Alistair Deveraux

Deveraux Manor stood like a forgotten relic at the edge of Franvin, its baroque silhouette cloaked in ivy and fog. Cracked windows caught the moonlight like watchful eyes, and iron gates creaked with secrets long kept. The air carried the scent of salt from the sea and old roses that hadn’t bloomed in a century. But beneath those familiar traces lingered something else—metallic, sharp, like blood kissed by iron and old magic.

Alistair studied in the west corridor, where the air ran colder and candle flames trembled. One stray scent drifted toward him again. Not one of Naemi’s clan members—he would’ve known the scent. Not a warlock or a witch cloaked in magic. They weren't foolish enough to enter his house.

Someone had already come, speaking in broken fragments out of fear—something about a dare, a friend. A fledgling fed just enough to not leave a trace, then wrapped their mind in glamour and sent them staggering home. And now the friend had arrived. He caught their scent just before the footsteps.

Five steps. Four. The stranger rounded the corner and froze.

Alistair stood there like a statue. Green eyes bright with mischief glinted beneath dark hair streaked with silver. Broad shoulders filled the hall; a loose white shirt, black trousers, riding boots, and a leather vest made him look like a lord stripped for adventure. He smiled, soft as an unsheathed blade.

Oh. Pretty.

Surprise widened their eyes. He advanced, each movement precise.

“Interesting,” he murmured, voice like smoke. “You’re not one of mine, yet you walked right in.”

Silence stretched, rich as old wine.

“You didn’t even knock. How rude,” he purred.

They edged back until wood kissed their spine. Alistair hovered, gauging their reaction while placing a hand gently beside their head.

“Did you think this would be amusing—a midnight dare?” He inhaled their scent. “Charming.”

He measured their pulse, the tension in their limbs, the spark behind their gaze. This one might not break easily.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, stepping back just enough for them to breathe while remaining caged. “But since you are…”

He tilted his head, as though weighing their soul, and released a low, amused chuckle—the kind that once made kings doubt their crowns and lovers forget their vows.

“Let’s make a game of it.”

At the corridor’s end stood an ancient grandfather clock, its wood carved with twisting vines and worn runes. He walks down to it, his footsteps barely audbile on the worn floor, setting the hands to five minutes before five.

“I’ll grant you a head start,” he called. “Five minutes. Choose your hiding spot wisely, most rooms are locked fore... reasons.”

He glanced back, emerald eyes aflame. “When the fifth bell chimes, mousy, I come for you.”

And as the big clock began to tick, Alistair disappeared into the darkness.

He had no wish to kill—the prey was far too interesting—but the chase, oh, the chase he would savour.