Chapter 88-He was Alive
Eric's body lay motionless, his eyes wide open—lifeless, glassy, staring into nothing.
Alaric didn't move.
He stood above him,and simply watched. His smile bloomed slowly.
Finally.
He was free.
But beneath the thrill curling in his gut, something twisted—hot and sharp, scraping behind his ribs.
Anger.
Not at the world. Not even at the chain that had bound him for so long. No.
At Eric.
That pathetic, trembling little pet had possessed the power to unbind him for weeks—maybe longer. And yet he hadn't done it. Not until Alaric had to ask.
Alaric's jaw clenched.
His hands curled at his sides.
He wanted to kick the body. Just once. Right in the ribs. Hard enough to crack bone and remind it—remind him—of his place. Of what he was supposed to be.
A pet should do everything to please their master. To serve. To worship.
But Eric… had waited.
Alaric took a breath, long and slow, forcing down the impulse. He was free now. That was all that mattered.
He let out a sharp, disappointed tsk.
Reaching up, he brushed at the mess on his chest and arms—instinctively trying to clean himself off—but it was useless. Thick, drying blood smeared beneath his fingers, clinging to him like a second skin.
He stared at it with mild annoyance.
It was always blood.
Always.
He peeled off the outer layer of his shirt, let it fall beside Eric's body like discarded skin. It landed in a wet slap.
His stomach growled softly—hungry.
But there were no humans for miles. Just trees. Wind. Dirt.
Nothing that bled the way he wanted.
He sighed, long and theatrical, like the whole world had inconvenienced him by not offering a fresh throat to bite.
His eyes flicked back to Eric's corpse, and for a second, he considered it.
No, he told himself, wrinkling his nose.
Too cold. No fun in feeding on silence.
Still, the scent of blood was thick in the air. His pupils dilated as he inhaled, chest rising with a quiet shiver of pleasure.
He tilted his head.
"Even dead, you're still disappointing," he muttered to Eric, voice low, almost fond. "But you'll wake up."
The excitement buzzed under his skin, electric and rising, until it was too much to contain.
With a quiet hum, he stripped off the rest of his clothes, letting them fall onto the bloodstained floor. Now he stood fully bare, chest still slick with crimson, toes curled against the cold tile.
Naked.
Exactly how he liked it.
He raised a hand to rake his fingers through his hair, letting the dark strands fall around his face. It used to be white, once. Pristine. Almost holy.
He hated that.
He'd never say it aloud, but the black had suited him better. More truthful. More him.
But the color wouldn't hold. The spell or whatever it was that Eric had done had started to break again. The strands were fading already—now a muddied gray, bleeding back to white.
His lip curled.
With a stretch of his limbs, Alaric wandered barefoot through the manor.
He made a slow circle through the halls, touching the walls with his fingertips as he passed—marking his territory, reacquainting himself with it. He walked like he owned every inch of the space, because he did. Even if it had been someone else's hands sweeping the floor or replacing the linens… it was all for him now.
Eventually, his steps brought him to the hall of relics—the oldest wing.
His eyes gleamed.
"Still here, are you?" he whispered.
The mirror loomed at the end of the corridor.
Tall. Ornate. Blackened around the edges like it had been burned from the inside. Its surface shimmered faintly, never quite reflecting, never fully still.
Killian's mirror.
Alaric approached it slowly. He ran his hand along the frame, the cold metal biting against his skin.
Hundreds of people, drained for this one creation. Magic devoured and distilled, their essence fused into silver and glass.
Killian had said it was necessary. That the mirror could see and do things no one else would believe . That it held truths and futures, locked behind layers of sacrifice.
But Alaric never truly understood what Killian's power was. It never made sense. It wasn't just blood or mind or shadow. It was something more abstract… something Eric had mimicked without even realizing it.
That was the strange part.
Eric shouldn't have had that kind of magic—but he did. Same flavor. Same hum beneath the skin.
Alaric stared into the mirror now.Pale skin, blood-slicked chest, greying hair falling into his eyes.
He leaned in,now nose to glass.
"Do you miss him too?" he murmured, tracing the edge with a bloody finger.
The mirror pulsed—just once.
Alaric grinned.
"I'm talking to you again, aren't I?" he said sweetly, voice lilting. "You don't mind, do you?"
Silence.
"I did everything right," Alaric whispered, voice hitching. "I fed him. Taught him. I even let him live. And you saw, didn't you? You saw what he did. He hesitated."
His hand slammed into the side of the mirror suddenly—crack—but the glass repaired itself.
Alaric laughed.
Then he shushed himself, putting a bloodied finger to his lips like he was hiding from something invisible. His eyes darted side to side. "Quiet now. They'll hear us talking again."
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to the glass, his breath fogging the surface.
"You think I made a mistake, don't you?" he whispered. "Tell me. Raising the pet… was it too much? Was it weakness? Should I have broken him instead? Crushed that fragile little spark in his ribs before it started to look like hope?"
His voice dipped lower, raspier now, trembling with something dark and trembling. "I could kill him, you know. Easy. Just one more twist… one more snap. And no more eyes looking at me like he cares. Like he sees something human."
He grinned.
Then scowled.
Then grinned again, like his face couldn't decide what it wanted to be.
"But I don't, do I?" he murmured, tracing his own outline on the glass. "I don't kill him. And I don't know why."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "He reminds me of him."
A pause. The air thickened.
"Killian."
The name was a ghost on his tongue. He hated how it tasted.
"He had the same look, didn't he?" Alaric asked the mirror, his smile twitching—flickering like a faulty lightbulb. "Like he knew everything. Like he pitied me."
His eyes went wide, bloodshot and wet.
"I just want someone to stay," he whispered. "Is that so wrong?"
He reached out and cradled the mirror like it was a lover, pressing his cheek to the cold surface.
"I'll fix him," he whispered. "I'll make him better. Stronger. Not like Killian. Not exactly. Better. Perfect."
The mirror pulsed again, faintly—distorted light rippling across its surface like a heartbeat.
Alaric giggled.
"Yes, yes… you understand."
He stepped back, twirling once, arms outstretched as if for applause, completely naked, blood streaked down his legs.
"I'm going to make a god out of my pet," he sang softly, spinning again, "and he'll never leave me."
He stopped abruptly, gaze snapping back to the mirror.
"But if he tries," he whispered, eyes full of ice, "I'll rip his pretty little heart out… and eat it while it's still beating."
His grin bloomed again—.
Then he blew the mirror a kiss and walked away, humming to himself as blood dripped behind him like breadcrumbs in a haunted forest.
____
Alaric stood in the doorway of the room.
Killian's room.
No—Eric's now. That thought made something twitch behind his eyes.
He didn't look around. He didn't need to.
His body moved on instinct—no, memory—as he crossed to the far wall. Fingers outstretched. He didn't hesitate.
Thud.
His hand slammed into the plaster. Not gently. The wall cracked with a sound like brittle bone. Dust clouded around his arm, and with a grunt, he ripped a chunk of the wall clean out. Brick, mortar, lath—none of it mattered.
And there it was.
Nestled inside the hidden alcove, untouched by time, was the book.
Bound in darkened leather,the edges were jagged. The cover hummed faintly, almost as if breathing. And stitched into the spine—crimson thread, unmistakable—was a symbol that hadn't been spoken aloud in generations.
Alaric's lips parted.
"…Mother."
He whispered it like a curse. Or a prayer. Or both.
He reached out and took it, reverent yet unthinking, cradling the cursed thing like a child. His hands trembled. His mother might have betrayed him but he still loves her.
How Killian had gotten it, he had never asked.
Maybe he should have.
Maybe he didn't want to know.
He turned, book pressed to his chest, and walked back to the bed.
He sat down on the edge, the mattress sighing under his weight. Slowly, he ran his hand over the cover, watching how the light bent and curled around it like it feared to touch the surface.
The book was alive.
And so was the past.
He opened it.
The pages crackled, dry and sharp, and the writing inside writhed faintly.
The symbols danced. Not in magic—but in cruelty. Shapes he didn't recognize. Letters that meant nothing. A language he could never speak.
His eyes darted to the window.
He didn't understand any of it.
This world was too fast.
He didn't say it aloud—but the tremor in his voice spoke volumes.
"I hate this place," he whispered.
His fingers pressed against the runes again, as if he could force meaning into them with sheer will. "Everything's changed but me. I stayed the same and the world forgot me."
He tilted his head back, blinking up at the ceiling.
"I think… I think I'm broken," he said, like a confession to something that wasn't there.
Then, silence.
A long, still moment where Alaric didn't move.
Then he snapped the book shut with a wet thud.
"You should've taught me," he muttered again, quieter now. "You said I didn't need to learn. That you'd always be there to read it for me."
"But I have Eric now," he said to the empty room. "Maybe he'll read it to me if I give this to him."
Alaric curled up on the bed, book pressed to his chest.
He closed his eyes, and in the dark behind his lids, the world still didn't make sense.
But at least in there… Killian was still alive.