BloodBound Eternity

Chapter Four: The Price of Blood

Lysander wandered the shadowed halls of the castle, his footsteps echoing off the stone. Despite his newfound power, a hollowness gnawed at his core, making each breath feel heavy, as though the weight of the darkness inside him had settled in his lungs. He could feel the castle's aura, its ancient malevolence coiling around him, reminding him of the life he had forfeited.

He thought of his family, his village—the quiet, mundane life he had left behind. He could almost see the familiar faces, hear the laughter of the children playing in the fields, and smell the freshly baked bread from his mother's kitchen. But the memories felt distant now, as if they belonged to someone else. Lysander's life as a mortal had slipped from his grasp, replaced by a hunger that nothing but blood could sate.

As he turned a corner, he nearly collided with Aislin, who stood like a specter, her pale face luminous in the dim light. Her long hair fell in dark waves over her shoulders, and her blue eyes, so bright against her pale skin, studied him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"You're wandering aimlessly," she remarked, her voice a soft chime in the oppressive quiet. "You'll find no solace in these halls."

Lysander clenched his jaw, frustration curling through him. "Then what am I supposed to do? I feel...empty, as if something inside me has died."

Aislin's gaze softened. "That is because something has died, Lysander. You are no longer who you once were. The mortal life you cherished is gone. You must release it if you are to thrive in your new existence." She reached out, her cool hand resting on his cheek. "But you are not alone in this. We are bound together now, for better or worse."

Lysander met her gaze, searching for comfort in her eyes. There was a warmth there, but it was distant, muted by the centuries that lay between her and the humanity she once knew. "Does it ever get easier?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Aislin's hand fell to her side, and she sighed, her expression turning wistful. "In time, you learn to manage the hunger, to control the darkness within. But you will never be free from it. It is a constant companion, like a shadow that follows you always."

Her words were not comforting, but they held a stark truth that Lysander could not deny. He felt as though a veil had been lifted, exposing the raw, harsh reality of his condition. The hollow ache inside him would not fade with time; it was a part of him now, entwined with his very existence.

"You must feed again," Aislin continued, her tone firm. "The first feeding is always the hardest, but the second will teach you control."

Lysander's chest tightened at the thought of feeding. The memory of the young man's life draining away still clung to him, the terror in the boy's eyes haunting him. "I don't want to kill again," he said, shaking his head. "There must be another way."

"There is no other way," Aislin replied with a hint of impatience. "To sustain ourselves, we must take life. It is the price we pay for our immortality." Her voice softened, almost pleading. "Lysander, you cannot fight this. The hunger will consume you if you do."

A dark chuckle drifted from the shadows, and Elena emerged, her lips curled in a sardonic smile. "Still clinging to your mortal scruples?" she teased. "It's adorable, really. But Aislin is right. You cannot deny your nature."

She moved closer, her predatory grace unnerving him. "Embrace it," she continued. "You'll find there is a certain...pleasure in feeding. The rush of power, the feel of life slipping from your victim into your own veins. It's intoxicating."

Lysander recoiled from the suggestion, disgust curling in his stomach. "How can you speak of it so callously?" he spat. "They're not just...food. They're people."

Elena rolled her eyes, her amusement evident. "People are animals," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "And we are the hunters. It's the natural order, Lysander. You would do well to accept that."

Aislin intervened, stepping between them. "Enough, Elena. He is still new to this. Give him time."

Elena's expression soured, but she said nothing more, only casting a final glance at Lysander before turning on her heel and disappearing back into the darkened corridors.

Aislin turned back to Lysander, her expression compassionate but unyielding. "Come," she said. "There is someone you must meet."

She led him deeper into the castle, to a part he had not yet seen. The walls here were older, the stones rough and cold, and the air carried a metallic tang. At the end of a long, narrow hallway was a heavy wooden door, reinforced with iron bands. Aislin pushed it open, and Lysander hesitated before following her inside.

The room was small, lit by flickering candlelight. In the center, chained to the wall, was a man—a prisoner. His clothes were tattered, and his face was gaunt, streaked with dirt and blood. His eyes widened in terror as he saw Aislin and Lysander enter, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

"This man," Aislin said, her voice steady, "is a murderer. A thief and a coward who left his victims to die in agony. He was brought here for you, Lysander. A life for a life."

The prisoner whimpered, shaking his head as tears filled his eyes. "Please... don't," he begged, his voice trembling. "I—I'll do anything...just let me go."

Lysander stared at the man, his emotions a tumult of revulsion and pity. His heart told him that to feed on this man, regardless of his crimes, would be to cross a line from which there was no return. But the hunger gnawed at him relentlessly, a fierce pain that clawed at his insides, demanding to be sated.

"You must," Aislin whispered, her eyes locking with his. "If you do not feed, the hunger will drive you mad. You will lose yourself, and then there will be no coming back."

Lysander took a step forward, his body trembling with a mix of fear and need. The prisoner's pleas filled the air, but they seemed distant, muffled by the roaring hunger in his ears. He reached out, his hands shaking as he grabbed the man's shoulders, pulling him closer. His fangs lengthened, aching to pierce flesh, to drink in the life that would ease his suffering.

The man struggled, but he was weak, and Lysander's grip was like iron. He hesitated, his mind screaming at him to stop, to find another way. But the darkness inside him surged, overcoming his hesitation. He sank his fangs into the man's neck.

The blood flowed into him, warm and thick, its taste like fire and ash. It burned down his throat, flooding him with a rush of power and relief. The hunger receded, replaced by a fierce, intoxicating pleasure that spread through his veins, filling the emptiness within him. He drank deeply, losing himself in the sensation, the taste of life itself coursing through him.

The man's struggles weakened, his pulse slowing. Lysander released him, pushing him away in disgust. The prisoner collapsed to the floor, his body limp and his breath shallow. Lysander stumbled back, wiping the blood from his lips, shame and self-loathing twisting in his gut.

Aislin placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch grounding him. "You did well," she said softly. "It is never easy, but you will learn to live with it."

Lysander's gaze drifted to the dying man, a sick feeling churning within him. "This...this is what I am now," he whispered, his voice hollow. "A monster."

"No," Aislin replied gently. "You are more than that. We are not defined by the darkness, but by how we choose to wield it. In time, you will come to see this."

But as she led him away from the chamber, Lysander could not escape the feeling that he had crossed a threshold from which there was no turning back. The price of immortality was steep, and it was one he would continue to pay—again and again. The darkness within him had taken root, and though he had fed, he knew it would never truly be satisfied.