BloodBound Eternity

Chapter Two: The Price of Immortality

The castle breathed with an ancient rhythm, its cold stone walls carrying echoes of the past. Lysander was led through winding hallways by Aislin and Elena, with Dracula's presence fading behind them. The dark corridors seemed alive, as though the castle itself was aware of him, its newest inhabitant, whispering his name with every creak of the floorboards. His senses were sharper than ever, every flicker of the candle flames and every rustle of the tapestries almost overwhelming him. Yet the burning in his throat dulled his surroundings, reducing the world to the singular hunger that gnawed at him like a beast scratching to get out.

He glanced sideways at Aislin, her expression distant as they walked. She moved like a ghost, graceful but untouchable, her silence only adding to the aura of ancient sorrow that surrounded her. Elena, on the other hand, practically vibrated with energy, her movements confident and deliberate as though she thrived on the tension that suffused the air.

"Where are you taking me?" Lysander asked, his voice strained. It felt strange to speak; even stranger to hear the subtle resonance in his tone, as though something had changed at the very core of him.

"To your first lesson," Elena said with a smirk, her voice dripping with anticipation. "You must learn to feed, or the hunger will drive you mad."

He stopped, recoiling from her words. "Feed?" The implication struck him hard, tightening the knot in his stomach. He had known what Dracula was—what they all were—but to hear it spoken so plainly made it real in a way he had not yet allowed himself to accept.

Aislin turned to face him, her amber eyes regarding him with a pity that only seemed to deepen the hopelessness he felt. "You are no longer as you once were, Lysander. The hunger will not relent. It is our curse and our strength. You must accept that if you wish to survive."

A small part of him wanted to refuse, to turn away and run as far as his legs would carry him, but even that thought seemed futile. He could feel the call of the blood thrumming through him, a new pulse that had replaced the beating of his human heart. The hunger was not just a craving—it was a need, raw and primal, something he could not suppress even if he tried.

Elena led him into a smaller room, its only furniture a large, heavy chair at the center and an iron door on the far wall. The air was thick with the scent of old blood and something else—fear. She reached into a small compartment along the wall, pulling a lever that Lysander hadn't noticed before. The iron door creaked open, revealing a man in tattered clothing shackled to the wall. His eyes were wide with terror, darting between Elena and Lysander as if gauging which of them would end his life.

The sight of the prisoner sent a jolt through Lysander's chest. He was young, barely older than Lysander himself had been when Dracula found him. The terror on his face mirrored what Lysander had felt the moment he had realized the fate that awaited him.

"No..." Lysander whispered, the word escaping his lips before he could stop it. "I can't... I won't."

Elena's expression was one of condescending amusement. "You will," she said, her tone as sharp as the fangs that glinted beneath her smile. "Or you'll waste away into madness. It's the nature of what you've become, Lysander. You must drink. The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be."

His body trembled, his mind recoiling from the thought, but his gaze was drawn to the young man's neck, where the pulse of his heartbeat seemed to beckon. The hunger flared within him, scorching away his resolve, until he could almost taste the blood on his tongue, feel it sliding down his throat.

Aislin stepped closer, her voice barely more than a whisper. "The first time is always the hardest. But the hunger will drive you to do things far worse if you do not feed willingly. We can help you... or leave you to your own devices."

He turned to her, his vision swimming. There was a softness in her voice, almost compassionate, but he saw the resignation in her eyes—she had long since surrendered to the darkness, had accepted the price she had paid for eternity. He wondered if he could do the same, or if it would break him before he had even begun.

Elena, growing impatient, stepped behind the captive and roughly yanked his head to the side, exposing his neck. "Enough hesitation," she said, her tone cold. "You can either feed now, or you can starve until the hunger consumes you, and you lose what little sanity you still cling to. The choice is yours, Lysander."

The young man whimpered, a soft, pathetic sound that seemed to pierce through Lysander's defiance. He felt his fangs ache, elongating in response to the hunger that clawed at his insides. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to move forward, to sink his teeth into flesh and drink deeply, but his heart—if it could still be called that—resisted.

Aislin reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. "There is no shame in what you feel," she said, her voice steady and quiet. "We were all like you once. But this is what we are now. There is no turning back."

The words echoed in his mind, a finality to them that sent a shiver down his spine. He stepped forward, his limbs moving of their own accord, driven by the hunger that had overtaken his better judgment. He could feel Elena's gaze on him, could sense Aislin's sadness as though it were his own. As he reached the young man, he hesitated for a heartbeat more, his fangs aching and his mind ablaze with desperation.

Then, with a sudden, brutal motion, he sank his teeth into the prisoner's neck. The taste of blood exploded across his tongue, hot and metallic, and he drank deeply, unable to stop himself even if he had wanted to. The man's pulse hammered in his ears, then grew weaker with each heartbeat, fading until it was nothing more than a distant echo.

When Lysander finally pulled away, his chest heaving with a mixture of horror and satisfaction, the young man hung limp in his bonds, his life drained away. Lysander stumbled back, his hands shaking as he wiped the blood from his lips, his mind reeling from what he had done. He felt different, stronger, but also hollow—emptied of something precious that he couldn't name.

Elena watched him with a satisfied smile, the cruel gleam in her eyes brighter than ever. "See? That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

Lysander could only stare at the lifeless body before him, the weight of what he had become crashing down on him with an overwhelming force. "Is this... all there is?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"There is more," Aislin said, stepping closer, her voice softer than before. "But it is not for the faint of heart."

Elena laughed, a sharp sound that cut through the air. "And faint hearts have no place here, Lysander. If you wish to endure, you will need to harden yours. We are not bound by the rules of men. We are creatures of darkness now."

The words sank in like a poison, and Lysander knew that there was no turning back. His humanity was slipping away, piece by piece, lost with each drop of blood that passed his lips. He had stepped fully into the world of monsters, and the only way to survive was to embrace the darkness that had claimed him.

As Aislin led him back through the winding corridors to the main hall, the castle seemed colder than before. The hunger had been satisfied for now, but Lysander knew it would return, stronger and more relentless than ever. And when it did, he would have to feed again.

For in this new life, there was no mercy. Only blood, darkness, and the eternity that stretched before him—a price paid in full by the souls he would claim.