Aurelius Von Carstein.

The Consuming Flame.

The room was a cacophony of chaos—the thundering clash of metal against metal, the creaking of the walls as if they, too, were screaming under the weight of the violence. Aura’s vision was clouded, his body wracked with the feeling of something—*no, someone*—pushing at the edges of his mind.

He had done it. He had taken it. The blood—his father’s blood, the ancient blood that coursed through the veins of his cursed lineage—had flooded him, coursing through his system with wild abandon. It was intoxicating. Powerful. But it wasn’t just power. It was *hunger.* It was as if the blood itself was alive, gnawing at him, dragging him deeper into the pit of madness.

The guardians—those cloaked figures who had come to take everything from him—lay scattered across the floor. Their bodies were torn, broken, as though the very walls of the mansion had attacked them in a fury of rage.

Aura stood amidst the wreckage, panting, his claws extended and his blood now a deep, dark crimson beneath his skin. The mansion trembled beneath him as though it, too, could feel the shifting of the earth under his weight. But it wasn’t the earth shifting—it was the *power*, the bloodline that pulsed with madness inside him.

He was invincible now. Untouchable. He had absorbed too much of the ancient blood—he could *feel* it, coursing through him like fire. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath shallow, and yet, the hunger—the insatiable hunger—never left. He had felt it before, the first time his father had allowed him to drink from the blood of their ancestors, but this... this was different.

This was more.

This was *him*.

With a growl, Aura staggered forward, his vision spinning. He was no longer just the last of the von Carsteins. He was something more—something darker. He could hear the voices, distant whispers clawing at his mind. The mansion was silent now, but the remnants of his power echoed within the stone walls, reverberating with the memory of what he had done.

A flicker of light caught his eye, and his gaze turned to the window. Beyond it, he saw the mansion’s grounds—once beautiful, once lush with the pride of his family. But now, it was burning. The fires had already begun.

He had no idea how the flames started. But in this moment, it didn’t matter.

They were *his* flames.

The fire spread quickly—too quickly. The mansion, the legacy, the bloodline that had once been revered across the land, now burned in a fiery inferno. The entire world that had once been his was being consumed by the flames of his madness.

And yet, he felt nothing.

He could have stopped it. He could have saved it. The mansion, the servants, the guards, everything... but they had turned against him. They were afraid of him, just as everyone always had been. So, he let it all burn. Let the walls crumble. Let the fire take everything.

His thoughts were fragmented, like a puzzle missing too many pieces. But the fragments were clear enough—he had the power, and they had dared to oppose him. Sylas, his uncle, had warned him, but even he had failed to understand. Power was not about *control.* It was about *destruction.* It was about *obliterating* everything that had ever tried to stand in his way.

The mansion burned faster. The ground shook harder. And as the world around him crumbled, Aura felt a dark grin spreading across his lips. The bloodline had died, and he was the only one left. The last of the von Carsteins, the only one who mattered.

He let the fire rage, his mind lost to the madness, lost to the flood of blood that continued to surge within him.

“*Burn.*” He muttered under his breath. “*Let it all burn.*”

He turned, and his eyes locked onto the remains of his family’s empire—the mansion, his throne. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. What was the point of legacy? What was the point of control when it could all be destroyed so easily? The bloodline had been nothing more than a cage, a prison he had spent his life trying to escape. Now, it was gone. And with it, the weight had lifted.

For a moment, there was only silence. The fire had reached the heart of the mansion. The light from the flames bathed his face in an eerie, golden glow.

And then came the voices.

“*You’ve done it.*”

Aura’s eyes flickered toward the door, where Sylas stood, barely visible in the shadows. His uncle had managed to survive, though barely. His clothes were torn, his body bruised, but his eyes—his eyes burned with something close to pity.

“You...” Aura’s voice cracked, but the fury in it never wavered. “You couldn’t stop me.”

“No,” Sylas whispered, stepping into the room, his voice hollow. “I never wanted to. But this... this isn’t victory, Aura. This is *madness.* You’ve killed them all.”

Aura’s eyes narrowed. He felt the fire in his veins, felt the crushing weight of the power inside him. But it wasn’t just rage. It was something deeper—something that tore at him from the inside out.

“You don’t understand,” he muttered, his hands trembling with the fury of his own bloodlust. “I didn’t kill them. They killed themselves. They turned against me.”

Sylas didn’t speak for a moment. Instead, his gaze softened, his shoulders sagging as he looked at the destruction around them. “I warned you, Aura. The power you seek—it consumes you. It will destroy you, too. You’re not invincible.”

Aura’s laugh echoed through the mansion, bitter and hollow. “I’m already dead,” he said, his voice breaking as the full weight of his insanity finally settled over him. “You think this is a *choice?* I never had one.”

Sylas stared at him, his voice growing quieter. “You could have stopped it. You could have saved this. Saved yourself.”

But Aura just smiled—a twisted, cold grin that sent shivers down Sylas’ spine.

“It’s too late, uncle,” Aura said, his voice now laced with the edge of madness. “I’ve already burned it all down. And I’ll watch everything else burn too.”

The flames roared louder, as if to answer him.

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**End of Chapter 8.**

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