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Alaric

Earth Realm–The City Across the River

The human world stinks of metal and misery.

It’s like this messy, repulsive, delightful cacophony of smells, and sounds, and sights that could make even the hardest Demon shiver in fright—or glory. Depends, I suppose.

I love it here.

There’s something utterly intoxicating about the clutter of it all.

Neon signs flickering like dying stars, horns blaring, adding to the noise polluting the air, bodies packed too tight into streets slick with desperation, weeping with agony.

This realm is so noisy, so crowded— so alive . It almost drowns out the thrum of magic beneath my skin.

Almost. But not quite.

I perch on the roof of a dilapidated warehouse across from a dive bar with a half unlit neon sign that’s supposed to read On the Waterfront Bar & Bites .

Charming.

I’ve watched a hundred of these hole-in-the-wall establishments rot from the inside out.

But tonight?

Tonight, something different stirs in the air.

I can feel it.

See it stretch out in front of me the moment I pull the veil back with my magic.

A single thread.

Silver.

Spun tight with longing.

And it’s hers.

That shimmering strand of fate winds through the ether like a tether, humming with emotion so sharp it could slice the skin if you touched it.

I’ve been watching it for days now, trailing behind her like a ghost she doesn’t know she carries.

She’s the one.

My human.

Pretty. Young.

Curves for miles and eyes that carry more story than she’ll ever tell.

But more than that, she’s sad.

Not broken. Not weeping.

No, her sadness is quieter than that.

It clings to her like fog at twilight.

Soft, lonely, and beautifully heavy.

It makes her vulnerable.

It makes her perfect .

Because sadness is a door.

And I know how to walk through it.

For now, I simply watch.

I drape my illusion over me like a well-cut coat.

Horns, wings, tail all tucked neatly into the folds of the metaphysical space that is Nightfall.

My true form steps into shadow, and the charming human exterior emerges, just tall enough to intimidate, just handsome enough to disarm.

And I wait.

My senses sharpen when the back door creaks open and she steps out into the alley, a heavy trash bag slung over one shoulder like she’s carrying the weight of the world.

She works too hard.

I’ve watched her all week, clocking in at the bar just before dusk, slinging drinks for entitled men and women who snap their fingers and stare too long.

She keeps her head down. Smiles too tightly.

Then walks home to that cramped little apartment with the chipped green door and the deadbolt she checks twice.

She doesn’t know she’s been seen.

That I’ve been following her scent through the city’s filth. My inner beast, the Dragon who lives inside of me rumbles as he watches.

The creature has always been drawn to gold. And maybe that’s what she is.

Valuable. Precious.

Tonight, she’s grumbling under her breath, muttering about tips and trash and probably a few things I’d find entertaining if I wasn’t already enchanted by the sound of her voice.

The door slams behind her, and she jumps a little.

Scared of the dark, Sweet?

No, that won’t do. Still, I can teach her which things need fearing, which to respect.

One thing I can promise is that nothing will harm her while I’m around.

A rumble starts to build inside my chest, and I know my beast is on board with that.

She sighs and turns back, placing the lid on the dumpster.

A curl tumbles loose from her bun.

And her body— gods, her body —moves in those jeans like temptation made flesh.

Soft. Strong. Sinful.

I go very still.

Not because I’m surprised. I’ve seen her before, every night this week.

But because something changes.

Some deep instinct stirs beneath my skin, low and primal.

The kind of instinct that predates language.

It doesn't think. It just claims.

The back door swings open again behind her, the sound cutting through the alley like a warning bell.

She stiffens.

And I feel it.

Her pulse kicks, breath catching in her throat.

But this time, when her heart races, it’s for a damn good reason.

She’s not alone anymore.

Two men stumble into the narrow alley, loud and careless, reeking of spilled whiskey and rotten testosterone.

I’ve seen them come in and out of the bar before, a couple of loudmouthed assholes with expensive shoes and cheap souls.

I slip deeper into shadow, every sense locked on her.

The silver thread between us hums so tight I can feel it in my bones.

This is the moment.

The moment.

I can barely make out her words as they corner her against the rusted dumpster, their voices low, slurred, and full of intent I have no patience for.

She raises a hand in warning.

Maybe to defend herself. Maybe to keep calm.

And then one of them reaches for her.

His hand brushes her cheek.

Casual. Presumptuous. Oily with entitlement.

Like she’s his to grab, to frighten, to use.

I see it in his eyes. The way his grin turns feral.

He touches her again.

And something inside me snaps.

I don’t roar. I don’t growl. I don’t announce myself.

But I move.

The air around me distorts as my magic pulses, dragging the shadows tight around my frame.

One second I’m watching. The next, I’m between her and them, a wall of rage dressed in the shape of a man.

The silver thread pulls taut.

Like it knows what’s about to happen.

Like it wants this.

The man who touched her recoils too late. I reach out and grab his wrist, squeezing just hard enough to feel the tendons pop.

His knees give out. He gurgles something unintelligible. And his body cries out.

“Let me make something perfectly clear,” I murmur, my voice like wind across a blade. “You’ve just made the last mistake of your life.”

The man whose hand now hangs useless from his wrist doesn’t even get a scream out. Not really.

I let go of his hand and give him a look—just a flicker of truth behind the illusion.

Just enough for him to see me.

To see the creature behind the eyes.

And he pisses himself.

“S-sorry,” his buddy says.

“Wha-what are you?” he whimpers.

His friend is smarter than him. He shakes his head and drags him away, stammering apologies I don’t care to hear.

The two would-be attackers vanish into the night like rats scurrying from flame.

And now it’s just me and her.

She hasn’t moved.

Her eyes are wide, mouth parted. Staring at me like she’s not sure if I saved her or stepped out of her darkest dream.

I don’t speak yet. I just feel her.

The way her human soul hums like a struck bell.

The way the silver thread between us thrums with fate and fire and fear.

She’s mine.

And I think she knows it.

And I know— don’t ask me how I know, I just do —that she’s going to answer me exactly the way I need.

Her big eyes sparkle as she takes me in from head to foot. This part is an illusion, but she doesn’t know that.

I want to let it drop. I want her to see the real me. But I hold the veil up for a while longer.

“This isn’t how I thought this would feel,” I say aloud without meaning to.

“How you thought what would feel?” she asks.

I don’t answer. I can’t.

I’m still trying to process what’s happening right now.

Mine.

I don’t understand what this is. But I make the decision to take it.

To take her.

Whether the Fates meant it or not, I’m going to make this tiny human believe.

I’m going to make her fall for me.

But what if you can’t?

I push the negative thought away. And even though my heart doesn’t beat in the human sense, something inside me jolts.

Violent. Unfamiliar.

Recognizing.

Fated?

I don’t think so.

I mean, is anything ever that simple?

I step forward silently, cloaking myself in the illusions I’ve mastered since before her ancestors learned to light fire.

She doesn’t see yet. But me? I see everything.

The strain behind her eyes.

The shadows clinging to her like forgotten ghosts.

The heat in her blood.

She’s human. Entirely.

And exactly what I need.

The rules are clear— the first to find his fated mate and complete the bond becomes Prime.

But no one said the mate has to know any of that.

Make her fall for you. Bind her to you. Pretend until the magic believes it.

That’s the game.

And I’m very good at games.

I always win.

“Where did you come from?” she asks.

A crash of bottles from inside the bar startles her.

When she flicks her gaze back to mine—something happens.

Those wide, whiskey-colored eyes capture my attention like nothing else has in a millennium.

Still, I don’t speak.

Not yet.

I let the air thicken between us like smoke.

Then, softly, I ask, “Are you alone in the world?”

I know the answer, but her verbal acquiescence is necessary to the magic.

Her lips part.

Confused. Curious. Slightly wary.

“Yes,” she whispers.

Perfect.

The door swings open behind her, flooding the alley with light and the sharp scent of cheap beer and violence.

More drunken men stumble out, one already shouting.

Jules— yes, that’s her name, I know it now, like I know every piece of her —flinches.

I’ve had enough interruptions. So, I step forward and let the illusion fall.

Seven feet tall, eyes glowing silver-blue, magic wrapping around me like a cloak of wind and intent.

“Go back inside,” I growl at the humans.

They do. Without a word. Without understanding why.

When I turn back to Jules, her breath catches, but she doesn’t run. She blinks once, twice, like she’s trying to wake from a dream.

“You should come with me,” I say.

She hesitates. “Why would I do that?”

I smile.

“Because,” I say, eager for reasons I’d rather not acknowledge, “I’m about to make all your dreams come true.”