Eternally Bound by Blood(Dark Bl)

The room reeked of dampness and decay, its stone walls slick with a mossy sheen that glistened under the dim torchlight. The air was thick, suffocating, with a metallic tang that hinted at blood spilled countless times in this forsaken place.

At the center of the cavernous space, chained to the floor was a man. His head hung low, his long, matted hair obscuring his face like a shroud. His bare chest was riddled with scars—some jagged and angry, as if inflicted by desperate, reckless hands, while others were precise, almost surgical in their cruelty. His wrists and ankles were raw and bloodied from the constant friction of the unyielding shackles.

Alaric's playful expression froze for a moment as his gaze settled on the figure, his head tilting slightly as though listening to something only he could hear. The silence of the room seemed to stretch, pressing in on him, heavy and expectant.

Then, slowly, a wide grin spread across his face, his sharp teeth glinting in the low light. His eyes sparkled with an almost predatory curiosity, drinking in every detail of the man before him. He stepped closer, the soft tapping of his bare feet against the cold stone cut through the oppressive quiet.

"This," Alaric murmured, his voice a low purr that reverberated in the stillness, "is far more interesting than I anticipated."

Alaric drawled, stepping closer with an almost exaggerated bounce in his step. "What do we have here?"

The man didn't move. His breathing was shallow, his chest barely rising and falling. Alaric tilted his head, his tongue running over his extended fangs as he inhaled deeply.

Then he heard it—a faint sound, almost like a whisper, behind him. Alaric froze, his sharp senses on high alert, and slowly turned. Where he had seen nothing but a bare stone wall moments before, a section shimmered, the surface rippling like water before revealing another side of the room.

His grin faltered for only a moment as his sharp eyes scanned the newly revealed space. It was starkly different—cleaner, more modern, the sleek surfaces illuminated by a faint, sterile glow. And standing in the center of the room was a figure he hadn't expected to see again.

The witch with the fiery orange hair met his gaze with cool detachment. Her eyes gleamed with a mixture of authority and bemusement as she studied him. She wore a long black coat that fell to her ankles, her hands resting loosely at her curved sides. Alaric's grin returned, slower this time, curling with a hint of menace.

"Well, well," he drawled, stepping closer to the glass. "If it isn't the spellbinder herself. Come to gloat, have we?"

The woman didn't flinch under Alaric's piercing gaze. Her expression was calm, yet her blazing orange-red eyes betrayed an intensity that could burn through even the darkest of hearts. She took a measured step forward, the soft click of her boots echoing faintly in the cavernous space.

"You underestimate me, Alaric," she said, her voice smooth but edged with steel. "Gloating implies I've already won."

Alaric chuckled low, the sound rumbling through the room like distant thunder. "Ah, but isn't that the truth? After all, here I am—chained like some wretched beast in your little playground. Quite the victory, wouldn't you say?"

The woman's eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. "You always were arrogant, even in your weakest moments." She raised a hand, and the crackling hum of magic filled the air as the faint orange glow of her eyes seemed to ignite. "But arrogance doesn't make you invincible, Alaric. You'd do well to remember that as that was your downfall ."

Alaric leaned closer to the glass, his sharp nails lightly scraping its surface. A faint crack seemed to expand slightly, and the air grew heavier with an unspoken tension. "I'd argue it makes me entertaining, wouldn't you agree?" His grin faltered for a moment as his gaze shifted back to the figure lying chained in the center of the room. "Although... I must admit, your decor is as cryptic as ever. What's this one for, hmm? Another experiment? Or perhaps a prisoner? You have quite the delicacies here, and I wouldn't be surprised if he were one."

The woman didn't answer immediately, her eyes following Alaric's gaze to the chained man. There was something unreadable in her expression, a flicker of emotion that she quickly masked. She folded her arms, her long coat billowing slightly with the movement.

"This one was taken from his home," she said softly, her voice carrying a weight of something unsaid. "He has no family, no friends... no lover. A perfect candidate to help in the greater cause." Her eyes met Alaric's, sharp and calculating.

Alaric's lips curled into a smirk as he raised an eyebrow. "And what might that cause be?" he asked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

The woman's expression hardened, her voice turning serious. "You."

Alaric's smile deepened, a flicker of intrigue crossing his features. "Me?" He let the word linger in the air, savoring the mystery.

The woman nodded, her gaze unwavering. "You're a powerful being, revered by millions, and yet you've remained hungry, uncooperative, a shadow of your potential. I can't have that. Not when what you are could serve a greater purpose. You will feast on him—this one—to satisfy your hunger. And then... you will be reborn." She took a step closer, her voice lowering, heavy with meaning. "Elias has made it clear. Once you've fed, we move. You are to be introduced to the supernatural world once again, as the one who has been awakened. They will fear me... as the one who controls the beast."

Alaric's amusement faded, replaced by a quiet intensity. He studied her carefully, his sharp eyes narrowing in thought.

"And you think they'll bow to you?" he asked, his voice colder now, more dangerous.

The woman didn't flinch. "Not bow. Fear. And that will be enough." She paused, her eyes darkening with something almost... pitying. "But don't get me wrong. What I have in store for you is hell on Earth. You'll learn what it means to be truly afraid of the one truly powerful. To be enslaved to that power. To hunger for more than even you can bear." Her voice grew colder, her words laced with venom. "You will suffer for what you've done—for the coven you slaughtered, for the witches you've killed throughout time. This will be your reckoning, Alaric. Every torment, every moment of agony will be a reminder of the blood you've spilled."

"And what," he said, his voice low and measured, his grin returned, darker and more sinister, "you're hoping I'll beg for mercy."

The witch didn't respond immediately. Instead, she raised a hand and pressed it against the glass, her eyes locking with his, as though searching for something deeper. "You've never begged for anything in your life, Alaric," she said softly, almost mournfully. "And that's precisely why you're so dangerous."

The words hung in the air, a quiet weight between them. The room fell into silence, save for the occasional flicker of the torchlight that cast elongated, distorted shadows across the walls. Alaric's eyes never left hers through the fractured glass, a strange tension lingering in the space.

Her gaze narrowed, growing more intense as she observed him. There was a mix of frustration and bitter nostalgia in her voice as she spoke again, her words slow, as if she were both accusing and yearning for something lost. "You really don't remember, do you?" she asked, the question biting yet tinged with sorrow.

Alaric's lips curled into a twisted smirk, his voice dripping with condescension. "Should I?" he asked, his tone mocking, his gaze never faltering. "Should I remember whatever nonsense you're trying to sell me?"

The woman's eyes narrowed further, her expression hardening. She leaned closer to the glass, her words quiet but sharp, as though each one carried a weight of its own. "He messed with your memories, Alaric," she said, her voice low, a flicker of something dangerous in her eyes. "Just as you warned me and my mother so long ago. I was a fool not to see it. I mistook you for something... human once, but I was wrong. I was blind to the monster you'd become. A monster I foolishly thought I could change at the time."

Alaric's smirk faltered, replaced by confusion, his brows furrowing in anger. "You're lying," he snapped, his voice thick with fury. "No one messes with my mind. No one can." He stepped closer to the glass that separated him and the witch, his fingers twitching at his sides, as if the urge to tear something apart was overwhelming. "You'll shut your mouth now, witch, or I'll rip your lips off and make you regret even speaking my name."

The room seemed to freeze around him, the air growing colder as the tension between them thickened. Alaric's eyes burned with unrestrained fury, a deep, primal anger that flared at the very thought of someone tampering with his memories. It was impossible. No one—no one—could ever alter what was his.

The woman's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "You haven't changed in the slightest have you?"

Alaric's eyes narrowed at her, his expression hardening. "I don't care what you think you know," he said, voice low and dangerous. "I'm not interested in whatever twisted game you're playing."

But as he spoke, something shifted. A familiar feeling tugged at the edges of his mind, as if something long buried was beginning to surface. It wasn't the first time he felt like this, when he tried to recall certain events his mind would go blank.His eyes flicked to her, and for a brief moment, he realized—he couldn't read her. Just as he always could. The subtle traces of her name, her thoughts, like a whisper in the back of his mind, now visible to him in a way that was unmistakable.

His confusion deepened. "Wait... how—"

She met his gaze calmly, unruffled. "You told me once, remember? About the power that was given to you... about what it can do. You warned me, Alaric, that no one would be able to escape your reach once you unlocked it. You were proud of it." She leaned forward, her eyes glinting with the bitter truth. "You told me about the power that allows you to read minds, to control memories. To twist and shape the world to your will."

Alaric's heart skipped a beat, his confusion turning to disbelief. "I never told you that," he growled, his voice growing rough with the growing unease. "I never told anyone that."

The woman's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes searching his with something like pity. "You don't remember, do you? You taught me, Alaric. You showed me everything about the power that you possess. Everything that made you... what you are."

Alaric recoiled, the weight of her words sinking in. His mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments, but it was impossible. He would never have revealed that power. No one else could know about it—especially not her.He remembered clearly he never shared such knowledge with the woman nor her but somehow he was beginning to feel unsure now. And yet, her words felt like shards of something sharp and familiar, pushing against the walls of his memory.

The silence between them deepened, thick with unanswered questions. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Alaric wasn't sure who was lying—or if maybe it was him who had forgotten something far more important.

"Then I guess we both have our memories to deal with," she said, her voice quiet but laced with venom. "But don't fool yourself, Alaric. You may think you've won, but I haven't finished with you yet."

The witch raised her hand slowly, her fingers curling like the talons of some predatory bird, her gaze fixed with intense concentration. Alaric, still grinning, felt something shift in the air—a palpable, suffocating pressure that made his skin crawl.

Before he could react, the pain hit him like a torrent of fire. It was as if his very bones were being twisted and crushed from the inside. His body spasmed violently, and he dropped to his knees with a strangled gasp. The pain was indescribable, raw and all-consuming, coursing through every fiber of his being. His vision blurred, turning dark at the edges as he coughed violently, blood spraying from his mouth in thick, crimson streams. His eyes watered with blood, the very blood that seemed to burn and tear at the delicate structure of his body.

He gritted his teeth, struggling to keep his composure, but the agony was relentless, and he couldn't help but crumple to the floor, clutching his stomach as if he could somehow contain the raw violence tearing him apart. His breaths came in ragged, painful gasps, each one a struggle, and his limbs trembled uncontrollably.

The witch watched him with a detached, almost clinical gaze, her fingers still raised, keeping him pinned in place with the terrible, invisible force she had summoned. Her voice was cold, cutting through the air like a blade.

"If you ever think you can manipulate me again, Alaric," she said, her voice a silken thread laced with centuries of bitterness and finality, "you are sorely mistaken."

She took a step closer, her emerald eyes gleaming with ancient power. "I am Callidora Moraine, last of the Aetheris Coven. The fool who once believed my mother, that even you, the infamous Alaric, could change. But your betrayal—your slaughter of my sisters—taught me otherwise."

Her words hung heavy in the air, her tone unyielding as the crackling fire in her chest. Alaric coughed again, blood flecking his lips, but she pressed on without mercy.

"You may have been able to bend the wills of mortals and immortals alike," she continued, her voice sharp and commanding, "but not me. Not anymore. I have lived through the centuries, my power growing stronger with each passing year. You cannot twist me into your puppet again."

She leaned down, her lips curving into a cruel smile. "But I will say this—I might entertain the thought of you as my slave, Alaric. And when I decide that moment has come, I will reveal the truth of our shared past."

She straightened, her presence commanding, as if daring him to defy her. The intensity of her words lingered, cutting through the room like a blade.

He couldn't speak, the blood flooding his mouth making it impossible to form coherent words. The pressure on his chest was suffocating, as if the very air around him was alive and constricting, each breath a laborious act.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the pain began to subside, though it lingered in the marrow of his bones, a dull throb in the back of his mind. His body, though battered, still clung to life with a cruel tenacity. He lay there, gasping, his limbs aching as he struggled to regain control of his shaking form.

The witch lowered her hand, her gaze softening slightly as she watched him, but there was no mercy in her eyes.

Alaric, still lying on the cold stone floor, his body trembling with the residual effects of the torture, let out a low, almost delirious laugh—a sound that didn't fit the circumstances, as if the pain had driven him to the edge of sanity. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes still clouded with a strange mixture of madness and mirth.

"You have no idea what you've just done, do you?" the witch muttered as Alaric rasped between fits of laughter, each word punctuated by a cough or another sharp wince of pain. "But you've got my permission, Immortal.You've got my permission to feast on the man behind you.Think of it as an early present for the power you will bring me in the near future."

The witch's brows furrowed, but before she could react, Alaric's laughter turned darker, more twisted, as the corners of his lips curled into an almost maniacal grin. He let out a ragged, breathless laugh that echoed through the chamber, a sound that held no hint of remorse—only a sadistic enjoyment of the chaos he reveled in.