Chapter 73:The Art Of Silence

Alaric's head snapped to the side as the gunshot rang out, the force of the bullet sending a shockwave through his body. The impact struck his cheek, tearing through the skin with a sickening rip, leaving a jagged, open gash that oozed blood in thick, steady streams. The blood quickly spilled down his neck, running in dark rivers, staining his collar and dripping onto the floor.

For a moment, everything froze—except for the ragged, terrified breathing of the man who had fired the shot.

Alaric remained perfectly still, his eyes locked on the man in front of him. Then, slowly, almost with disdain, Alaric straightened. The gruesome injury began to shift, the flesh contorting as though some invisible hand was pulling it back together. The jagged wound began to close, the torn skin knitting itself seamlessly, the muscle and bone reshaping with unnatural precision.

Alaric leaned forward just slightly, his gaze never leaving the man's terrified expression. He inhaled deeply, savoring the moment, before he spat the bullet onto the floor. The small piece of metal hit the ground with a sharp, metallic clink, it sounded like a taunt echoing in the tense silence.

"Run," Alaric called out, his voice light, almost teasing. "Let's see how far you make it."

The man stumbled backward, his breaths coming in sharp, panicked gasps. He bolted down the corridor, clutching the gun like a lifeline, and threw himself into a nearby room. Slamming the door shut, he locked it with trembling hands. His back pressed hard against the wood as he slid to the floor, his heart hammering in his chest.

From outside, there was only silence.

He strained his ears, trying to catch any sound of movement. But nothing came. For a brief, fleeting moment, he let himself believe he was safe.

Then came the first knock.

Soft and mocking.

"Knock, knock…" Alaric's voice was like silk, dripping with amusement.

The man froze, his breath caught in his throat. He stared at the door, his wide eyes unblinking as the second knock followed, louder this time.

"Are you going to keep me waiting?" Alaric called, his tone light, almost sing-song. Then the doorknob rattled violently, the sound reverberating like a gunshot in the quiet room. "Come on, let's have a little chat."

The man whimpered, his knuckles white as he gripped the gun tighter.

"Oh, you're scared now? That's adorable," Alaric taunted from the other side. His voice grew lower, sharper, each word sending a fresh wave of terror through the man. "But you know what's worse than me? Sitting in there all alone…waiting. What if I just leave you in there? What if I let you think you're safe, only to find me standing behind you when you least expect it?"

The man's breathing quickened. He clamped his hands over his ears, rocking slightly as if trying to block out the voice. But Alaric's words seeped through the cracks, relentless.

"You locked yourself in here thinking you could keep me out," Alaric continued, his tone now a low, menacing whisper. The door rattled again, harder this time, as if it would burst open at any second. "But the truth is, you're already trapped. And you know it."

"Shut up! Shut up!" the man screamed, tears streaming down his face. He pressed the gun to his temple, his hands trembling violently.

From the other side of the door came soft laughter, cold and cruel. "You're not going to shoot yourself. You love yourself too much for that." Alaric's voice was full of mockery, cutting through the man's desperation like a knife. "But maybe, just maybe, you'll prove me wrong."

The man let out a broken sob, his mind spinning out of control.

The door rattled one final time, harder than before, as though Alaric was seconds away from breaking through.

"Do it," Alaric whispered, his voice almost tender now, dripping with a sick kind of encouragement. "Pull the trigger. End it. It'll be better than facing me, won't it?"

The man let out a strangled cry. His finger tightened on the trigger.

A single, deafening gunshot shattered the silence.

"Well, that was dramatic," he murmured, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. "Humans…so predictable."

His hand curled around the knob, his grip tightening with casual strength. Metal groaned under his fingers before the mechanism shattered completely, the lock falling apart with a hollow clink.

He pushed the door open slowly, the creak of the hinges revealing the scene inside.

The man sat slumped against the far wall, the gun still clutched in his trembling hand. A dark, gory bullet hole marred the center of his forehead, blood pooling beneath his head in a sticky, glistening mess. His wide, lifeless eyes stared blankly at nothing.

Alaric stepped into the room, his boots squelching faintly against the bloodied floor. He stopped a few feet away from the body and crouched, his face impassive as he studied the corpse.

For a long time, he didn't move. He just knelt there, staring at the man's empty, frozen expression. There was no amusement in his gaze, no malice, no satisfaction. His smirk had vanished, replaced by a blank, unreadable mask.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as Alaric remained motionless, the only sound in the room the faint, distant ticking of a clock.

Finally, his lips parted, but no words came out. He exhaled slowly, almost as if he were sighing. Then, without sparing the body another glance, he stood and turned toward the door, leaving the room in utter, suffocating silence.

Alaric wandered through the house, his footsteps a steady rhythm as he moved from room to room, aimlessly tracing the walls as if searching for something. He ran a hand over the polished banister, then paused before a tall window, staring blankly at the view outside.

He wasn't lying when he said he would've worked his ass off just to have his mother live in a place like this— so polished like what the villagers had.

His mother had never been like other mothers. He remembered how she would go on long rants about the world, about how they didn't need anyone, how their little family was enough. But Alaric had never questioned it. Not back then. Not even when they had a room filled with human bones.

His mother had been kidnapping humans ,mostly children, one by one. He had never understood the full reason, not until later. She had fed him stew—thick, meaty, delicious stew that he had always devoured with little question. The taste had been so familiar, so comforting. But as he grew older, Alaric began to piece it together. The stew wasn't just meat. It wasn't just a common dish. It was the flesh of children.

One child had stood out. He couldn't recall the name, the face, or how the child had managed to escape. That was the strange part. The one who had gotten away. No matter how hard he tried, Alaric couldn't recall a single detail—no memory of how the child had looked, or even how the escape had happened. It was as though his mind had refused to let him remember it, but that made it worse. He had always prided himself on his memory—sharp, reliable. So why couldn't he remember this one thing?

The child's face, lost to time, flickered at the edge of his consciousness, a shadow just out of reach. He clenched his jaw, frustration gnawing at him as he walked deeper into the house, his thoughts spinning. He had a good memory. He had always prided himself on it, especially the details—the smallest of things that others would forget.

Alaric sank back into the old, worn chair, its creaky frame creaking under his weight. The fabric felt rough beneath his fingertips, the same as it always had. He sat there in the dimming light, still and unmoving, his eyes fixed on the darkening room before him. He didn't know what he was waiting for, but the urge to remain in the chair—silent, motionless—overcame him.

The sun had barely begun to rise when he first positioned himself, and now, hours later, the world outside had darkened completely. The cabin had grown colder, and the silence felt almost suffocating, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Yet Alaric didn't stir.

Somewhere in the darkness, hidden just beyond his reach, Alaric knew that he was there too—lurking, waiting.

His mind grasped at the world beyond—beyond the familiar isolation of the cabin—and a faint pulse reached him. It was distant, but it was there: a large cluster of life and they were far.

He leaned forward in the chair, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, eyes now glowing faintly in the dark. He could feel the hunger at the edges of his mind, scratching at the walls of his control. He would wait. He would not rush.

Alaric's senses snapped back to the present, a slight shift in the air signaling the sudden presence behind him. His body stiffened for just a moment before he relaxed, recognizing the familiar energy without needing to turn around. A voice, smooth and almost too calm for the moment, cut through the heavy silence of the room.

"Do you feel them too?" Eric's voice was low, almost as if he were speaking to himself, though it was aimed directly at Alaric. The words lingered in the air, heavy with an unspoken meaning.

Alaric didn't move at first, his fingers still drumming on the armrest, his posture unchanged. But his mind instantly registered the change—the undeniable presence of Eric standing just behind him. It wasn't a surprise. Alaric had known Eric would come sooner or later, the night calling him as it did every time.

"You're late," Alaric finally said, his voice quiet but laced with the familiar, unsettling calm that always followed him. He didn't turn, didn't need to. He knew Eric was there, could feel his presence close enough to make the hairs on his neck prickle with the slightest touch of tension.

Eric didn't answer right away, but Alaric could hear him, the subtle sound of Eric's boots shifting against the floor. There was a moment of silence before Eric spoke again, his voice deeper now, tinged with a quiet curiosity.

Eric's presence loomed just behind Alaric, the air thickening with an unspoken tension. His body was so close that Alaric could feel the heat radiating from him, but it wasn't the heat that sent a shiver down his spine—it was the unsettling way Eric moved, like a predator closing in on its prey.

Without warning, Eric leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of Alaric's ear as he inhaled deeply, savoring the scent. His breath was warm against the skin of Alaric's neck, sending a brief, involuntary shudder through him.

"Did you kill him?" Eric's voice was barely more than a whisper, a low murmur that sent a jolt through Alaric.

Alaric's lips curled into a smile, his voice smooth and teasing as he responded, "I didn't lay a finger on him."

A quiet chuckle rumbled from Eric, but it was soon replaced by a shift in energy—sudden, sharp. His hand slid into Alaric's hair, fingers curling around a lock before running it through, seemingly absentminded at first. But then, with a swift movement, he yanked it, pulling Alaric's head back, exposing his neck in one brutal motion. Alaric's breath hitched, a sharp, agonizing twinge of pain ripping through him, but instead of a cry, he moaned softly, the sound almost pleasing in its helplessness.

Eric's lips hovered close to Alaric's neck, his nostrils flaring as he took in the scent, deeper this time, more deliberate. There was a pause before Eric spoke again, his voice tinged with something more than curiosity, something dangerous.

"You need to dye your hair," Eric murmured, his tone casual, but the command was clear. "You're way too easy to recognize. Last thing we need is a trail leading back to us."

Alaric's brows furrowed in confusion, his eyes flicking up to meet Eric's. "Can we even change it? This color… it's old, permanent." His gaze flickered over Eric's face, searching for any hint of an answer, but there was only amusement in Eric's eyes.

Eric's lips curled into a smirk, his hand still gripping Alaric's hair, tugging just enough to keep his head tilted back. "You're a geezer, Alaric," he laughed, the sound rich with mockery, but there was something softer beneath it. "Yeah, of course, we can change it."

Alaric stared at him, unblinking, still processing the shift in conversation, but before he could say anything else, Eric jerked him forward, ignoring the body on the floor. Without a word, he dragged Alaric toward the bathroom, the grip on his hair never loosening.

The lifeless body of the man was left forgotten, the air still thick with the scent of death. But to Alaric, it didn't matter. He was already lost in the sensation of being pulled, dragged, his body moving on autopilot as the door to the bathroom swung open with a quiet creak.