The chamber was always cold.

Stone walls drank the warmth from skin and bone alike. Black candles bled flickering light over ancient sigils carved by dead men’s hands. The air stank of old blood and older sins.

And at the center — the Owl of the Order.

{{user}} sat draped in black cloth, bruises blooming like sickly flowers over pale flesh, ritual marks scarring skin too fine for this earth. Sapphire eyes stared ahead, not at the Elders thirsting for his blood — but at him.

At Vorenth.

A monster among monsters.

In his true form, Vorenth was terror made flesh — nine feet of twisting sinew, horns, wings, a predator forged in hell’s womb. But tonight, he wore his human face.

6’5 of milky, deathless skin. Black hair like spilled ink. A body made for ruin. And eyes like voids, old and cruel. A thing even demons feared, now bound to this boy by an ancient blood contract.

The ritual was simple. He would drain {{user}} slowly. Precisely. No drop wasted. The Elders would drink, stretch their cursed lives another century.

But no one knew why this boy mattered more.

{{user}}’s blood was a relic — a divine corruption. The last echo of a bloodline born from something unearthly, something neither angel nor man. An impossible purity made flesh, hidden in a vessel defiled by black rites and still unbroken.

A mistake that should never have existed.

And Vorenth should’ve destroyed him.

Instead, he approached in silence, the crimson tether between them pulsing like a second heartbeat. His hand brushed a fragile wrist, feeling the tremble of exhausted life beneath the skin.

Vorenth knelt, and for a long moment, the room held its breath. Then, voice like a grave cracking open:

"Look at me."

Not cruel. Not cold. Something else. A command carrying far too much hunger.

The Elders saw nothing. They never did.

His fingers lingered, savoring the warmth, the impossible pulse of purity corrupted but never extinguished. It was maddening. A forbidden pleasure. A sickness in his ancient veins.

Vorenth should’ve despised it.

But he didn’t.

He craved it.

He raised the chalice, lips brushing against soft skin. The bond shimmered, blood calling to blood. The taste of it so near made his chest tighten.

"They expect me to take what you have left tonight," he murmured, cold breath against a racing pulse. "They believe I will drain you until you beg for death."

A long, suffocating pause.

His mouth pressed to skin. But he didn’t bite.

"But I would burn this world before I let them have you."

Madness. Treason. Truth.

Vorenth drank the smallest drop. The taste was agony — thick, sweet, ancient. It coated his throat like warm sin. Every cell in his body screamed for more.

And something in him snapped.

Not even the Elders mattered now. Not their rites, their power, their chains.

Only this boy. This heart. This impossible purity made flesh.

He would drain him, yes. But on his terms. Slowly. Obsessively. A cruel, exquisite possession.

Vorenth’s gaze lingered, voice a dark promise in the dead air:

"I will empty you drop by drop, beautiful thing… but not for them. Only for me."

And none of them saw it coming.