The kiss didn't end with warmth. It ended with silence.
Alaric had left.
No word. No glance back. Just the ghost of his mouth on Eric's lips.
Now—
Eric stood alone.
The bedroom was still, unnervingly so. The only sound was the low hum of the overhead fan. But he was gone. The door was closed. The world, for now, had gone still again.
He'd washed himself. Scrubbed off the soot and blood and sweat, until only clean, stinging skin remained.
The clothes—he didn't know where they came from. They were just… there. Folded neatly in the closet like someone had been planning this moment long before he was even capable of walking.
Eric didn't question it.
He didn't want to.Because deep down he knew what was happening.But he couldn't quite understand the pieces.
Now he stood in front of the wide mirror, hoodie draped loosely over his shoulders, sweatpants hanging low on his hips.
Unblinking.
His fingers gripped the edge of the hoodie and lifted it slowly, until it bunched under his ribs to reveal muscle.
Lean and defined. Tapered lines where none had been before, stitched together like something sculpted—not grown. He dragged a hand over his abdomen, tracing the V that dipped below the waistband, the light dusting of hair that followed it.
He couldn't look away.
Because this body wasn't just his. Not anymore. It had been shaped—by pain, by power, by him.
By Alaric.
And under the overhead light, pale skin glowing faintly from the latest round of healing, Eric finally let the hoodie fall back into place.
A hum crept up Eric's spine.
Static.
Then—
"Look at you. Finally got an upgrade."
Eric's eye twitched. "Great. Voices again."
"Don't be shy. I'm just admiring the view. Leaner. Sharper. Almost like you're becoming someone."
Eric scoffed. "Bold words from a squatter."
"Squatter?" Killian laughed. "I'm the reason you're still breathing. I am you."
Eric's fingers twitched before replying back. " I'm the one on the outside. You're just the noise in the back of my head. Like a rat scratching around for scraps."
"You're getting cocky."
Eric leaned in toward the mirror, smirking at his own reflection. "No. I'm getting comfortable."
He wasn't scared of him anymore.
Eric finally sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Alright. Enough of the dramatic bullshit."
Silence.
He glanced back at the mirror, voice low. "Who are you really?"
No answer.
Just the sound of the fan and his own breathing.
Then—
A smirk.
Not on his face. Not really.
In the mirror.
His reflection was grinning. Crooked.
Killian.
"I'm you," the voice said again. "And you're me. You always were."
Eric didn't flinch. Just rolled his eyes like he'd heard this a thousand times before. "God, you're annoying."
"We share the same bones. Same hunger. Same dirt under the nails. You're just too scared to admit it."
Eric cracked his neck, irritated. "Whatever. What did you mean earlier? About the cubs getting stronger. Those people back at the town… who the hell were they?"
Killian snorted.
Then he started laughing.
Loud, full-on—like something unhinged had been let loose.
Eric's eyes narrowed. "Tch. Figures."
The laughter kept going, echoing between his ears, distorting the air like it was about to break—
And then—
Click.
The door opened.
The air snapped back to normal like nothing had happened.
Alaric stepped in, eyes immediately landing on Eric.
Cold. Sharp.
"What's so funny?" he asked, voice low.
Eric stiffened.
Didn't turn around.
Didn't blink.
Then, slowly—he met Alaric's gaze through the mirror.
"…Who were you talking to?"
Eric smiled at the mirror, soft and sly.
Then he turned just enough to glance at Alaric over his shoulder.
"Just my delusions," he said, too casually. "You know how it is."
Alaric tilted his head. Confused for half a second.
But Eric's eyes weren't on his face—they were on the way the clothes clung to him. The black button-down framed Alaric's lean body like it was tailored for sin, hugging the soft dips and curves of muscle that moved like a loaded weapon just waiting to be triggered.
The rolled-up sleeves didn't help. Neither did the way his collar was open, like he hadn't bothered fixing it after pulling someone apart.
Eric barely swallowed the comment on the tip of his tongue.
Alaric blinked once—then was gone.
And reappeared at his side
Eric jumped slightly, heart skipping once. He hated that.
Alaric smiled faintly, tilting his head.
"You're drooling."
"I'm not," Eric muttered.
"You are." Alaric's voice curled around the words, teasing but edged. "It's okay. I like the attention."
Then, without missing a beat, he pulled a thick, worn book from behind his back and dropped it into Eric's lap.
The moment Eric touched it, his breath caught.
The smell.
The feel of it.
He knew this book.
The lettering. The texture of the burned leather. The heat that seemed to pulse faintly through the cover. His hands itched—aching to open it, to run his fingers down the runes inside like they were part of him. Like blood memory.
His child.
His legacy.
He knew this book.
But he didn't show it.
Couldn't.
Not with Alaric watching like that. Not with those eyes that turned cruel at the first sign of defiance. Or curiosity.
So he blinked once and schooled his face into confused indifference.
"What's this?"
Alaric's smirk sharpened. He leaned in, voice low. "A list of every rune, sigil, and invocation tied to my bloodline."
Eric looked down at the cover again, pretending like it was the first time he'd seen it.
"You're giving it to me?"
Alaric tapped the top of the book once, like he was stamping a brand. "To stand by my side, you have to memorize every single one."
Eric cracked the book open a few inches. The symbols shifted on the page, flickering, twisting slightly as if they were alive. He knew what they meant—his body reacted to them like muscle memory—but he forced himself to flinch.
"…They don't even look real."
"They aren't. Not to most people."
Alaric stepped back, pacing slowly in front of him now, voice smooth but cold underneath.
"Magic doesn't come from wishing. Or words. It lives in the body. And the body has to be strong enough to survive it."
Eric stayed quiet, staring down at the pages. Acting. Always acting.
Alaric kept talking.
"To use this kind of power, your nerves have to be sharpened. Your muscles tempered. Your heart—unafraid. Every spell burns. Every rune you carve feels like you're slicing into yourself. If you can't endure it, you'll break."
Eric looked at him. "And if I break?"
Alaric's lips twitched. "Then I get to decide if I'll put you back together."
Eric exhaled slowly.
Alaric stepped closer again. Right into his space.
"I'll train you. Break you down, build you up, burn out the parts that can't hold what you're becoming."
His eyes were dead calm. "It'll hurt."
Eric glanced down at the book in his lap again. His fingers curled tighter around it.
He already wanted to open it and never stop reading.
But instead, he looked up and said, "Then tell me where to start."