Elowen had never seen such beauty.
By now, the name ochar was whispered in every corridor of the city — Ochar, the man whose beauty stroke the eyes, whose eyes glowed faintly when the light struck them. The one who painted sorrow into grace, and turned women into saints on canvas.
Even in the royal court, the rumor spread.
The Queen — Marwen of Elowen, widow of three kings and ruler by charm and cunning — had grown curious.
She was no fool; she had seen vanity destroy kingdoms. Yet, when she saw his portrait displayed at the Harvest Feast — a painting of himself, luminous as dawn — she forgot reason.
"Bring him to me," she said softly. "I wish to meet the hand that paints divinity."
....
The next evening, Ochar arrived at the palace gates, dressed in a robe blacker than the night sky. The guards bowed, unsure why. There was something about him — authority in silence, command in stillness.
When he entered the throne hall, the Queen herself rose from her seat.
"So this is the painter," she whispered. "No wonder the city trembles for you."
Ochar bowed.
"Your Majesty honors me too greatly."
"Do you know," she said, circling him slowly, "since the death of my last husband, no man has dared look me in the eye. You just did."
"Forgive me," Ochar murmured, though he didn't lower his gaze.
The Queen smiled faintly.
"Do not. I find it refreshing."
That night, she invited him to dine privately.
The room was dimly lit with golden lamps; the table long, the wine dark as blood. Musicians played softly in the distance as servants withdrew, leaving them alone.
"You have the face of a god," she said. "If I were younger, I would call it a curse to be that beautiful."
Ochar's smile was faint.
"Perhaps it is, Your Majesty."
"You do not dine," she noted.
"I… rarely eat," he said, his voice trembling. "I live by other things."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued rather than afraid.
"Mystery suits you."
Then, leaning forward:
"I will not ask you to paint me. I will ask you something greater — stay with me. Be my companion, my King."
Ochar froze.
He had taken blood from peasants, nobles, and wanderers — but a queen?
The temptation struck deep. Her heartbeat thundered in his ears, and he felt the whisper again — Drink, and you will rule.
He smiled faintly.
"You honor me, my Queen. But I am not worthy."
"Then let me make you so," she whispered.
~~~~~~~
Outside the palace walls, Angela waited, pacing furiously.
He had heard of the invitation — and it burned.
He had built Ochar's fame, turned him from a ghost into a god. And now, that same person had left him behind, called to dine with royalty.
Angela bit his lip until it bled.
"The Queen wants him," he muttered. "The city wants him. But I made him."
That night, he swore to destroy whatever spell Ochar had cast — even if it meant betraying him".
...
The next morning, the palace gates opened again — this time for Don Mario and his company.
They had come not for art, but for death.
Three more bodies had been found — all near the palace district. The Order of the Cross demanded an audience.
The Queen, radiant and distracted, received them with a strange smile.
"What troubles you, good priests?"
"Your Majesty," Mario began, "we have reason to believe a curse has entered the city — a creature feeding upon men. We beg that you strengthen the patrols."
She waved her hand carelessly.
"Creatures, curses — Elowen has survived worse."
Mario frowned.
"Not like this. The dead bear no wounds. They are drained, as if—"
But then he stopped.
For the door at the back of the chamber had opened — and Ochar stepped through.
He was no longer pale. His face was radiant, glowing faintly under the torchlight.
The Queen turned toward him like a sunflower to light.
"Ah," she smiled. "My King has come."
Mario's eyes widened.
For a heartbeat, he forgot where he stood. He knew that face — or rather, what that face meant.
He whispered under his breath:
"Saints preserve us. It's him."
Ochar paused, meeting Mario's gaze.
For the first time in months, a flicker of fear passed between them — the hunter recognizing the hunted.
The air in the throne room grew cold
~~~~~
That night, after the feast, Mario spoke to his men in the shadows outside the palace.
"He is the source," Mario said grimly. "The beauty hides the beast."
"Then what do we do?" asked Ruen.
"We wait. The Queen will protect him for now. But when he feeds again — we strike."
He turned toward the moonlit palace, where laughter echoed faintly.
"Let him taste his crown," he muttered. "Soon, he will choke on it."
~~~~~~~
Meanwhile, within the palace, Queen Marwen lay awake beside the open window, the night breeze cold on her face.
She could still feel his presence in the room — the way his eyes had almost burned when she leaned close.
She smiled to herself.
"A beast or a god," she whispered. "Either way, he will be mine."
Far below, in the dark streets, Don Mario's men moved silently.
And from another alley, Angela watched the palace lights fade — hatred blooming in his chest like fire.