrayal. "If you're the one who did this, then I'll tear you apart, even if it's the last thing I do!"
Ãñøs did not speak. He did not move. He simply observed.
The dagger rose high, its blade catching the light of the flames as Alfred lunged forward with everything he had. The boy's attack was wild, untrained—a desperate attempt to turn his grief into action. But Ãñøs saw the truth in the boy's movements. This wasn't a fight for justice or revenge. It was the cry of someone who couldn't bear the weight of their own sorrow any longer and needed something—anything—to strike back at.
The world seemed to slow as the blade descended, and Ãñøs tilted his head ever so slightly, his red hair catching the firelight. His demonic eyes glowed faintly, watching the boy's every motion, every trembling muscle. In that instant, he could see through Alfred's soul, laid bare in its rawest form.
"A reason to rage," Ãñøs thought to himself, the faintest smirk curling at the edge of his lips. "He's looking for a reason to blame the chaos, even if it kills him."
The dagger's edge was mere inches from his chest when Ãñøs finally moved. His hand shot forward, faster than mortal eyes could follow, catching Alfred's wrist with the ease of a predator playing with its prey. The boy's strength was nothing compared to his own, yet he didn't crush the fragile bones beneath his grip. Instead, he held firm, unyielding, his gaze locking with Alfred's tear-filled eyes.
The boy struggled, his rage unrelenting, but Ãñøs's hold was absolute. For a moment, the air between them grew thick with silence, broken only by the crackling of the flames and the boy's ragged breaths.
"Tell me, boy," Ãñøs finally said, his voice low and resonant, cutting through the night like a blade. "Do you truly believe I am the cause of all this? That your anger, your pain, will be soothed if you strike me down?"
He leaned closer, his presence overwhelming, like a storm pressing against a fragile reed. "Or is it that you're simply searching for something to aim your hatred at, someone to shoulder the blame for the cruelty of the world?"
The words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation all at once
-----
Âlfred 🤵🏽♂
The rain came down in soft, persistent drops, each one a reminder of what had been lost. The fire that had ravaged the Varyndor estate now faded, its final embers consumed by the steady downpour. In that stillness, all the screams from the house had died, leaving Alfred alone in the cold, a figure of desperation and fury, standing amidst the ruins of his life.
His hand gripped the dagger, but his grip faltered. His broken body, a mosaic of pain, trembled under the weight of the storm. His breaths came ragged, each one more laboured than the last, but his heart beat with a fire of its own, a primal need for something—anything—to make sense of the destruction.
"What else am I supposed to believe?!" His voice cracked, a wail of anguish and anger. His gaze locked onto the towering figure before him, that dark silhouette that seemed to feed on the agony of the world around him. "Everyone is gone. My mother, my father, my home—everything! And you…"
The words caught in his throat, but he forced them out, each syllable a punch to the air. "You're just there, watching it all like it means nothing." He stumbled forward, his leg screaming in agony, but he refused to let it stop him. "You killed her. That maid, you—"
His voice faltered again, raw and broken. "You're a monster, aren't you?" The rain streaked down his face, mingling with the blood, but he didn't care. The weight of his grief, his pain, his loss, all of it focused on the one thing he could see—the figure in front of him.
He clenched the dagger harder, its point now wavering. "Why? Why did this happen? If you didn't do it, then who?!" The question echoed in his mind, but it seemed no one could answer. His own body ached from the strain, but his rage held him upright, kept him moving forward.
"Why me? Why my family? What did we ever do to deserve this?!" The words were bitter, laced with the pain of a child abandoned to the horrors of the world.
And then, in a whisper, as though the floodgates had finally cracked open: "If you're not the one who caused this, then tell me! Who?! Give me someone, something, to hate!" His voice cracked under the strain, but it was still there, raw and untamed. He needed an enemy, a reason to keep going, to push through this hell.
The rain fell harder now, the world around him washing away, drowning the ashes of his family's legacy. The house that had once been a fortress of power and pride was nothing more than a memory now. Only the storm remained, and him, a broken boy clinging to whatever shred of dignity he had left.
His grip tightened around the dagger. "If you won't give me an answer… then I'll hate you. I'll kill you. Even if it takes everything I have, I'll make sure you pay for this."
The words spilled from his lips with a finality that mirrored the storm's intensity. Though his body was battered and broken, though his heart ached with the weight of the world, Alfred stood defiant, a lone wolf in the dark. The world may have crumbled around him, but he would make sure that someone paid.
------
🩸Ãñøs Voldigid 🖋️
Anos stood tall, his crimson gaze locked onto the trembling figure of the boy before him, his words piercing the in night like a venomous whisper in the storm. The boy, Alfred, was a mere shell of his former self, yet his spirit—raw and wild—flickered with an intensity that was undeniable.
For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. The storm raged on, the rain washing over their forms as if cleansing the world of its sins, but Anos's thoughts remained unwavering, steady as the depths of his power.
"Tell me something, Alfred," Anos's voice was calm, cool, as if the chaos swirling around them meant nothing at all. "What if I told you that I could have stopped all of this? What if I told you that everything—that everything—that has befallen you, your family, your house, was not just fate, but something I had the power to control? What if I told you it was my fault?"
Anos's eyes gleamed in the dark, the subtle twist of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He let the words hang in the air, knowing they would land like a heavy blow on the fragile mind of the boy before him.
"Do you feel that burning rage? The rage that fills you to the brim, every fiber of your being trembling with the desire for vengeance? It's the very thing that makes you weak. But, I understand it. I understand it all too well." Anos's voice grew colder, as if the very weight of the truth he was revealing would suffocate them both. "You need someone to blame. You need someone to direct all that anger towards. So why not me?"
Anos stepped forward, his presence a looming force against the storm. The boy's hatred burned in the air like a tangible thing, and Anos felt it all—the desperation, the pain, the brokenness. But above all, he felt potential. It was almost amusing how fragile and fleeting a human's will to live could be.
"You want to understand why this happened to you, why your world crumbled, don't you?" Anos's voice was smooth as velvet, but sharp as a blade. "You want to believe that I'm the one who caused all this, that I am the reason your family is no more, that I alone am responsible for the devastation of everything you once knew. And I will let you believe that. Because it will feed you, Alfred. It will drive you. It will give you the fire you need to keep going, to survive this hell. It will give you the hatred to fuel your revenge."
Anos paused, his gaze unblinking as he studied the boy, watching the raw emotion flicker in his eyes. "But here's the thing you need to understand: You will never be able to kill me. Your hatred will never be enough. Because you are still human."
He allowed the weight of his words to settle over Alfred like a shroud. Then, he took another step closer, his voice low, laced with a hint of cruel amusement.
"I will tell you the truth... when I'm satisfied with what your weak human heart can achieve. Your strength, your hatred—they are nothing now. But they will grow. I will let you build yourself up. And when you are strong enough... when you've climbed the mountain of your own hatred, your revenge will be more than just a whisper in the wind."
He leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing with a cold gleam of interest. "Your potential as a human is laughable. You will never be a great knight, never a king. But what if, just what if, I told you that with enough drive, enough anger, you could climb that mountain I speak of... with a single finger?"
Anos's lips curled into a sinister smile, a dark promise flickering in the depths of his eyes. "Strength is a fickle thing, Alfred. It is not simply about how powerful you become. It is about how much you are willing to sacrifice for your vengeance. Only then... will I reveal to you the truth."
He took another step back, watching as the boy, filled with rage and questions, struggled to find his ground. The storm raged on around them, the rain now beating a relentless rhythm against the shattered world. Anos, unmoved, regarded Alfred with a mixture of amusement and anticipation.
"You will find your answer when you've earned it, Alfred. When your hatred is strong enough to match my patience, I will show you the truth."
-------
Âlfred 🤵🏽♂
Alfred's rage burned fiercely, a flame that refused to be extinguished even as his body betrayed him. The storm seemed to echo his despair, the rain striking his skin like cold needles. His breaths grew shallow, each one labored as though he were breathing in the weight of the storm itself.
His vision blurred, the once-sharp figure of his opponent becoming indistinct, like a shadow wrapped in fog. The world around him dimmed, the sound of the rain muffled to a dull roar. His legs trembled beneath him, struggling to hold him upright against the encroaching darkness that clawed at the edges of his consciousness.
The fire of his anger was still there, simmering in his chest, but his body was failing. He didn't speak; there were no words left for him to say. Only the quiet resignation of his body giving in, despite the defiance of his spirit.
Slowly, his knees buckled, and he sank to the ground. His gaze, half-lidded and unfocused, remained fixed ahead, unable to make out the figure that loomed over him. The last thing Alfred could clearly see before his strength ebbed away completely was the towering silhouette of his opponent.
As his consciousness faded, the rain continued to pour, soaking him to the bone as his body slumped against the ground. The storm raged on, uncaring of the quiet collapse of the young man who now lay still, a broken figure in the torrent.
----
🩸Ãñøs Voldigid 🖋️
Anos stared down at Alfred, his crimson eyes narrowing as he noted the boy's silence. The air between them grew heavier with the unspoken weight of disappointment. He had pushed Alfred, tested him, expecting some form of rebellion or even resistance—something that would have made the conversation worthwhile. Instead, all he received was silence, the kind of silence that spoke volumes about the limitations of human strength.
He let out a soft sigh, his breath cold, but his expression remained as composed as ever. Disappointment. The feeling gnawed at him. Not because he hated weakness—no, he found it fascinating—but because he had expected more from Alfred, someone with the potential to rise from the ashes. The boy's lack of response told Anos all he needed to know. The raw emotions, the burning hatred, the potential for vengeance... it all had limits. How frustrating.
His gaze flickered momentarily to the horizon. The first light of dawn threatened to creep over the land, but Anos wasn't in a hurry. With a controlled movement, he bent down and lifted Alfred from the ground, his grip gentle but firm. The boy was a burden for now, but Anos could feel the faint pulse of life still lingering in his body. He would not let him perish. Not yet.
Anos' speed, even in his human form, was something almost incomprehensible to any human, but it didn't bother him. The strength that lay beneath his skin, the effortless control he wielded over his speed—his confidence was unshakable. He could feel the wind shift as he picked up Alfred's weight, and within an instant, he blurred into motion.
The earth beneath him seemed to warp, the wind itself splitting in the wake of his incredible pace. Trees, rocks, and grass became little more than smudges on the landscape as Anos passed through them. His speed was an extension of his being, honed by centuries of mastery, and the power he wielded was like a constant undercurrent to his every move. He could feel the air trembling under his presence, the landscape bending to his will as he moved through it with absolute ease.
As he made his way through the dense forest, he thought little of the danger that surrounded him. He didn't need to be cautious; the path he had chosen was designed for someone like him. The forest—treacherous to humans—was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He could feel the aura he had embedded in the path glowing faintly beneath the earth, a subtle but unmistakable signature of his power. No one would dare stray from it without paying the price. The path was a gift only for those Anos had deemed worthy.
Through the thick, misty trees, they traveled in silence. Anos' steps were impossibly swift, a blur of motion as he carved through the wild terrain with effortless grace. He passed through an opening in the trees, and ahead loomed the massive waterfall, a curtain of water crashing down in a roar that echoed through the valley. The ground trembled slightly under the immense power of the falling water, but Anos was undeterred. He moved with precision toward the hidden entrance behind the waterfall—a place only those who knew the way could find.
The waterfall, while lethal to any who dared approach it wrongly, was merely an obstacle. For Anos, it was just another piece of his domain. He stepped behind the cascading torrent of water, the deafening roar of the falls drowned by the quiet thrum of his own power. Beyond the waterfall lay his domain, a place that had taken everything to create. The Eye of Illusions, his pride and joy, loomed overhead like a watchful sentinel. Its massive form was ever-vigilant, with pupils that seemed to gleam like pools of liquid darkness.
The eye, a divine feature of his domain, was more than just a defense mechanism. It was a beacon, an extension of his presence, watching over everything. Its pupils, vast and unnerving, seemed to peer into the souls of all who entered. It could not be stared at for long without causing a distortion in the mind—a slow slide into the illusionary world it conjured. Those who dared to meet its gaze too long would find themselves lost in their own minds, caught in webs of powerful illusions. Anos, of course, was immune to its effects, as were those within his inner circle.
As Anos made his way deeper into the domain, the structures began to rise in the distance, grand and imposing, a tribute to his vision and power. The architecture, drawing inspiration from ancient Greek ruins, was meant to awe and remind all who entered of the supremacy of its master. The towering columns, the grand steps leading up to the inner sanctum—everything was made to impress.
The people in the domain bowed as he passed, their movements reverent and disciplined. They knew better than to disturb him when he walked this path, and their respect for him was not born out of fear but rather admiration. He was their leader, their creator, and they recognized the depth of his achievements. Anos was untouchable, and they understood the weight of that truth.
Finally, he arrived at the heart of his domain, the building that housed his chamber. It was a massive structure, one that no one dared enter without invitation. The interior was a labyrinth of rooms and halls, each purposefully designed for different functions—business dealings, training grounds, treasure vaults, and darker pursuits. But his personal chambers, the place where he spent his most private moments, were sacred. Only those who were summoned could enter.
As Anos entered the grand hall, he passed the human healer, a woman known for her exceptional skill in tending to both the physical and metaphysical wounds of those in his care. She was waiting by the side, prepared for any task Anos might require. With a small gesture, Anos handed Alfred over to her.
"See to him," Anos said, his voice low and commanding. "He is important to me."
The healer nodded without question, her eyes glimmering with respect as she took Alfred in her care. Anos turned away, the weight of the moment heavy in the air. This was his domain. His pride. And as he left the healer to her work, he made his way to the one place no one else could enter—his chamber, a room untouched by time or intrusion.
As the door closed behind him, the domain seemed to settle into place, the Eye of Illusions watching, ever-vigilant, as Anos Voldigoad disappeared into the shadows of his personal sanctum.
-----
Âlfred
Darkness swirled around Alfred's mind as he struggled to cling to reality. He was dimly aware of the sensation of movement—the steady rhythm of someone walking beneath him, a faint rustle of thick fur brushing against his skin. The man carrying him moved with impossible speed, yet Alfred felt weightless, the world around him reduced to a blur of colors and sounds. He tried to speak, to understand where he was or who had him, but his body refused to respond.
Then came the dream.
In the fog of his unconsciousness, he saw flashes of his past and fragmented memories of the fire that destroyed his family. The cries of his mother rang in his ears, her voice begging for him to run, but he was frozen in place. The sky above turned an ominous red as if the heavens themselves bore witness to his failure.
And then, in the midst of the chaos, he saw it. A colossal, otherworldly eye staring down at him from the sky. Its iris was an intricate swirl of shifting patterns, constantly evolving, almost alive. He couldn't look away, yet the longer he stared, the more distorted his surroundings became. It was as if the eye reached into his mind, unraveling his sense of reality.
When he finally turned his gaze away, he saw a figure standing in the distance—a man cloaked in black, thick fur draped over his shoulders. The figure extended a hand toward him. Alfred wanted to grab it, to pull himself up, but every time he tried to look at the figure's face, his head grew unbearably heavy, and the world spun out of control. Darkness swallowed him once more.
-----
Âlfred 🤵🏽♂
The next time he opened his eyes, the piercing sunlight flooded his vision, making him wince in pain. Everything seemed sharper and more hostile—the light, the air, and even the sounds around him. Alfred lay in an unfamiliar room, its sterile simplicity only amplifying his disorientation.
He stumbled out of the bed, his legs weak and trembling. Memories of that night rushed back to him—the falling debris, the maid, the blade—and then...the man in black. He wandered through the halls, catching sight of the enormous eye in the sky outside. Its hypnotic pupil sent a shiver through him. He found himself inexplicably drawn to it, taking slow steps toward its gaze.
"Stop!" a voice called out sharply, pulling him from his trance.
Alfred turned to see a group of people staring at him with stern expressions. "What...happened?" he managed to croak, his voice hoarse.
One of them, a middle-aged man with sharp features, replied, "Our Lord saved you. You would have perished if not for his intervention."
The words lingered in Alfred's mind as he pieced together the fragments. His heart sank with a mix of gratitude and dread. "The building didn't collapse on me because of him... The blade the maid held, if she had intended to harm him, she wouldn't have been able to move." His realization struck like a thunderbolt.
Later, Alfred spoke with the healer who had tended to him, a girl close to his age with a calm, mature demeanor. She explained the nature of the cult surrounding their Lord Ãñøs Voldigoad. "Everyone here is here willingly," she said, her voice steady. "We follow him because we've seen his power and his vision."
The pieces began to fall into place. Alfred recalled rumors of his mother's involvement with a cult. The thought unsettled him. Could this be the same one? His chest tightened with unresolved questions. Did this enigmatic Lord come to save his family? No, the man himself had said he merely watched it all happen.
Three weeks passed in a fog of isolation. Cut off from the outside world, Alfred had nothing but time to think. He wandered the labyrinthine halls of the Illuminati headquarters, pondering his fate.
One evening, the healer approached him, her voice breaking his internal silence. "The Lord has summoned you tonight," she said simply, her eyes betraying nothing of what awaited him.
Alfred's heart pounded with confusion and rage. His unanswered questions burned in his chest, mingling with a growing fear of the truth. What did this man want from him? What would he demand? Whatever it was, Alfred knew there was no escaping it now.
----
Scene: Ãñøs' Perspective
The heavy doors of his domain creaked shut behind him as Ãñøs stepped into the grand hall, the weight of his presence silencing even the faintest murmur among the staff. His crimson cloak, lined with black embroidery, trailed behind him, catching the flicker of the torches that lined the walls.
Above, high in the vaulted ceiling, his Illusion Eyes hovered unseen, ever-vigilant. Through them, he had already witnessed the moment the boy had stirred, the slight furrow of his brow, the spark of confusion in his expression. They had shown him everything, yet he preferred to hear the truth spoken aloud. Knowledge was power, yes—but extracting it firsthand was far more satisfying.
As he stepped further into the hall, he heard the faint tremors of footsteps approaching. Her, he thought. The healer, ever punctual, ever eager to prove her worth.
She entered with haste, her face a mixture of exhaustion and relief. Falling to one knee, she kept her gaze low as she addressed him.
"My Lord Ãñøs," she began, her voice tinged with urgency, "the child… he is awake."
Ãñøs smirked, tilting his head slightly. Of course, he's awake. His Illusion Eyes had already shown him this, capturing every nuance of the boy's awakening. But simply knowing wasn't enough. There was no entertainment in gleaning all the answers without effort.
He raised a hand, silencing her before she could say more.
"Bring him to me," he commanded, his voice smooth yet edged with finality.
The healer hesitated briefly, then bowed deeply. "As you wish, my Lord." She rose and exited quickly, her footsteps fading into the quiet corridors.
Thoughts:
Ãñøs turned toward his throne, sinking into its cold embrace. His fingers drummed against the armrest as his mind wandered back to the boy's fragmented memories. Flames. Betrayal. The fall of a noble house.
"Interesting," he murmured, a glint of curiosity in his crimson eyes.
He could have delved deeper, used his eyes to unravel every secret buried within the child's mind. But what would be the fun in that? A confrontation would reveal far more. A test of resilience, wit, and perhaps loyalty.
A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he mused aloud,
"They say the boy has the sharpest observation skills of his generation. Of course…" he chuckled, his gaze flicking toward the faint shimmer of his Illusion Eyes above, "the Illuminati knows everything."
Âlfred 🤵🏽♂
Âlfred followed the maid silently, his steps slow and deliberate. His body felt strange—heavier, yet more alive than ever before. Every fiber of his being ached, a dull reminder of his near-death experience. The air here was different, too: thick, almost humming with energy.
As they moved through the grand halls, Âlfred's sharp eyes took in every detail. The walls were adorned with dark, intricate tapestries depicting battles and rituals he didn't recognize. Candles flickered in sconces that seemed to whisper as he passed, their flames casting distorted shadows. Nothing in this place feels ordinary, he thought.
But it wasn't just the hallways or decor that unsettled him—it was the people. Or rather, the beings.
He saw a group of werewolves—rare creatures whose kind had dwindled almost to extinction—lounging together in a shadowy alcove. Their golden eyes glowed faintly, their movements languid, almost sensual, as if drunk on some unseen nectar. Nearby, a fae with translucent wings shimmered in and out of view, her laughter echoing faintly as she twirled in an almost hypnotic dance.
And then there were the others—beings cloaked in shadow, their forms undefined and shifting as though they existed in a state of flux. Their very presence made his skin crawl, and he couldn't discern whether they were physical entities or something else entirely. They lingered at the edges of his vision, never fully seen yet impossible to ignore.
His mind raced. Who would have such authority? The thought struck him like a hammer. To gather beings of such disparate natures—humans, werewolves, fae, and those... things—and to hold their loyalty, or at least their presence, was nothing short of godlike.
The maid leading him remained silent, her face blank as they approached an imposing set of double doors. The doors loomed over them, carved with ancient runes that pulsed faintly, as if aware of his presence. She didn't move to open them.
"You'll go alone from here," she said softly, bowing before stepping aside. Her tone was neutral, but her eyes betrayed something—fear, reverence, perhaps both.
Âlfred hesitated, staring at the doors. They exuded an aura of power so palpable that it made his skin crawl. He was about to reach for the handle when the voice came.
"Enter, child," the voice said, deep and resonant, yet laced with an undercurrent of amusement. It wasn't loud, but it carried, wrapping around him and compelling him forward. "Do not linger in indecision. I have little patience for hesitation."
A shiver ran down Âlfred's spine. He knew I was here before I even reached the door, he realized. The weight of those words alone made his hand move almost instinctively.
Pushing the doors open, he stepped into the chamber.
------
🩸Lord Ãñøs Voldigoad🖋️
As Âlfred stepped into the chamber, the air seemed to shift. The vast room felt less like a place and more like a realm suspended between reality and dream. The walls were crafted from an obsidian-like material, veins of crimson energy pulsing through them like a heartbeat. A dome above shimmered with an endless, swirling cosmos, the stars moving too deliberately to be anything natural.
The floor beneath his feet was smooth and dark, reflecting his distorted image as if the surface was water frozen mid-ripple. Strange glyphs floated in the air, flickering in and out of existence, their meanings elusive but undeniably powerful. In the corners of the room, shadow-like figures lingered, more suggestion than substance, watching without eyes.
At the center of this otherworldly space sat Ãñøs Voldigoad, his throne rising from the ground as if grown rather than constructed. The throne itself was a masterpiece of intricate carvings, glowing faintly with the same crimson energy coursing through the walls. Ãñøs leaned back with an air of unshakable authority, his crimson hair falling like a fiery crown against his fair skin. His fingers tapped lazily against the armrest, the sound echoing unnaturally in the vast chamber.
Without looking directly at Âlfred, Ãñøs spoke, his voice deep and smooth, carrying an almost hypnotic resonance.
"So, child," he began, the faintest flicker of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Have you made your choice?"
His words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. He said no more, his sharp gaze now fixed on Âlfred, piercing and expectant, as if daring him to answer anything less than truthfully
-----
Âlfred
The moment the doors closed behind him, Âlfred was swallowed by the overwhelming presence of the room. It wasn't just the grandeur or the unnatural beauty of the space—it was the weight, the oppressive energy that seemed to burrow into his very soul.
The walls pulsed faintly, and the air itself felt alive, buzzing with latent power. As his eyes swept across the glowing glyphs and shifting shadows, he felt as though unseen forces were stripping him bare, peeling back his thoughts, memories, and fears. Then, the voice of Lord Ãñøs echoed in his mind:
"Come in, child."
It wasn't a request.
The words hit him like a blow. His mind, already fragile, began to spiral. In an instant, nightmare memories consumed him—the fire, the screams, the faces of his family twisted in agony. The oppressive heat of that night, the blood, the betrayal—all of it came flooding back. His knees wobbled, his breaths turned shallow and erratic, and he clutched his chest as if his very heart might give out. A dying lamb, weak and broken, that's what he felt like.
But the moment he stepped into the chamber, everything changed.
The haze lifted, and his mind cleared as though a veil had been torn away. The room's oppressive weight transformed into something else—a sharpening force. Every thought became crisp, every sensation vivid. His breathing steadied, his composure rebuilt itself, and his observation sharpened to a level he hadn't known was possible. He could feel it—the room itself was doing this.
This place isn't meant to intimidate. It's meant to awaken.
Âlfred straightened, his eyes burning with clarity. He didn't fully understand what was happening, but he knew one thing: here, in this space, he could finally face the storm inside him.
The question Ãñøs had posed hung in the air. Âlfred met the vampire lord's gaze, unflinching, and spoke.
"I know your plan," he began, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions roiling within him. "I know my mother's loyalty to you was unwavering. And I do not hate you, Lord Ãñøs... but what I carry inside me, this hatred—it's deeper than that night, heavier than anything I've ever known."
His fists clenched at his sides, and for a moment, his composure faltered. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he didn't look away. "I have questions," he said, his voice cracking slightly.
Ãñøs inclined his head ever so slightly, granting permission without a word.
The tears fell freely now as Âlfred's voice trembled with the weight of his pain. "My mother… did she know?" he asked, his tone raw and desperate. "Did she know something like this would happen? Did she bear the weight of this alone? Did she suffer in silence?"
His breathing hitched, but he forced himself to continue. "And you," he said, his voice growing steadier, though the tears didn't stop. "You had the power to stop this. You could have flipped the world upside down to save her, to save us. Why… why did you choose to do nothing?"
Finally, his voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with sorrow and determination. "And the one who did this… the one who destroyed everything… who are they?"
The room seemed to grow even quieter, as though holding its breath, waiting for the vampire lord's reply.
----
🩸Lord Ãñøs Voldigoad🖋️
Ãñøs leaned forward slightly, his crimson hair falling like molten fire as he studied Âlfred. The room's atmosphere grew heavier, not from menace but from the gravity of the conversation. The lord's voice, calm yet resonant, filled the space.
"Your mother," he began, "knew of your family's fate three weeks before that fateful night. She came to me in secret, her loyalty unwavering even as the weight of destiny pressed upon her. She asked two things of me."
His eyes narrowed, glinting with the faintest trace of sorrow—or perhaps respect. "First, she wanted me to choose which of her children would survive. She knew her family would perish, yet her love demanded that at least one might live. Make no mistake, child," he said, his tone sharpening, "I did not choose you."
His gaze lingered, letting the words sink in. "Your mother's actions made it clear she wished for you to be that survivor. She shielded you, carried you, and fought for you even as her life burned away. That was her choice, not mine."
Ãñøs leaned back, the faintest sigh escaping his lips. "As for why I stood by and watched… it was the least I could do to honour her. To mourn for my loyal subject, who died by the hands of fate itself. Do not think me heartless, Âlfred. My inaction was not out of indifference, but necessity."
His eyes darkened, his voice lowering like a storm rolling in. "Had I interfered directly, forces nearly equal to my own would have come for me. My power is not unchecked. And beyond them lies the one power I am bound to—the Queen of Vampires. Should I draw her attention, my existence and everything I've built would be at risk."
Âlfred's eyes widened in disbelief. "A vampire…?" he whispered, the revelation striking like a bolt of lightning. "You're a vampire? But… I thought they were myths."
Ãñøs' smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. "Of course, you would. The comfort of wealth shields many truths from young eyes. You've lived in a gilded cage of ignorance, child. But yes, I am a vampire, and one of a kind your stories could scarcely imagine."
He allowed the weight of that truth to hang in the air before continuing. "As for your family's downfall… that is a story I cannot rewrite. The reasons are many, tangled, and vile. But know this: when the time is right, I will place the hands of judgment into yours. I will tear down those who destroyed your family, and their reckoning will be yours to deliver."
Ãñøs' gaze sharpened, the crimson glow in his eyes flickering faintly. "Though I did not choose you, Âlfred, I swore a promise to your mother. I will protect you, regardless of the path you decide to take. You can stand by me or turn away—it matters not. Your choice will reveal your character, and that alone will dictate your future."
He paused, leaning forward, his voice soft but charged with power. "If you wonder why I appear ordinary, why no fangs mar my smile, it is because I am in my human form. A façade, yes, but one necessary for this world."
His eyes fixed on Âlfred, their depth filled with both expectation and excitement. "Now, child, the choice is yours. What will you do?"
The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with tension and possibility. All that remained was Âlfred's answer.
-------
Young Âlfred's Perspective
The chamber loomed vast and otherworldly, its pulsating crimson walls alive with an eerie energy. Shadows stretched unnaturally, twisting and turning, as if bowing to the will of the man who sat at its center—Ãñøs Voldigoad. The figure before Âlfred exuded power, not the wild chaos of unrestrained might, but a controlled and devastating force that could reshape worlds.
His words echoed in the silence, heavy and deliberate. "Yes, I could have saved them. And if it were only my will that mattered, I would have. But there is a legacy I carry—one older and more sacred than your family or mine. The Voldigoads serve the royal line, not because they are stronger, but because it is the foundation of our bloodline's power and pride. To break that would not only dishonor my family, it would shatter the balance that keeps this world intact."
Âlfred's young fists clenched at his sides, his grief and anger boiling within. "Then why save me?" he demanded, his voice trembling. "If this balance matters so much, why not let me die with the rest of them?"
For a moment, silence hung in the room, broken only by the faint hum of the chamber's strange aura. Then, Ãñøs leaned forward, his crimson hair falling over his angular face as his piercing eyes met Âlfred's.
"Because I am Ãñøs Voldigoad," he said, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of an undeniable truth. "And I will not allow fate to take everything from me. Your mother's plea was the spark, but it is not my way to bow to destiny's whims. Even fate will pay the price for touching what is mine."
The words struck Âlfred like a hammer, leaving him breathless. There was no arrogance in Ãñøs' tone, only an unshakable certainty. He wasn't just powerful—he was defiance incarnate, a force that bent the very rules of existence to his will.
Ãñøs continued, his voice resonating through the chamber. "Do not mistake this as mercy, child. I saved you not out of pity, but because I saw in you something worth preserving. Whether you rise to be a blade of vengeance or a shield of justice, that choice will be yours. But know this: you are mine now, and nothing—not even fate—will take what belongs to me."
Âlfred stood in stunned silence, the weight of Ãñøs' words crashing down on him. His grief and anger swirled, but amidst the turmoil, clarity emerged. His knees bent, and he knelt before Ãñøs, his head bowed low, the gesture one of both submission and determination.
"Then let me be that blade," Âlfred said, his voice steady despite his young age. "I want revenge, my lord, but I will not take it on my own. I will wait for your hand to bring me to that moment of judgment. Until then, I will serve you. I will learn. I will become what you need me to be, so that when the time comes, I can be the weapon that delivers their reckoning."
For a brief moment, there was silence, and then Ãñøs smiled—a rare, faint smirk that carried the weight of approval.
"Very well, Âlfred," he said, leaning back in his chair, his crimson eyes gleaming. "You have made your choice. Rise, and let your actions prove your words. Your journey begins now."
Âlfred stood, the oppressive aura of the room pressing against him like a trial of fire. But he met it head-on, his small frame carrying a newfound resolve. As he walked out of the chamber, his steps were heavier with purpose, his grief tempered by the promise of a future reckoning.
Somewhere deep in his heart, a seed had been planted—one that would grow into a force that would one day shake the very foundations of the world. @Ezti Mate