The hunger won.
It came upon Ochar like a storm breaking through glass.
One moment, he was shivering in the candlelight; the next, his veins were fire.
The world blurred into sound — the whisper of heartbeats, the smell of living blood.
He stumbled into the street, the mist wrapping around him like a cloak.
He didn't think. He only moved.
Through the alleys of Elowen he went, silent as smoke, until he found a man drunk by the river.
A fisherman, alone, humming to himself, his neck bare to the moonlight.
Ochar's eyes burned gold.
His breath came heavy.
"Forgive me," he whispered — and then the world turned red.
The Morning After
When the sun rose, the town woke to screams.
The fisherman's body was found at the edge of the river — pale, dry, emptied of blood.
Don Mario and his Order came at dawn.
Velra wept; Ruen drew sketches of the body, trembling.
"This is no beast's work," Haskel muttered. "No claw, no bite. Something deadlier."
"deadlier," Mario repeated, kneeling beside the corpse.
He stood and looked toward the hills, where the mist thinned into sunlight.
"Whatever did this," he said softly, "was not hunting. It was feeding."
Meanwhile, Ochar woke to his reflection.
The man in the mirror was not the same.
The hollowness in his eyes was gone. His skin gleamed faintly, smooth as marble. His lips were red again. His hair shimmered like black silk in the light.
He touched his face, disbelieving.
He looked… divine.
The artist, the ghost, the stranger — now a god in flesh.
When he stepped outside that morning, people stopped to look.
Whispers followed him through the market.
"Who is he?"
"Wasn't that the painter who never spoke?"
"He looks… holy."
By noon, the women of Elowen could not take their eyes off him.
Young girls giggled as he passed. Married women blushed. Even the widows smiled again.
Everywhere he went, hearts fluttered.
And Ochar, though he tried to resist, felt the power in it.
That night, he returned to his house.
The candlelight glowed against his perfect skin, and in the silence he could hear it again — the whisper from within.
"See what you are when you feed?"
He didn't argue this time.
He looked into the mirror and smiled faintly.
"Then I will feed every night," he murmured.
"If blood makes me alive… then let the world bleed."
By the third night, the city was drunk on him.
Women gathered by his gate, bringing gifts — flowers, perfumes, fruit. Some even fought each other for a glimpse of him.
It was then that Angela appeared.
Angela — a man by body, a woman by soul — slender, sharp, and beautiful in his own strange way but dressed like a woman.
He had always admired Ochar from afar, not with love but fascination.
He saw opportunity.
One evening, Angela came to him, his voice soft and sly.
"They adore you," he said. "And they will pay for your smile."
Ochar raised an eyebrow.
"You want to turn madness into trade?"
"Call it devotion," Angela smiled. "They want to touch divinity. Let them pay to worship."
And so it began.
Angela became Ochar's voice and keeper of gifts. He arranged meetings, secret gatherings, candlelit portrait sessions where women paid to be seen by him, painted by his divine hands.
Each night, more came.
Each morning, one disappeared — quietly, without blood left to tell the tale.
And each dawn, Ochar grew more beautiful.
~~~~~~~
Isl stood peeped through her window as she watched.
She saw the women gathering, the laughter, the glow that seemed to follow him.
Her heart ached with confusion.
She had brought him food, kindness and even love— yet now he was surrounded by strangers who spoke his name as if it were a prayer.
Johnny noticed too.
"Mama, why does everyone love Mr. Ochar now?"
She didn't answer.
But when she passed his gate that evening, she saw him — radiant, perfect, smiling faintly at a woman who touched his arm.
Her breath caught.
ochar had forgotten instantly all the good times they spent together he was just too wicked and it was time to also let go
~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile, Don Mario's Order had gathered three new bodies.
All drained. All untouched by blade or beast.
The city murmured of a curse, a ghost, a lover's revenge.
Ruen brought his drawings to the table.
Velra prayed, her voice breaking.
"They're getting stronger," she said. "The veil weakens faster each night."
Mario leaned back, rubbing his temples.
"No," he said. "Not the veil. The hunger."
Haskel frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"We are not dealing with a monster from below," Mario said quietly. "We are dealing with one born among us."
~~~~~~~~
That night, the town held a small festival for the first harvest.
Ochar was invited — no one could imagine celebrating without him.
He arrived in black velvet, his hair shining like silk under the torches. The crowd gasped as he entered. Even the Queen of Elowen herself paused to watch him.
Angela followed behind, whispering prices, promises, opportunities.
Every woman's eye turned toward him. Every man's heart darkened with envy.
As music filled the square, Isla watched from afar.
Ochar caught her gaze — and for a moment, his smile faltered but she ignored him.
Then he felt it — the hunger stirring again.
The scent of living hearts around him, the pulse of the crowd.
He turned away.
The moon rose higher. His shadow lengthened.
And somewhere near the fountain, another woman vanished before dawn.
.....
When the festival ended, Don Mario stood alone beneath the torches, his eye catching the shimmer of something dark near the well — a drop of blood glinting against the stone.
He touched it. Warm.
He looked up — and saw Ochar standing at the edge of the square, motionless, the moonlight kissing his perfect face.
For a moment, Mario's old heart froze.
"wait is this him," he whispered.
"Is this the beast the queen talked about."
But in his bones, he already knew.
The beast had returned.
And this time, it wore the face of an angel.