Beyond His Evil

FORTY.

~THIRD-PERSON POV~

Devon found Zethar in the only place he expected—among the High Council.

As he approached, Zethar greeted him with a familiar, taunting smile.

“Ah, Devon… to what do I owe the honor of your visit? ” he asked casually, stroking the hair of the girl at his feet.

Devon’s gaze shifted to her. She wasn’t the same girl from his last visit.
Typical.
Zethar never kept them alive for long.

Like all vampire pets, this one was naked and bruised. Embedded in her arm was a gem, a rare gem known only to the highest vampire circles.

It didn’t just prevent hunters from using their powers, it absorbed their energy, slowly draining the life out of them. Devon wondered how long she had left.

The humans and hunters had no idea such a thing existed. Another reminder of how little they knew about vampires—about monsters like Zethar.

"She is yours, if you desire her.” Zethar offered, interrupting Devon’s thoughts.

Devon turned to him, jaw tightening.

“You recall, I am nothing if not generous,” Zethar added with a flash of fangs.

"Thank you for your offer, but I decline," Devon said.

"Why the sudden visit, demon? Has the healer's powers awakened?" asked Yurth, a council member.

Devon’s reply was clipped. “No.”

The vampire order was far more structured than the humans or hunters realized.

What had once been scattered turned vampires, fractured and ungoverned, had evolved into seven vast packs. Turned vampires—those once human—joined the bloodline of their sires (vampires who turned them). Packs grew. Territories spread.

And at the head of each stood an Original. The first vampires Zalas created.

There were only eight Originals left.

The humans and hunters knew nothing of this. They didn’t know how many of their kind were inside these packs—pets, slaves, bloodstock. No, not members. Property.

Unturned humans and even hunters were paraded through vampire dens as entertainment, sex toys, maids, and chew toys. The images sickened Devon, but he’d seen worse.

Those vampires who refused to pledge allegiance to a pack were labeled rogues.

They were the monsters whispered about in village corners—feral, lawless, savage. They were the ones behind the chaos, the bloodbaths, the public massacres. And yet even they served a purpose.

To minimize vampire deaths, each pack had “human hunters”—creatures who captured prey and brought them in like cattle. It was efficient. Calculated. Ancient.

But beneath all of it—packs, rogues, kings, and queens—there was one.

The first.
The only born vampire.

A being so powerful his name was never spoken, so ancient even the Originals bowed to him. The son of Zalas and the immortal Mirel. The unholy bloodline. The Godsblood.

He had many names.

Some said he lived in the most prosperous pack. Others believed he was stronger than all demigods combined. They said he was the reason vampires survived the Great War.

Devon had seen him once. He couldn’t recall how, but he’d never forgotten his eye—silver and endless, like a god who had forsaken light.

"So what brings you here?" Zethar asked again, though his knowing smile told Devon he already knew.

And that unsettled Devon.

Zethar wasn’t like the others. Though an Original, he had rejected kingship. He had chosen instead to rule rogues, half-breeds, and things that weren’t quite vampires or demons—things like Devon and Rya.

When others would have killed Devon for what he was, Zethar had raised him. In exchange for loyalty.

But Zethar had changed.

He and his twisted council were now obsessed with bringing Zalas's soul back from hell. They believed Zalas could overthrow God and the demigods, ushering in an age of vampire domination.

When the healers failed to summon him, they were slaughtered.

Now they wanted Kira.

Zethar had powers—real powers. Vampires weren’t supposed to have powers, only traits gifted by Zalas. But Zethar could teleport. Control minds. Bend the elements. And God knows what else.

Devon once asked where the power came from.

“Zalas,” Zethar had said with a smile. “He speaks to me. He blesses me.”

Devon hadn’t replied. But that day, the first seed of doubt had grown into fear.

Now, standing before him again, that fear returned.

“Kira passed out,” Devon began, recounting everything that had happened since. But he left out the most important part—that he had told her the truth.

“Hmmm.” That was all Zethar said.

The council remained silent, waiting for him to decide what mattered.

“Did you meet her before all this?” Zethar asked.

“No,” Devon lied.

Zethar smiled again as if he could hear the lie echoing in Devon’s bones.
“Walk with me, Devon. There is… a revelation I believe you’re ready to receive.”

Devon followed, wary. This couldn’t be good.

They walked through the halls. Rogues sparred in corners. Screams echoed from a nearby cell. A human girl begged for mercy.

“Ah, love… such a delicate illusion," Zethar said suddenly. " Is it not a wonder how even monsters can be ensnared by it?”

Devon tensed.

“Once, long ago, I too was afflicted—yes, with a hunter. Beautiful, wild, and wholly unattainable. She did not return my affections…”

“So you killed her,” Devon said flatly.

Zethar chuckled. “Oh, what a crude assumption. To kill her would have been merciful.”

“What did you do to her?”

His eyes flickered, and something dark passed through them before vanishing. “Let us say… her suffering became the art, and death, its inevitable signature.”

Devon’s stomach twisted.

“I’ve known you a long time, Devon,” Zethar continued, tone turning thoughtful. “You’re... different. You see the world in a way I’ll never understand. You care. You have a good heart.” He spat the word like it was poison. "How exquisitely tragic."

“I don’t see how any of this matters,” Devon said tightly.

“But it matters greatly, Devon." Zethar said, " You see, I sent you to safe land—not out of trust, but because even purity serves a purpose.”

Devon’s gut clenched.

“If I’d sent anyone else, they would’ve played at goodness. But you, my dear boy… you wear goodness like your own skin. And I knew, inevitably, you would fail me. So I prepared accordingly.”

Devon stopped walking.

Cold dread flooded his veins. “What the hell did you do?”

Zethar took a few steps ahead, turned, and smiled. “What did you think I’d do?”

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!” Devon roared, his claws unsheathing, fangs dropping.

Zethar’s lips curled—slow, deliberate—like a man savoring a final move in a game already won.

~A/N~

I can't wait to share the next chapter with you💐