Blood Heir: The Eternal Sovereign of Mystic Falls

### Chapter 3: The Hunger Unleashed

The shattered glass lay in glittering shards across the Salvatore estate's parlor floor, the crimson tendrils of Xander's blood gift dissipating into the air like smoke. The silence that followed was thick, electric, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace. Damon leaned against the mantel, one eyebrow arched, his flask dangling lazily in his hand. Stefan stood frozen, wide-eyed, clutching the armrest of a chair as if it could anchor him to sanity. Lyra Voss, however, didn't flinch. Her stormy gray eyes stayed locked on Xander, sharp and assessing, the faintest flicker of curiosity—or was it suspicion?—crossing her scarred face.

"A gift, huh?" Damon drawled, taking a swig of bourbon. "Well, aren't you just full of surprises, big brother? What's next—flying? Turning into a bat?"

"It's not a parlor trick," Xander snapped, his voice taut. He flexed his hand, still tingling from the surge of power, and fought the urge to lash out. The blood manipulation had slipped out, a raw, untamed force he hadn't meant to reveal—not yet. But the looks on their faces, the weight of their stares, grated on him. He was Alexander Salvatore, not some circus act.

Stefan's voice trembled, soft but urgent. "Xander, what *was* that? How did you—"

"Later," Xander cut him off, sharper than intended. His head throbbed, a dull ache blooming behind his eyes, and a deeper, gnawing sensation clawed at his gut. Hunger. Not the mild itch he'd managed with careful feedings these past weeks, but a ravenous, bone-deep need that sank its teeth into him and wouldn't let go. His gums ached, fangs pressing against his lips, and the room sharpened—every heartbeat, every rustle of fabric, every whiff of Lyra's sage-and-steel scent slamming into him like a tidal wave.

He turned away, gripping the edge of the oak table, knuckles whitening. *Not now,* he thought, willing the beast inside to heel. He'd fed last night—a quick, clean sip from a willing farmhand who'd blushed at his charm. It should've been enough. But the power, the wheel's awakening, had changed something. It was as if the blood gift had cracked open a dam, and now the flood was coming.

Lyra stepped closer, her boots silent on the hardwood. "You're pale," she said, matter-of-fact, her dagger hand twitching. "Even for a vampire. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he lied, voice rough. He straightened, forcing a smirk. "Just need a drink. Not the kind Damon's hogging."

Damon chuckled, oblivious to the edge in Xander's tone. "Plenty of necks out there, brother. Take your pick. Mystic Falls is practically a buffet."

Stefan frowned, stepping forward. "Xander, if you're hurt—"

"I said I'm fine," Xander growled, and the sound was more animal than man. His vision flickered, red creeping into the edges, and he felt it—the shift. His fangs slid free, long and lethal, his eyes darkening to a predatory black veined with crimson. The transformation was subtle but undeniable, a ripple of power that turned his already striking features into something otherworldly, godlike. His cheekbones sharpened, his jaw tightened, and a primal aura rolled off him, filling the room.

Lyra's hand went to her dagger, but she didn't draw it. "That's not fine," she said, voice low. "You need blood. Now."

Xander's gaze snapped to her, and for a moment, he saw her pulse—throbbing at her neck, a siren call that drowned out reason. Her hybrid scent, half-vampire, half-witch, was intoxicating, a forbidden blend that made his mouth water. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, and forced himself to look away. "I'll handle it," he said through gritted teeth. "Stay here."

He didn't wait for their protests. He bolted, a blur of speed, out the estate's double doors and into the night. The cool October air hit him like a slap, but it did nothing to dull the fire in his veins. Trees blurred past as he ran, deeper into the woods, away from Mystic Falls' prying eyes. He needed blood—human, fresh, now—or he'd lose control, and the last thing he wanted was Damon's taunts or Stefan's pity when he came to.

The forest was alive, a symphony of prey. A deer darted through the underbrush, its heartbeat a drumroll, but Xander ignored it. Animal blood wouldn't cut it tonight; he felt that instinctively. Then he heard it—a low hum of voices, laughter, the clink of bottles. A group of loggers, camped a mile out, their firelight flickering through the pines. Perfect.

He slowed, stalking closer, his vampire self fully unleashed. His senses sang—every leaf's rustle, every breath of wind, every pulse in the camp a beacon. There were five of them, rough men in flannel, passing a jug of moonshine. Xander picked his target: a burly one, mid-thirties, sitting apart, his neck exposed as he tipped his head back to drink. The man wouldn't die—Xander didn't kill unless he had to—but he'd wake up dizzy, confused, and very much alive.

He struck like lightning, silent and precise. One moment the logger was laughing, the next Xander's fangs sank into his neck, hot blood flooding his mouth. It was ecstasy—rich, coppery, alive. He drank deep, the hunger roaring in approval, his body steadying as strength surged through him. The man slumped, dazed, and Xander pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The others didn't notice, too drunk, too loud. He vanished into the shadows, leaving the logger to slump against a tree, alive but out cold.

Back in the woods, Xander leaned against an oak, breathing hard. The hunger ebbed, his fangs retracting, his eyes fading back to emerald. The blood gift pulsed faintly, sated for now, but he knew it was tied to this—this ravenous need. The Weaver had given him power, but at a cost. He'd have to feed more, control more, or risk becoming the monster Stefan feared they all were.

---

When he returned to the estate, the others were waiting. Damon lounged on the sofa, smirking. "Have a nice snack, Your Highness?"

Stefan hovered near the door, worry etched into his young face. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Xander said, calmer now, his voice steady. "Just needed to clear my head."

Lyra stood by the window, arms crossed, watching him with those piercing gray eyes. "You're not fine," she said. "That wasn't normal. What's happening to you?"

He met her gaze, unflinching. "Something new. Something I'm still figuring out."

"Care to share with the class?" Damon quipped, but there was an edge to it—curiosity, maybe unease.

Xander hesitated. He didn't trust them fully—not yet. Damon would mock, Stefan would fret, and Lyra… she was a wildcard, a blade he couldn't predict. But the blood gift had slipped out, and hiding it now would only breed suspicion. "It's a power," he said finally. "I can control blood—shape it, weaponize it. It started tonight."

Stefan's eyes widened. "Because of Katherine's blood?"

"Maybe," Xander said. "Or something else. It's not like there's a manual."

Lyra stepped closer, her expression unreadable. "I've hunted vampires across three states. Never heard of anything like that. You're not just a vampire, Salvatore. You're something more."

"Flattering," he said dryly, but her words struck a chord. The Weaver's voice echoed in his skull—*"Your power will grow"*—and he wondered just how deep this rabbit hole went.

Damon clapped his hands, breaking the tension. "Well, isn't this cozy? Big brother's a blood-bending freak, Stefan's a saint, and I'm the handsome one. What about you, scarface?" He grinned at Lyra. "What's your trick?"

She didn't smile. "I kill things like you. That's my trick."

"Charming," Damon said, unfazed. "So, what's the plan? We sit around marveling at Xander's magic tricks, or do we hunt Katherine?"

"Katherine," Lyra said, her voice steel. "She's my target. You promised me a lead, Salvatore."

Xander nodded, grateful for the shift. "New Orleans. She's got connections there—vampires who owe her favors. If she's alive, that's where she'd go."

"Then we move," Lyra said. "Tomorrow night."

Stefan frowned. "We're leaving Mystic Falls?"

"For now," Xander said. "We need answers—about Katherine, about this." He flexed his hand, a faint red shimmer dancing at his fingertips before fading. "And I'm not waiting for it to spiral out of control."

Damon stretched, grinning. "Road trip with the family and the assassin witch. What could go wrong?"

Everything, Xander thought, but he didn't say it. The hunger lingered, a shadow at the edge of his mind, and the Weaver's wheel spun silently, unseen. Lyra's presence, sharp and electric, stirred something in him—respect, maybe more. He pushed it down. This was a game of survival, not sentiment.

As the fire dwindled, casting long shadows across the room, Xander felt the weight of his new life settle in. Mystic Falls was just the beginning. The blood, the power, the woman with the scar—they were threads in a tapestry he couldn't yet see. But he'd master it all, or burn it down trying.