Read the hero's obsession | Tapas Web Community

The alley was slick with rain and reeking of magic gone stale. Neon signs flickered above, casting broken light across puddles and rusting fire escapes. Caelan moved like a shadow, blade drawn—not because he expected a fight, but because something about the silence unnerved him.

He'd chased monsters before. Warlords. Corrupt spellcasters. But this was different. this was him.

A presence like static on the air, too still to be natural. Then he was there. Not stepping out—already standing there, like he'd always been.

A figure draped in a torn black cloak, silver-white hair falling over eyes that gleamed ice-blue even in the dark. The scar on his jaw caught the light like a whisper of violence.

"You're following me," the man said, voice low and even.

Caelan raised his weapon, instinct and training surging through him.

"You’re Lysar," he said. The man tilted his head. "And you’re late."

A pause.

Just a breath.Then: eye contact.

And the world shifted.

Caelan’s fingers curled tighter around the hilt. Not because he was preparing to strike—but because his heart stuttered, like it had forgotten its rhythm. There was no fear in Lysar’s eyes. Only… calm. Deep, tired calm. As if none of this mattered. As if Caelan didn’t matter.

He hated how much that stung.

Lysar didn’t draw a weapon. Didn’t run. He simply turned, the hem of his cloak brushing water from the ground as he stepped deeper into the alley’s shadows.

“Try to keep up, Hero,” he called over his shoulder. Caelan blinked—hesitated. He didn’t know why his feet moved. He just knew he had to follow.

Caelan's boots splashed through the alley as he ran, heart hammering—not just from adrenaline, but from something deeper. He rounded the corner, sword ready.

Lysar was waiting. Still. Silent.

No stance. No fear.

Just a slow turn to face him, and—

Steel hissed.

Caelan struck first, fast and practiced. But Lysar dodged with an infuriating grace, barely moving his feet. Their blades clashed once—Caelan's swing, Lysar’s deflection—and the vibrations hummed through Caelan’s arms like an echo.

He lunged again.

And again.

Each strike met with lazy precision.

Lysar’s hand moved like water, his dagger gleaming silver, never quite slashing, only guiding Caelan’s blade off-course. Caelan’s breath quickened, frustration mounting.

"You’re holding back," he snapped, sweat trickling down his brow.

"No," Lysar said softly, eyes glowing in the dark. "You’re just not good enough."

Caelan’s grip tightened. “Then stop playing.”

A smirk.

Lysar vanished—blurred—and reappeared behind him. A cold blade touched Caelan’s throat before he could turn.

His breath caught.

He froze.

"Do you really want to kill me," Lysar murmured, close to his ear, "or are you just trying to see if I’ll let you touch me?"

The knife left his throat. Caelan whirled—but Lysar had stepped back already, spinning his dagger between his fingers like it was weightless. “You…” Caelan’s voice cracked. “You could’ve—”

“Killed you?” Lysar raised a brow. “Yes. But that would ruin the fun.” Then he was gone—vanishing into smoke and rain, as if the alley had swallowed him whole. Caelan stood there, sword lowered, breath ragged.

His heart was still racing. But not from fear. From want.

Caelan stood there long after Lysar was gone.

The air still held the trace of him—burnt magic, something sharp and cold and unearthly.

He lowered his sword, slowly. His arm ached from the tension, but his chest ached more—from something he couldn’t name.

That wasn’t how enemies were supposed to act.

That wasn’t how he was supposed to feel.

He replayed the moment—the knife at his throat, Lysar’s voice brushing against his skin, soft as sin.

Do you really want to kill me… or are you just trying to see if I’ll let you touch me?

Caelan exhaled, shuddering.

It should’ve been humiliation. Or fury. But it wasn’t.

It was heat—simmering under his skin, crawling up his spine.

He hated that Lysar had seen through him. That easily. That deeply.

He pressed his back against the alley wall and slid down to sit on the wet ground. Rain was still falling, soaking through his tunic, but he barely noticed.

Who was Lysar?

Everything he’d heard—traitor, murderer, dark mage, villain of the century—it didn’t match what he saw. That calm gaze. That effortless power. That voice.

That face.

Caelan let his head fall back against the wall and stared up at the cloudy sky. His sword lay beside him, forgotten.

He should report the encounter.

He should hunt Lysar down and finish the job.

He should forget the way their eyes had locked like fate itself had paused.

But instead, he whispered the name under his breath: “…Lysar.” His fingers twitched. And something—something he refused to name yet—took root in his chest.

Caelan stood frozen, sword still raised, chest heaving. The silence pressed heavy around him, broken only by his ragged breathing.

Blue eyes burned behind his own eyelids when he blinked. That smirk lingered, carved into his mind like a scar.

He turned away at last, sheathing his sword, his steps mechanical as he left the alley. The streets of the city were quiet now, empty, but every corner, every shadow felt like Lysar might be there, watching him.

By the time he reached the base, dawn’s first light was bleeding into the sky. His body was exhausted, but his mind raced too fast to rest.

He dropped onto the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands.

It should have been victory. He had survived, pushed Lysar back, forced him to flee. But it didn’t feel like victory at all.

It felt like something else.

Something dangerous. Something he refused to name yet—took root in his chest.

“Dammit! Why can’t I get him out of my head?” Caelan’s voice was low, hoarse, meant for no one but himself. He dragged his hands down his face, fingers digging into his skin as though he could claw the thoughts away.

It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. Heroes didn’t obsess over villains. Heroes didn’t lie awake thinking about the curve of a smile or the way someone’s eyes glinted in the dark. Heroes didn’t hear the echo of their enemy’s laugh hours later and feel their chest tighten like a wound.

He had sworn an oath to the kingdom. To protect, to serve, to fight against the shadows that threatened their fragile peace. And yet… the shadow he had faced tonight wasn’t fading from his mind. It was spreading. Consuming.

He’s mine.

The thought rose unbidden, scorching hot and terrifyingly real. Caelan’s breath hitched, his fists curling into the blanket beneath him.

He shoved himself to his feet, pacing the length of his room. The walls felt too close, pressing in on him with every step. His reflection caught in the cracked mirror above his desk—dark eyes, wild, a stranger staring back at him.

He looked like a man unraveling.

But wasn’t he?

He replayed every second of the fight in the alley. The clash of steel. The weight of Lysar’s strength against his own. That infuriating smirk that had made his heart lurch instead of harden. And those blue eyes… gods, those eyes.

Caelan swore under his breath, grabbing his sword and leaning it against the wall, as though distance from it would silence the pounding in his head. It didn’t. The silence only made it worse.

Sleep was impossible. His body ached with fatigue, but his mind raced in frantic loops, circling back to the same place every time. Lysar. Always Lysar.

Finally, Caelan sank back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as dawn bled pale light across the room. He told himself this was nothing. A trick of adrenaline. A passing thought, no more dangerous than a wound that would heal in time.

But the truth dug deeper, sharp as a blade.

This wasn’t fading.

It was growing.

And somewhere, deep inside, Caelan knew: this was only the beginning.