~ALARIC'S POV
My chamber was a vast and ancient sanctuary that had been carved from obsidian and shadow, one that swallowed sound and presence the moment I crossed its threshold.
The door sealed shut behind me with a low, resonant thud, and the world beyond it ceased to exist.
Here in my chamber, darkness reigned.
It wrapped around my skin like a familiar heavy cloak, as though the shadows themselves had learned the shape of me over centuries. They clung, not in reverence, but in recognition. This was a place that knew its master.
The air carried the scent of old dust, ink long dried into parchment, and the faint metallic tang of magic that had seeped into the stone itself. Forgotten knowledge lived here. Secrets whispered and buried over millennia.
My fingers brushed the surface of the desk as I moved forward, tracing the edges until I found the parchment waiting for me. The script etched into it was precise, intentional. Each rune had been raised just enough to be read by touch alone.
A necessity.
The blindfold pressed cool and damp against my eyes, a constant reminder of what had been taken away from me. Blindness was not merely absence of sight, it was a weight on every motion, every thought, and every gesture. It had stripped the world of color, of depth, of certainty.
And yet, there was something more. Some invisible burden clinging to me, as if the sky itself had been stripped from my back. Even in the mastery I held over flame and shadow, a part of me remained tethered, a freedom once mine now stolen.
As my fingers moved, memory surged without permission.
I remembered the moment my sight had been ripped from me.
The searing agony that had split my skull open, light shattering violently before collapsing into nothingness. The sound—gods, the sound was like glass breaking inside my head, followed by complete silence.
I had known then, that my blindness was a price I had to pay.
For defying the Demon Council.
For consuming the elixir that preserved my true memories when they sought to rewrite them.
For choosing to help a human whose loyalty had outweighed his fragility.
Four centuries.
Four centuries of darkness.
Each day had been an exercise in restraint, a measured march through a world stripped of color and flame. My dreams which were once vivid and colorful had dulled into muted impressions of dark shadows layered upon shadows.
I clenched my jaw at the thought which left bitterness of a loss that had never faded.
"You're thinking again."
Ivara's hands settled softly on my shoulders as they pressed into the tension knotted there. Her touch was neither hesitant nor reverent. It was earned. Claimed through years of survival at my side as my concubine.
She leaned closer, her body aligned with mine in a way that spoke of familiarity rather than permission.
"You are carrying the realm in your spine again," she murmured.
Her thumbs worked in slow circles, coaxing tension loose as her hands slid lower, tracing the hard planes of my torso. She knew where I held my restraint. She always had.
"The realm does not rest," I replied evenly.
"And neither do you," she said, not unkindly.
This chamber had heard wars planned and kingdoms dismantled. It had borne witness to bloodshed and betrayal alike. Conversations here were never trivial.
"The Shadow Covenants are restless," she continued, her fingers stilling briefly as her tone shifted. "Their movements have grown erratic."
"So have their ambitions," I said.
"They circle like carrion beasts," she added.
"Carrion beasts only circle when something is already dying."
Her breath caught, subtle but telling.
Before she could respond, the air shifted.
A presence approached carefully, disciplined, fear folded neatly beneath obedience.
"My Lord," a guard announced, kneeling. Stone scraped beneath his knee.
"I beg pardon for the interruption."
A pause.
"Lady Ivara."
Her hands did not leave me.
"Speak," she said coolly.
"Commander Draven seeks an audience. He claims the matter is urgent."
I flicked my wrist dismissively. "Send him in."
The guard withdrew, unease trailing behind him like an echo.
Moments later, Commander Draven entered.
"High Lord Alaric." Just like the guard had done, stone also scraped beneath Draven's knee as he knelt.
Then, with proper deference, "Lady Ivara."
She stepped aside, but not before her fingers brushed my arm, which was a silent exchange of understanding between us.
"Speak," I said.
Draven inhaled. "A rogue vampire has orchestrated a coup within the Shadow Covenants. He has funneled dark magic into the mortal realm and breached several portal safeguards."
The air tightened.
"He has seized a Covenant stronghold. Dozens slaughtered. If left unchecked, the fallout will bleed into demon territory."
That was not ambition.
That was provocation.
"Fucking leeches." I said quietly.
Ivara stepped closer, her fingers closing briefly around my wrist.
"Return," she said.
My form unraveled, a vortex of energy that left behind a cloudy smoke, curling like a living thing as I vanished from my chamber and emerged in the border forest, twilight clinging to skeletal trees that creaked beneath unseen weight.
I listened.
The world spoke in layers—branches shifting, soil breathing, distant rot.
Then I caught it.
Vampire.
Old blood. Decay. Arrogance.
I moved.
My body became a silver beam, hurtling through the darkness with the speed of light, leaving a trail of shattered air in my wake. I appeared before a figure - Vampire, frozen in terror as I loomed over him.
"Lord Alaric," he said, forcing composure.
Fear flooded his scent.
His blood was thick with corruption. Deep wounds that was scorched in demonic essence marred his body.
A high-ranked demon had done this to him.
No lesser demon could have inflicted damage like this. Someone powerful had torn him apart and left him alive.
Interesting.
"I must say, after 183 years of being alive," he continued through clenched teeth, "I'm honored to finally meet you, even though the circumstance doesn't seem to be pleasant at your end," he finished, his words strained with an agony that threatened to consume him.
His breath wheezed with every word.
He laughed suddenly, dark and broken as if he had a taste of his own demise. "The rumors were actually true, you are indeed blind." His words were mocking, but my expression remained impassive with my composure unruffled, a mask of indifference shielding the tempest brewing within.
"A blind demon king," he sneered. "How pathetic."
My silver flame began to bloom in my palm.
It surged through my veins before spilling outward, coiling like molten mercury, and crawling along my arm in writhing tendrils that pulsed with intent. Though I no longer saw, I remembered every flicker, every arc of light, every spectral shadow it had cast before.
The forest darkened under its glow, the trees bending as if in fear, shadows writhing and stretching like living creatures fleeing the brilliance. The air vibrated with the hiss of molten light and the metallic tang of burning magic.
His fear hit me before he moved, the frantic beat of his heart, the ragged intake of breath. I felt it as clearly as the flames themselves.
A cold grin twisted my lips, a sickening curve of delight. "You're right," I said, voice low and rumbling, dripping with disdain.
"How pathetic."
The silver fire erupted, slithering outward in sinuous arcs, wrapping itself around him. It hissed and shimmered, pressing into every inch of his body, seeking, and consuming his whole being. His screams split the night like glass shattering, echoing into the void.
I watched as shadow and flesh unraveled, twisting into smoke, leaving only drifting ash that shimmered faintly in the cold wind. The scent of burnt shadow, sulfur, and fear lingered in the air as the forest seemed to hold its breath.
And yet... even as the flames consumed the vampire which was erased down to nothing but faint echoes, the weight on my back reminded me of what had been taken from me. The silver fire obeyed me, but it could not ignite what I had lost. Not sight, not freedom, not the part of me that should have soared.
I stood unmoving, the heat fading from my palms, the ash sifting like ghostly dust over scorched earth. My mind traced far beyond this corpse, calculating and planning the next hunt which was still alive in every sense.
This one had been a bait.
Commander Draven and my guards materialized moments later, with their presence sharp against the silence.
"This leech was a distraction," I said. "The real one is still out there."
"Yes, Lord Alaric," they answered in unison.
"Dig further," I commanded. "Find it for me."
"Yes, Lord Alaric."
I vanished once more, leaving swirling ash and shadow behind as the hunt truly began.
Even amidst the chase, the thrill, and the dominance, the weight of what had been taken pressed on me. The silver flames could erase flesh, crush bone, and scorch the world, but even they could not mend what I had lost.
A/N: Did you notice the difference in their pov?
Lenora's pov reads human and more relatable, whereas Alaric reads like someone who is authoritative and in control— which he is.
I want the tone of each person's pov to be distinctive. All three brothers speak and thinks differently, so chapters written in their pov would have different tones/ writing styles.