Chapter Text
Ciar watched as Methus carefully took care of the roses that their master had left behind when he decided to live inside the painting with his hunter lover of his.
“Master wouldn’t even notice if you decided to replace all of these with new ones once these fail to live under your care,” he said sighing as his blood brother carefully sprayed each petal.
“He can always decide to read only visit—he’s not stuck in the painting,” Methus stated as he dutifully cared for each rose.
Ciar shook his head at the effort. Methus the one that pledged all his loyalty to their master and would be a literal dog for him. Not much of a difference from his life before turning. It’s just the master has changed hands.
“It’s not even worth the effort that you’re giving,” Ciar said as he shoved his hands in his pockets and started to walk away.
“Is this what’s going to happen now?” Methus asked as he stood up and stared at Ciar, “I was wondering when you were going to throw the towel and walk away from us now that Master isn’t here.”
Methus had an expression that looked unfamiliar to Ciar—or it could be one that was never directed at him that Ciar never noticed.
“There’s nothing holding us here right? Master came back but left with that hunter as soon as he was here. I have followers that I need to attend to.” Ciar said, trying to understand Methus’s reaction.
“But if you go, will you come back?” Methus asked, a voice that sounded unlike Ciar at a point of time that he did not want to remember.
Ciar sighed. “If I am needed, besides you have that werewolf of yours.”
“That werewolf if not mine.”
“You sure about that?” Ciar asked, smirking.
Methus rolled his eyes. “Fine, leave, but remember to come back for the gala.”
“Gala?” Ciar asked, confused. It was already known that Methus is the current king. There was no need for a gala.
“100 years is a long time for a human. For us it’s nothing. When Master was asleep, his control of his people has lessened. The previous gala to announce his return was only a small percent of what it used to be,” Methus explained.
“What is the purpose of the current gala? To get more followers?” Ciar asked.
Methus shook his head. “It’s to know who’s our competition.”
Ciar scoffed at the “our”. Leave it to Methus to somehow include him into the regency. “Don’t you know who’s our competition?”
“It’s a well known family in Bangkok. The Theerapanyakuns,” Methus stated, not noticing the change of expression on Ciar’s face. “They’re an old family but the current members of the family is less than 100 years old. However, the current patriarch, Korn, is not an easy person to deal with.”
Ciar’s gaze hardened at the mention of the Theerapanyakuns. It was already hard trying to make sure that they don’t find his cult, but now there has to be a gala to host them? That was more trouble than he wanted.
“I’m not coming,” he stated before turning into a crow and flying away to his abode.
The wind rushed past Ciar as he soared through the twilight sky, his talons cutting through the air with a familiar elegance.
The Theerapanyakuns. Just the thought of that name twisted something in his gut, a tight knot that threatened to constrict his breathing.
Ciar landed softly on the balcony of his room, the cool air brushing against his feathers as he transformed back into his human form.
Everything has changed ever since Master has left with his lover. Methus became the new leader. Mekhin has gotten together with Pukpong. And Ciar was left all alone.
With his hundreds of followers.
His followers—despite everything, has not abandoned him as of yet. They all pledged their life and blood to Ciar and hasn’t betrayed him yet.
Ciar couldn’t help but lean his head on the rest of the chaise lounge. The light dramatically falling on him and slightly blinding him.
Ciar shifted on the chaise lounge, the thick fabric cool against his skin. The sun's descent painted the sky in hues of deep orange and purple, a beautiful distraction from the weight that pressed against his chest.
His fingers grazed the armrest, his mind racing back to those early haunting nights. The echoes of their master’s laughter still rang faintly in his memory, twining around his thoughts like vines.
He missed his master. The one who saved him from death. The one that Ciar gave all of his love. Ciar’s master was everything to Ciar, but Ciar wasn’t everything to his master.
Ciar couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh at the thought.
Would he forever be alone?
Methus has his werewolf—Ciar knows there’s something going on with the two. Mekhin has Pokpong. Master Ramil has Punn.
Ciar has no one.
But at the same time, he thought about the boy with the soft, charming smile.
He thought about the melodic voice and how it would lure him in like the siren’s breath.
He then thought about the “betrayal”.
Ciar rolled his eyes at the thought. Betrayal his ass. If he knew what Ciar did in his free time or who Ciar was, he would have a heart attack.
Anger surged, hot and palpable, and he clenched the fabric of the chaise beneath him, feeling the coarse weave dig into his skin.
Why did it matter? He had his cult, after all. He could summon respect and fear with a single word. Yet, within these walls, accolades felt hollow, adorned with nothing but echoes.
“I wonder what he’s doing,” Ciar asked out loud, one of his ravens flying closer to him, landing on the back of the lounge chair.
He then covered his left eye as he concentrated. Flashes of black and red appeared in his sight.
A body.
Blood scattered everywhere.
A scream.
He blinked, the vision momentarily fractured by the bright light. Not enough concentration.
The flashes intensified, coalescing into a scene.
He was no longer seeing scattered images; he was seeing a room. It wasn't the opulent, overdone main family compound Ciar imagined, nor the quiet, slightly bohemian apartment he knew Kim used when he wanted solitude.
This room was spare, functional, and slightly gritty. There was exposed brick, industrial lighting, and a drum kit pushed into a corner. It looked like a rented practice studio.
And there was picture.
A picture larger than man.
Ciar squinted at the picture, the harsh lines and stark colors nearly overwhelming him.
A very familiar face looked back at him.
It was a painting of Ciar.
Well not Ciar.
But of someone who looked remarkably like Ciar.
Ciar’s breath hitched—a silent intake of air only detectable in the psychic void of his vision. He focused, pushing his sight closer, trying to resolve the details.
The painting was massive, dominating the brick wall. It was done in an aggressive, almost frenzied style—all violent brushstrokes, deep shadows, and flashes of stark white. It depicted a figure seated on a sofa, illuminated by an eerie, pulsing red light.
The resemblance wasn't just physical—the striking cheekbones, the slight tilt of the nose, the shape of the jawline that was both strong and delicate. It was the expression the artist had captured. The painted eyes held a deep, ancient sadness, a weariness that went beyond a teenager's angst, mirroring the perpetual melancholy that once haunted Ciar's own gaze when he was alone.
Around the figure’s neck, the artist had painted a thick, coiled length of something dark—it looked like a stylized, snarling serpent, its body morphing into links of a heavy, broken chain that disappeared beneath the figure's collarbone. The painted figure's hands were loosely clasped, resting in his lap, and the way the light hit them made the skin look almost translucent, bruised with shadows.
Shaken, Ciar felt the need to move his viewpoint. He tore his gaze away from the portrait and back to the room.
His gaze drew back to a pool of blood. But this one was different. It wasn't the kind of scattered spatter he'd glimpsed in the initial, fractured vision. This was a deliberate trail leading to somewhere.
And Ciar followed.
He followed the trail with his psychic gaze, his senses momentarily overwhelmed by the metallic scent of fresh blood, even though he was miles away.
The trail ended at a pair of expensive, black combat boots.
The boots were highly polished, scuff-free, and laced up tight. They looked new, military-grade but styled for urban warfare.
Ciar's heart raced, the metallic scent of blood prickling at his senses, clinging to the edges of his vision like a creeping fog. He felt hungry. He was so hungry.
He hasn’t had blood since Master has gone. With the transition of power and everything, Ciar was busy to accept blood as an offering.
Ciar forced himself past the hunger, pushing his vampiric needs down into a manageable thrum beneath his concentration. The blood was a distraction, a lure, but he needed to know the source.
He shifted his psychic perspective upward, letting his gaze travel the length of the body attached to those combat boots.
The man wearing them was seated on a battered, vinyl couch, hunched over a large, chillingly beautiful hunting knife.
A knife that Ciar has seen time to time.
The sleeves of his dark shirt were meticulously rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle. He wasn't cleaning the blade; he was honing it, drawing a small whetstone along the edge with slow, deliberate precision. The reflection of the industrial overhead light danced wickedly along the polished steel.
The knife was frighteningly effective, and the man handling it had the practiced ease of someone who treated lethal tools as mere extensions of his own body. He was entirely too graceful, too calm, for the scene Ciar had glimpsed.
The man lifted his head slowly, pausing his work. He wasn't looking at the knife, the architectural drawings, or the disturbing portrait on the wall. He was listening, his sharp senses attuned to something beyond Ciar's psychic intrusion.
He reached for a cheap, burner phone resting on the cushion next to him and pressed it to his ear.
“Did they take the bait?” His voice was low, devoid of its melodic, charming quality—it was pure, chilling business.
Ciar felt the subtle vibration of the voice through his extended perception. It was the same voice, yet utterly transformed, stripped of softness and layered with lethal intent.
A muffled male voice responded from the phone.
The man on the couch simply nodded, his eyes fixed on the blank space above the door, the very spot where Ciar's consciousness was resting.
“Good. Tell them to wait for my signal. I want eyes on every exit, and I want the asset brought to the secondary location intact.” He glanced down at the knife, a look of profound boredom crossing his face. “No drama. No permanent damage. We're sending a message, not starting a war—yet.”
He reached for a small, oil-slicked rag and wiped the knife clean one last time, the movement economical and precise.
“And make sure the 'cleaner' you sent actually knows how to handle blood. I despise amateur messes.”
He ended the call without a farewell, dropping the phone back onto the vinyl.
For a long moment, the man remained utterly still, a study in coiled potential energy. Then, without a sound, his eyes flicked down.
He looked directly at Ciar's proxy—the raven perched on the balcony railing of the high-rise building across the street, far too distant for any normal human eye to register.
The man's lips curled into the smallest, coldest, most unnerving smile Ciar had ever seen directed at him. His eyes, dark and piercing, locked onto the bird.
“It's rude to spy,” he murmured, his voice cutting through the space, despite the impossibility of the distance and the nature of the observer.
Ciar then watched as the man then pulled out a gun and shot directly at the raven.
Ciar cried out, a strangled sound in his opulent chamber, and yanked his awareness back with violent force. He fell backward onto the chaise lounge, his eyes wide opened to not go back.
The man knew where the raven was. That was a first.
Ciar scrambled off the chaise, his heart hammering a frantic, non-existent rhythm against his ribs. The psychic recoil from the sudden, lethal violence was staggering, leaving him dizzy and cold. He pressed a hand to his sternum, feeling the phantom pain of the shot that had instantly obliterated his proxy.
His raven—the one perched on the backrest beside him—squawked in sympathetic distress, its feathers momentarily ruffled before it recognized its master was physically unharmed.
“He... he shot it,” Ciar breathed, the shock fading quickly, replaced by a searing, intense rage and a chilling respect. Not only had the man detected his consciousness hiding in the bird, but he had acted instantly, decisively, and with perfect, lethal aim.
The Theerapanyakuns. Ciar felt the knot in his gut tighten.
He was going to have to see them again. As a representative of his master. As the closest person to his blood brother, Methus.
Ciar really wanted his master now. Master would know what to do.