Alec

Alec Cillian surveyed the scene below. A biker brawl, predictable and pathetic, yet it served a purpose. A trickle of satisfaction. He watched as knuckles connected with faces and boots crunched into stomachs. It was a pale imitation of true war, a flickering ember compared to the raging inferno he craved, but it was enough to momentarily quell the gnawing restlessness within him. The Bloodlust Aura, subtle but potent, rippled outwards. He’d stoked the initial argument, a whispered insult here, a misinterpreted gesture there. Now, the violence was escalating, fueled by his divine influence. One of the bikers picked up a broken bottle, its jagged edge glinting under the harsh streetlights. More blood. Alec’s jaw tightened. The charade was wearing thin. He longed to descend, to feel the rush of combat, the spray of crimson on his skin. But he couldn’t. Not yet. The Others wouldn’t tolerate his direct involvement. Not again. He adjusted the worn leather jacket, the movement revealing a glimpse of the fiery energy that danced beneath his skin. He remembered the last time he’d truly let loose. The screams, the shattered earth, the incandescent rage that had consumed him. The price had been a century of exile, a frustrating confinement in the sterile halls of home filled with simpering poems and annoying harp-playing. He’d learned, begrudgingly, to be patient. To cultivate the chaos from the shadows. A lone woman, separated from the fray, watched in horror. Her eyes, wide and filled with fear, met his. There was something different about her gaze. Not disgust, not condemnation, but… curiosity? A flicker of something he couldn't quite decipher. He narrowed his eyes, he wanted her to see the danger, the raw power that lurked beneath the surface. Instead, she took a step closer. Foolish mortal.