The mud clung to him.
Eric's hands sank into the wet earth as he dropped low, chest nearly grazing the slick ground before pushing back up—again, and again, and again. His muscles screamed, but his face stayed calm. Jaw set. Brows drawn low in concentration.
It had been days since Alaric gave him the ring.
Days since everything changed.
Now the sun hovered high behind sheets of thin fog.Rain still fell, fine and misting now, but earlier it had poured—turning the open field into a slick mess of mud and steam.
And he knew—if he didn't work his body into exhaustion, if he didn't burn through every ounce of energy he had—it would tear him apart.
So he moved.
Pushups until his triceps locked and shoulders trembled.Sprints barefoot across the slick terrain, calves flexing, thighs pumping, every tendon under his skin pulled tight and singing.
His breath came hard and fast.
Steam rose from his back in lazy curls as his body burned hotter than the damp chill around him, fog ghosting off the muscles of his back with every twist and lunge. His hair hung in soaked black strands that clung to his temples, his lashes, dripping down his jaw.
From a distance, Alaric watched.
He didn't interrupt.
The sun caught him just right when he dropped to his knees again in the mud, panting—his torso gleaming, droplets of rain catching the light on the ridges of his abs, the deep V below his hips vanishing under the band of his soaked sweatpants.
He tilted his head back, breathless.
Eyes half-lidded.
Lips slightly parted.
He grinned faintly, still catching his breath.
He liked it.
He liked all of it.
Then—
A whisper.
So soft it almost blended with the hiss of the wind.
But he heard it.
"Stop. Come here."
Alaric.
Eric didn't hesitate.
He moved faster than thought, feet cutting through the mud with near-silent precision until, in one breath, he dropped to his knees in front of him.
Mud splashed up his thighs, streaked across his abs and chest. His hands rested flat on the ground, fingers twitching, like even in stillness his body wanted to keep moving.
Alaric stood a few feet away—chuckling lightly at the scene.
He looked down at him, gaze unreadable,almost psychotic.Then, quietly:
"Stand."
Eric rose slowly, mud dripping down his legs, spine straight, muscles humming under his skin as he obeyed. The cold wind kissed the exposed planes of his body, cutting through the warmth of training, scraping the heat away.
Without waiting for permission, Eric stepped into his space and wrapped his arms around Alaric's waist, pulling him in close. His body, soaked and filthy, pressed up against Alaric's—smearing streaks of mud across the dark fabric of his shirt.
Alaric didn't stop him.
Didn't pull away.
He just let it happen.
Alaric's hand pressed flat against Eric's chest.
Just firm enough to make him take a step back.
Eric let it happen.
His smile didn't falter—it grew.
He tilted his head, water dripping from his hair, lips parting just slightly as he breathed out, "You're in a good mood…"
Eric knew that look.
Knew exactly where they were going.
"Rune training again," he said softly, almost to himself. "God, you've been waiting all day to take a knife to me, haven't you?"
Alaric didn't deny it.
He just turned.
And Eric followed.
---
The door to the dark room creaked open—low stone floors, dark oak shelves lined with relics and knives that hummed with stored energy. The walls were cold, enchanted not to echo the sounds that filled it. The altar in the center gleamed, its blackened surface still etched with dried, flaked blood from the last session.
Eric stepped in first, stripped his soaked pants at the threshold, and let them fall to the floor. Naked. Bare. Willing.
He climbed up onto the obsidian slab without being told.
His body was already memorizing the position—knees parted, back arched, arms relaxed but ready to be restrained if needed. His breath came slow. Focused. Steady.
He lay down and looked at Alaric standing over him.
Alaric unrolled a dirty old cloth—a wickedly thin blade.
Alaric ran a hand over Eric's chest, then down his ribs, then lower—mapping canvas, not flesh.
Eric's eyes fluttered shut.
He braced himself.
Then, the first incision.
A single line—clean, dragged from the base of his throat down to his sternum. The pain bloomed like fire, but Eric didn't cry out. He breathed through it, grinding his teeth, savoring it.
Because he knew—this wasn't cruelty.
This was transformation.
Alaric's voice was low as he worked, fingers firm as he carved.
"If you carve them in the flesh enough times, the soul starts to remember them too."
Eric exhaled slowly. His hands curled into fists.
His voice was raw, but sure. "Then don't stop until I remember everything."
Alaric's lips curled upward, satisfied.
"Oh, I won't."
And the blade kept moving.
Tracing symbols that bled.
That seared.
That sank.
Still—he needed to ask.
Through clenched teeth, he murmured, "How do you know it all by heart?"
Alaric didn't answer at first.
He was quiet, unusually focused, watching the faint glow begin to radiate from the freshly carved runes. The light shimmered just under Eric's skin—subtle, silver-blue and alive, like veins of power knitting themselves into bone.
Only once he seemed satisfied did he lift his eyes to meet Eric's.
There was no smirk now.
No detachment.
Just that cool, unreadable calm.
"My mother used to do this to me."
His voice was even. Empty. Like he'd buried the meaning behind those words years ago. "When I was a boy."
Eric's breath caught.
The pain in his chest had nothing to do with the blade now. His body tensed beneath Alaric's touch, muscles locked.
"I then taught Killian now I'm teaching you."
Eric barely heard the rest.
His mind had latched onto those first words—his mother used to do this to me—and a fire ignited behind his eyes.
That evil witch.
He pictured it—a child, small and wide-eyed, held down and sliced into like a slab of flesh. Not trained. Not transformed.
Tortured.
His jaw clenched, and a low, involuntary growl rippled in his throat. He gritted his teeth so hard they ached. Blood trickled past his lip where he bit down too hard. He didn't care.
Alaric saw it.
Saw the way Eric's entire expression changed—hatred, sharp and wild, aimed at a ghost neither of them could touch.
But he didn't tell him to stop.
He simply kept carving, slowly, lovingly, like he was painting something sacred with a blade.
"Focus," he said quietly, eyes flicking to the lines of glowing blood along Eric's torso. "This isn't punishment. This is craft."
Eric swallowed hard.
Still burning.
Still imagining what he'd do to that woman if she was still alive.
Alaric wiped his blade clean, then placed two fingers just beneath Eric's sternum, pressing gently on one of the fresher runes.
A deep hum thrummed through Eric's body. Not just pain—but structure. Something settling. His bones felt denser. His nerves—less raw.
"These aren't just markings," Alaric murmured. "Each one reinforces a part of you. Every stroke strengthens the bone underneath. Toughens the skin. Conditions the pain receptors."
Eric blinked through the sting, eyes flickering open.
"Runes like these used to be etched into warriors before battle," Alaric continued. "Not because it looked holy. But because it made them walk into fire without screaming."
Eric's chest rose, slow and full.
"And when we carve them deep enough," Alaric said, dragging the blade down toward his hip, "they don't fade. They become part of the body. A permanent spell. A living weapon."
Eric lay still beneath him, skin still burning from the carvings. The hum of power lingered beneath his flesh like a second heartbeat, but his mind—his mind wasn't quiet.
His eyes, heavy-lidded but locked on Alaric, narrowed thoughtfully. Voice still ragged, he asked,
"How long were you a warrior before this?"
Alaric stilled.
He didn't answer at once. Instead, he set the blade down with reverence, as though it had spoken enough for one session. Then his hands pressed against the altar, one on either side of Eric's ribs, and he leaned closer—not hovering, but looming, his shadow cutting across Eric's chest like a falling eclipse.
His eyes darkened—not in color, but in depth. Something ancient pulled behind them.
"Longer than the world remembers," he said at last.
Eric's breath hitched, caught not from fear—but anticipation. A sharp hunger in his chest that wasn't for pain or power, but understanding.
Alaric spoke again, voice low, measured.
"There was a war," he said.
"Not like the petty clan battles the witches and wolves wage now. This was... apocalyptic. A collapse waiting to happen. Every being—every species—banded together to stop us."
Eric's eyes flickered.
"Us?"
Alaric nodded. A flicker of something—grief, maybe—tightened around his mouth.
"We were gods in all but name. The world feared what we would become. What we already were."
As Alaric spoke, the air around Eric shifted—his mind spiraling.
He saw it.
He saw it all.
Flashes bled across his vision, like memories that weren't his—like ghosts clinging to the runes carved into his skin.
Fire. Endless fire.
The sky black with ash. Earth cracked open like a broken ribcage. Cities in ruin. The bones of great beasts half-buried beneath the rubble of temples long lost to time.
And in the center of it all—Alaric.
Armor charred and glinting. His mouth smeared with blood not his own. Runes burning like molten gold across his bare skin. Blade in one hand. A banner in the other—torn, but high.
And at his side…
Eric flinched.
He wasn't Eric anymore.
He was Killian.
Or rather—he felt like Killian.
Loyal. Fearsome. Terrible.
He turned in the vision to the others. They were monstrous. Beautiful. Each one a nightmare sculpted into flesh.
A siren with silver teeth and eyes full of storms.
A shadow-dweller who walked through bone like mist.
A wolf with a crown of skulls, his howl shaking cities to their knees.
There were more but Eric couldn't quite see them.
Each one unforgettable.
Each one now—gone.
"We were seven," Alaric said, voice now distant, as if even he were staring back into the vision with Eric.
"The first of us was consumed by madness. The second vanished. The third betrayed us. The others fell, one by one, until there was only me and Killian left."
He met Eric's gaze again.
"And then... I lost him too."
Eric's throat tightened.
He didn't know if it was his pain—or Killian's—burning in his chest. He didn't ask.
Alaric exhaled, slow and bitter.
"The world couldn't allow us to reign. We were more than them. Better."
Alaric's voice was barely a whisper now devilishly."That's why I swore to kill every last one of them and their next of kin."
Alaric looked down at him. A pause. Then a slow, dangerous smile.
"Starting with the ones who imprisoned me."