Eternally Bound by Blood(Dark Bl)

Alaric couldn't pinpoint the source of the pain that gripped him. It wasn't the sharp ache of a wound or the deep pull of exhaustion—it was something more insidious, gnawing at him from within. He clenched his fists, his breathing steady yet strained, as if willing the agony to subside. It had to be the seal. There was no other explanation.

He leaned his head back against the cold stone wall, exhaling slowly, trying to push away the hunger that clawed at him. The hunger was almost worse than the pain—it crept through his mind, whispering dark thoughts, tempting him with forbidden indulgence. He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as the faint scent of blood drifted in his memories.

The heavy door to the chamber creaked open, its hinges groaning like the wail of a dying man. Alaric's eyes snapped open, and there stood a masked woman with long curly black hair.

The woman stepped forward, her presence filling the dimly lit chamber with a strange and oppressive authority. She was flanked by two hulking men, their forms massive and intimidating, standing as silent sentinels on either side of her. Both wore identical dark suits that strained against their muscular frames, their stoic faces betraying no emotion. Alaric's gaze flicked briefly to the men, assessing them in a heartbeat before his attention returned to the woman.

Her mask was intricate, crafted from black metal with delicate engravings that hinted at symbols Alaric couldn't immediately recognize. It obscured her face entirely, save for her piercing emerald eyes that glinted like shards of glass in the dim light. She stopped just short of him, her hands clasped in front of her, unnervingly still.

Alaric tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into a faint smile. The kind of smile that was neither friendly nor hostile, but held a dangerous charm—like a predator entertaining the arrival of new prey.

"Good day," he said, his voice smooth, laced with quiet amusement. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting."

The woman said nothing at first, her silence dragging out until it became a tangible weight in the room. Alaric's smile didn't falter; if anything, it deepened, his eyes narrowing slightly as if daring her to break the stillness. The two men beside her remained motionless, their eyes locked on Alaric with the unyielding focus of guard dogs awaiting a command.

Finally, the woman spoke, her voice calm but carrying an edge that hinted at an iron will beneath the composed exterior. "You seem… comfortable, considering your current predicament."

Alaric chuckled softly, the sound echoing faintly in the chamber. "Comfort is relative, wouldn't you agree? And I've grown quite adept at making the best of difficult situations."

She took a step closer, her heels clicking softly against the stone floor. The two men shifted slightly but didn't follow, their presence looming like shadows. "You wear your pain well," she remarked, her tone almost curious, though Alaric couldn't tell if it was meant as a compliment or a taunt.

"Years of practice," Alaric replied, his voice calm but his eyes sharp, studying her every movement, every inflection in her words. "But I suspect you didn't come here to admire my resilience."

Her emerald eyes seemed to bore into him, searching for something beneath his calm facade. "You're correct," she said simply. "You've become a rather intriguing anomaly, Alaric. One that certain people are very interested in understanding."

Alaric's smile widened, a glint of mischief flashing in his eyes. "Intriguing? That's flattering. But I have to wonder—what exactly do these 'certain people' think they'll gain by understanding me?"

The woman's gaze swept over him, her lips curving into a faint, dismissive smirk. She tilted her head, her posture radiating arrogance as if his question hardly warranted a reply. Finally, she spoke, her tone carrying an air of practiced superiority. "Power, knowledge, control. The usual ambitions of those who find you... a curiosity."

Alaric leaned forward slightly, his smile unbothered. "And you? What do you gain from all this? You don't strike me as the type to follow orders blindly."

Her smirk deepened, and she let out a low, dismissive laugh. "Oh,you don't need to be concerned with what I gain from this. My master—unlike you—commands respect, not pity. She instructed me to treat you with caution, even fear, if necessary." She stepped closer, her sharp heels clicking against the floor as her eyes narrowed. "But frankly, I fail to see the need. You look more like a frail joke than the threat I was warned about."

Alaric's expression didn't waver, but the glimmer in his eyes sharpened. "Appearances," he murmured, his tone carrying an unsettling calm, "can be deceiving."

She turned her head slightly, the faintest flicker of doubt crossing her face before she schooled her features back into cold arrogance. With a sharp nod to one of the hulking men flanking her, she motioned him forward. He stepped in, his massive form casting a shadow over Alaric, but the latter remained unflinching, the same dangerous smirk curling on his lips.

The woman's emerald eyes narrowed behind her mask, her carefully crafted composure cracking just enough to let a flicker of jealousy seep through. "I must admit," she said, her voice cutting, "I don't see what Eric finds so… enthralling about you. You're little more than a relic. A dangerous one, perhaps, but still—an antique."

Alaric tilted his head, his smile sharpening like the edge of a blade. "Ah," he murmured, his tone soft but laced with venom, "so that's what this is about. Poor thing. It must be exhausting, standing in the shadow of someone like me." He let the words hang for a moment before leaning back and adding with a mockingly wistful sigh, "But I get it. Eric does have a taste for finer things. It's only natural he'd gravitate toward me."

Her jaw tightened, but Alaric only leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with wicked intent. "You know," he drawled, his voice low and languid, dripping with mockery, "Eric has a way of being... unforgettable. Every move, every touch—it's like he's memorized exactly what drives someone mad with want." His lips curled into a lazy smirk as he let the words hang heavy between them. "You've seen his body, haven't you? Every muscle taut, every inch of him—" Alaric's gaze dipped deliberately, then flicked back up to hers, heated and teasing. "—perfectly designed for pleasure."

He wet his lips, slow and deliberate, letting the tip of his tongue linger a moment too long before continuing in a soft, intimate whisper. "I wonder, do you ever imagine what those hands could do? Or," he leaned closer still, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, "has he already shown you?"

The woman's breath hitched, her mask of superiority slipping further as the implication landed. "You're disgusting," she spat, though her voice lacked the conviction she likely intended.

Alaric chuckled, the sound low and intimate. "Am I?" he asked, his voice dripping with mock innocence. "I wouldn't know ,Eric didn't seem to mind." He let his eyes sweep over her, taking in the rigidity of her posture, the way her hands clenched at her sides. "What's the matter? Upset you weren't invited?"

Her composure shattered for the briefest moment, her cheeks flushing with anger—or was it humiliation? Alaric leaned in just enough to lower his voice, his tone a dark caress. "The truth, my dear, is that it doesn't matter if it happened. What matters is the way it's eating at you. Jealousy is such a cruel thing, isn't it? It always shows."

As she opened her mouth to retort, Alaric was already leaning back, his grin wide and predatory, satisfied with the cracks he'd pried open. He didn't care about Eric—not in the slightest. But the satisfaction of watching her unravel under his words was far too delicious to resist.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for the first time, her composure cracked, a flicker of anger flashing in her eyes. But she said nothing.

Alaric's smirk widened as he tilted his head, his expression gleefully mocking. "Interesting. You're close to him, aren't you? Or at least, you wish you were."

Still, she remained silent, her sharp gaze locked on him. It was that silence—the refusal to rise to his bait—that caused Alaric's amusement to evaporate like mist in the sun. His smile faded, and his eyes darkened, blackness swallowing the icy blue until no light remained. The shift was sudden and unsettling, the air in the room seeming to grow heavier.

"I don't like you anymore," Alaric said flatly, his voice cold and devoid of the playful edge it had carried moments ago. His words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike.

The woman straightened, her mask giving her an unshakable air of authority despite the oppressive energy emanating from Alaric. Without another word, she turned on her heel, her long coat swishing as she began to walk toward the door. Before leaving, she snapped her fingers, the sharp sound echoing through the chamber.

The two hulking men moved instantly, their large hands gripping Alaric's arms and yanking him roughly to his feet. Alaric didn't resist, though his eyes remained fixed on the woman's retreating form. His lips twitched, and then, unexpectedly, he burst into laughter.

It started as a low chuckle, but it quickly grew, his voice echoing eerily off the stone walls as if the sound itself were mocking the entire situation. His body shook with the force of it, his head tilting back as he laughed hysterically, the sound sharp and grating, carrying an almost manic edge.

The woman paused at the threshold, her silhouette framed by the dim light from the corridor beyond. She didn't look back, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed the irritation Alaric's laughter brought her. With a flick of her hand, she signaled for her men to follow.

The two brutes began dragging Alaric toward the door, their movements rough and unrelenting. Alaric's laughter continued, unabated, his voice rising as if he found some private joke unbearably funny. Even as they pulled him into the corridor and his cell was left empty, his laughter lingered in the air, a haunting reminder that, no matter how restrained he appeared, there was nothing predictable about Alaric.

The woman walked ahead of the group, her steps brisk and purposeful, as though she needed distance from the unsettling prisoner behind her. But even as they moved further from the chamber, she couldn't shake the feeling that Alaric's laughter wasn't just mockery—it was a warning.

As Alaric was dragged forward, his laughter faded as suddenly as it had started. He stopped in his tracks, planting his bare feet firmly against the stone floor. Though the two men flanking him were massive, their combined strength proved futile. No matter how hard they yanked, Alaric didn't budge an inch.

The taller of the two growled, his face twisting with exertion. "Move!" he barked, his deep voice reverberating through the corridor.

Alaric didn't respond immediately. Instead, he tilted his head back and inhaled deeply, his chest rising as he drew in the air around him like a connoisseur savoring the aroma of a fine wine. His eyes, still dark and fathomless, fluttered shut, and a small smile curved his lips.

"There it is," he murmured, his voice low and almost dreamy. "I can smell them. All of them."

The two men exchanged uneasy glances, their grip on him tightening. But Alaric didn't seem to notice—or care. He took another deep breath, his head tilting slightly to one side as if listening to a sound only he could hear.

"So many," he said softly, almost in a sing-song tone. "So many naughty little things. Trapped, desperate, forgotten." He opened his eyes, and the blackness in them seemed to pulse, like the void itself was alive. "You've been busy, haven't you?"

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound more like a lullaby than laughter. "Naughty, naughty," he whispered, his voice lilting as if he were cooing to a restless child. "All of you, tucked away in your little cages. How delightful."

The faintest hint of irritation flickered across the woman's back as she stopped and turned slightly, her eyes narrowing at the sight of Alaric standing rooted to the ground. "Keep moving," she commanded sharply, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade.

But Alaric didn't move. Instead, he tilted his head, his attention drifting upward, as if he could see through the layers of stone and steel above him. "It's massive," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Bigger than any palace… any castle… even the grandest tombs." His voice dropped lower, almost reverent. "And I'm at the very bottom, aren't I?"

He turned his gaze back to the woman, his lips twisting into a grin that was equal parts curious and menacing. "How many levels are above me? Ten? Twenty? A hundred?"

The woman didn't answer, her expression unreadable behind her mask.

Alaric's grin widened, and he turned his head slightly, inhaling again, savoring the air. "Thousands," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Thousands of creatures. So much life… and so much death."

One of the guards yanked at his arm, his patience clearly waning. "Enough of this," he growled, pulling with all his might. But Alaric still didn't move.

Instead, he chuckled again, his laughter soft and almost musical."Hoarding all your pretty little monsters. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"he said ,his voice carrying a strange hypnotic rhythm.

The woman's hands clenched into fists at her sides, but she didn't respond. Her silence only seemed to amuse Alaric further.

He finally turned his gaze to the two men struggling to move him, his expression one of almost playful pity. "You can try as hard as you like," he said softly, his tone almost kind. "But I'm not going anywhere… until I decide to."

The guards gritted their teeth and tugged harder at Alaric's arms, their sheer bulk straining with effort, but it was as if they were trying to move a mountain. Alaric's feet remained planted firmly on the ground, his strength effortless and immovable. He ignored their struggle, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply once more, his body shivering slightly as the rich, complex scents filled him.

His teeth once white and straight now resembled that of sharks, gleaming in the dim light as the hunger surged within him. The scent of supernatural creatures trapped in this place was overwhelming, tantalizing. It stirred memories, vivid and visceral, of the countless beings he had consumed over the centuries. A low, guttural hum escaped him, like a predator savoring the anticipation of a meal.

"Oh…" he breathed, his voice a mixture of reverence and longing. "Do you know what a werewolf tastes like? The meat is tough, sinewy… raw power in every bite. But the blood…" His tongue flicked across his sharp teeth as he continued, almost dreamily, "The blood is wild. Like biting into pure rage, mixed with the earth itself."

The guards exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing, though their grips tightened slightly.

"And vampires," Alaric went on, his tone growing more animated, as if he were recounting the memory of an exquisite feast. "Now, they're a delicacy. Their blood is rich, thick… almost decadent, like the finest wine aged for centuries. But it carries a bitterness too, like betrayal and sorrow, if you pay attention. That bitterness makes it… addicting."

He chuckled softly, the sound both amused and haunting. "Ah, and the fae. Fragile little things, but their blood? It's sweet, almost floral, with a hint of something otherworldly. It's like tasting magic itself, intoxicating and fleeting, like it's trying to slip away from you even as you consume it."

The two men's faces remained stoic, but Alaric could hear the shift in their heartbeats, the subtle quickening that betrayed their discomfort. Their fear was subtle, buried beneath their professional composure, but it was there. Alaric's sharp eyes caught it, and his grin widened.

"And then there are the witches," he continued, his voice taking on a lilting, almost teasing quality. "Their blood burns. Oh, how it burns. It's like swallowing fire laced with secrets they tried so hard to keep. Every sip feels like it's going to destroy you, but you can't stop. You want to know everything."

One of the men visibly swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his thick neck, but he said nothing.

Alaric tilted his head to the side, his gaze drifting lazily between the two men. "But do you know," he said softly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "what the finest of all tastes like? Better than any werewolf, vampire, or fae?"

He finally turned his full attention to them, his black eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "Humans," he said simply, his voice carrying an almost reverent tone. "There's nothing like them. Sweet and salty, fragile yet resilient. Their blood carries their emotions—fear, love, hate, despair. You can taste their lives in every drop. Every bite is unique, every soul a masterpiece. They are…" He paused, licking his lips slowly. "The best of all."

The guards froze for a split second, their masks of stoicism cracking ever so slightly. Though they didn't move, their unease was palpable, the tension in their bodies betraying the fear they desperately tried to suppress.

Alaric chuckled again, low and throaty, the sound resonating through the corridor. "Oh, don't worry," he said, his voice soothing yet mocking. "I'm not hungry for you. Not yet, anyway."

His grin widened, and his fangs gleamed, still extended as his eyes flicked between them. "But it's been so long… so very long. And with all these scents wafting through this place…" He inhaled again, savoring the moment, his gaze locked onto the woman. "How much longer do you think I'll resist?"

The guards said nothing, their hands tightening on his arms as they tried once more to move him. But Alaric didn't budge, his grin never faltering as his dark amusement lingered in the air like a storm cloud, promising chaos.

The woman's patience finally snapped. She whirled around, her eyes blazing with fury behind her mask. "Enough!" she hissed, her voice sharp and cutting, echoing off the cold stone walls. "Move, or I'll remove a limb. Better yet, maybe I'll impale you where you stand to see if you can still be so smug then."

To emphasize her threat, she raised her hand, and an orb of crackling energy—pulsing with dark, vibrant hues of violet and black—formed in her palm. With a flick of her wrist, she sent it hurtling toward Alaric. The energy hissed through the air like a serpent, slicing cleanly across his cheek before dissipating into a wisp of smoke.

The guards stilled, their grip on Alaric momentarily loosening as they braced for his reaction.

Alaric's head tilted slightly as the shallow wound began to knit itself together almost instantly, his unnaturally pale skin smoothing over as if nothing had touched it. Slowly, his tongue—longer than it should have been, unnervingly serpent-like—slid out, licking the blood that had briefly welled up from the cut.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, deep and mocking. "Impressive," he drawled, his tone dripping with condescension. "For a human playing dress-up with borrowed powers. Tell me, do you actually believe you have real strength? Or is this just the witch's hand-me-down scraps keeping you feeling relevant?"

The woman's mask couldn't hide the faint flicker of uncertainty that crossed her face. She took a step back instinctively, her anger wavering beneath the weight of his words.

But Alaric moved then, and with terrifying ease, he was suddenly in front of her. The speed of it was unnatural, impossible. He towered over her, his dark eyes boring into her as if seeing through every layer of pretense she had so carefully constructed.

Her breath hitched as he leaned down slightly, forcing her to crane her neck to meet his gaze. "You're not a witch," he said softly, almost tenderly, but there was no warmth in his voice—only cold, sharp disdain.

She flinched, the faintest crack in her composure appearing for the first time. Alaric's grin widened, a slow, sinister thing that made the room feel colder.

Reaching out, he extended a hand toward her face. She recoiled instinctively, stepping back just out of reach, her movements sharp and defensive.

Alaric's expression shifted to one of mock sympathy, his lips curling into a soft, patronizing smile. "Oh, don't be shy, little impostor," he murmured, his tone laced with honeyed malice. "I don't bite… much."

He straightened up, towering over her still, and clasped his hands behind his back as if he were a gentleman indulging a child's tantrum. "Alright, then," he said, his voice light yet undeniably mocking. "Lead the way, fake witch. But let me remind you of something before you get too comfortable."

He leaned down slightly again, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper that carried through the silence like a blade. "The only reason I move now is because I choose to.

So do not have yourself get carried away."

The woman swallowed hard, her mask hiding her face but unable to shield her aura of hesitation. With a stiff nod, she turned sharply, motioning for the guards to follow. Alaric began to walk, his footsteps calm and deliberate, as if he were the one escorting them. Behind him, his mocking laughter echoed faintly, a haunting melody that made the hair on their necks stand on end.

As they moved deeper into the labyrinthine corridors, Alaric's demeanor shifted. The cold, menacing aura he carried melted into something unnervingly playful, almost childlike. His steps grew lighter, his movements unnaturally fluid. Before the guards could react, he darted forward, stopping abruptly at one of the doors where the scent was the strongest.

He tilted his head, inhaling deeply as though savoring the air itself, then leaned in closer. The guards called out to him, their voices stern, but he ignored them, his long white hair swaying as he peered through the narrow window on the door. Inside, a pair of wide, terrified eyes stared back at him. He raised his hand and gave a small wave, his lips curling into a devilish smirk.

The response was immediate—a scream tore through the silence as the figure inside stumbled back, pleading for help. Alaric laughed softly, the sound unsettlingly bright as he turned back to the guards, who now stood frozen, unsure whether to confront him.

He didn't wait for them to decide. With an almost inhuman speed, he darted to another door further down the corridor, repeating the motion. At each door, the reaction was the same: panic, desperate cries, and the unforgettable image of his long hair and eerie smile burned into their memories.

It wasn't until he reached the end of the corridor that something odd struck him. He glanced at the figures behind the doors, taking in their trembling forms. Each one wore a different-colored shirt—red, blue, green, yellow—but none of them matched his.

He looked down at himself, noting the pristine white fabric of his shirt. A quiet chuckle escaped his lips as realization dawned. "Hmm," he mused, brushing a stray lock of hair back. "I suppose I stand out."

The guards finally mustered the courage to approach, their hands twitching toward their weapons. But Alaric merely turned toward them, his expression once again calm and unnervingly composed. "Shall we continue?" he asked smoothly, as though nothing had happened. Without waiting for a response, he began to walk again, his pace leisurely, his white shirt gleaming like a ghost in the dim corridor.

The woman's sharp voice cut through the tense silence. "You're curious, aren't you?" she said, her emerald eyes narrowing as she stepped closer. Alaric, still tracing his fingers idly along the edge of the nearest doorframe, turned to face her with an arched brow, his amusement barely contained.

"This place," she continued, her tone tinged with pride and caution, "is unlike any other. It is a vault—a prison for the worst of the worst. Murderers, thieves, saboteurs. Every soul here has committed crimes so egregious, so devastating, that they couldn't simply be killed. No, their existence is too dangerous to end so easily."

Alaric's lips quirked into a faint smirk. "Fascinating. And what makes them so special? Surely not everyone here is worth keeping alive."

The woman folded her arms, her expression tightening. "It's not about mercy. Each one has something that makes them… valuable. Some possess skills or knowledge that can't be lost, while others are too volatile to be left unsupervised. And then there are those whose crimes are so profound that even death would be too lenient. They are kept here as a warning. An example."

Alaric glanced back at the rows of doors, his eyes lingering on the trembling figures he had disturbed earlier. "And the shirts?" he asked, his voice light, almost mocking. "Is this some sort of fashion statement, or do they mean something more?"

The woman's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. "The colors represent their level of threat to civilization. Red is for the blood-stained—those who've murdered without remorse, whose release would mean chaos and death. Blue, for the infiltrators—spies, hackers, those who dismantle from the inside. Green is for the manipulators—con artists, schemers, those who can turn nations against one another with a word. Yellow marks the saboteurs—those who've destroyed irreplaceable assets, crumbled economies, or upended entire systems."

Alaric glanced down at his own white shirt, the pristine fabric catching the dim light of the corridor. "And white?" he asked with feigned innocence, though a glint of curiosity danced in his eyes.

The woman hesitated, her gaze lingering on him. "White is reserved for…" she began, her voice faltering slightly. "It's complicated. White represents those whose danger can't be defined by conventional means. They are unpredictable—outside the bounds of reason or control. White is for anomalies, enigmas, the kind of threat that makes even this place nervous."

Alaric's smirk widened. "How flattering," he murmured, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "And here I thought I'd blend in."

The woman's eyes narrowed. "Don't mistake this for admiration," she said coldly. "Your presence here doesn't make you superior. It makes you… tolerated. For now."

Alaric stepped closer, his movements unhurried but deliberate. "Tolerated?" he repeated, his voice low and silky. "How generous. But tell me, my dear… who decides who wears what? Who decides who's truly dangerous?" His gaze bore into hers, his smirk deepening as he whispered, "And who decides when the danger becomes… uncontrollable?"

The woman held his gaze for a moment, her composure rigid but her knuckles whitening at her sides. "That's not for you to know," she said, her voice clipped. "But you'd do well to remember your place here."

Alaric laughed softly, the sound echoing down the corridor. "Oh, darling," he purred, stepping back. "I think I'll decide that for myself."

Finally what felt like ages of walking they appeared in front of the massive door, his grin widening as his dark eyes danced over its sheer size. It was larger than any of the others, its thick metal surface reinforced with intricate locks and glowing runes. The air around it thrummed faintly with power, the faint hum brushing against his skin like static electricity.

The two guards stepped forward, their movements more strained than before as they pushed against the heavy door. With a groan and a creak, it began to open, revealing a cavernous chamber cloaked in shadow.

Before Alaric could move on his own, the guards shoved him forward. He stumbled slightly but caught himself with ease, his childlike delight undeterred. "Oh, how dramatic!" he exclaimed, his voice echoing as he skipped into the room. "A special little dungeon just for me? I'm flattered."

The door behind him began to close with a deep, resonating thud. Alaric turned his head slightly, watching as the witch and the guards disappeared from sight. "No goodbye?" he called mockingly. "How rude."

As the final lock clicked into place, sealing him inside, the darkness around him began to recede. One by one, dim lights flickered to life, illuminating the chamber in a pale, eerie glow.