Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

THE cottage reeked of fear, blood, and destiny—a heady alchemy that clung to the air like witch’s curse, thick and unrelenting, a sensation that made Rhena’s fangs itch beneath her gums. Shadows played drunkenly across the rough-hewn walls, cast by a fire that sputtered weakly against the encroaching chill of early winter. The flames themselves seemed tired, their light dim and flickering, failing to banish the gloom that seeped from every corner. But it didn’t matter. Rhena felt no cold. Not that kind, anyway.

The higher vampire moved through the dimly lit room as a phantom might, her steps deliberate, her silhouette bending with the flicker of tallow candles. Her dark chestnut brown hair, loosely braided, caught what little light there was, gleaming like spilled wine on stone. It was a color that unsettled her, made her throat tighten and her mind drift to memories better left untouched.

The laboring woman thrashed weakly on the bed, her cries muffled by sweat-soaked linens that bore the bitter, metallic tang of suffering. Marta, her name was. Rhena doubted she’d remember it by morning. Names faded. Faces blurred. But the blood—gods, the blood always lingered.

The swell of Marta’s abdomen stretched grotesquely over the life within, a storm waiting to break, the sharp peaks and valleys of agony traced on the mortal woman’s skin. And yet, her cries filled the room with defiance. A storm could be merciless, but this woman would endure.

The village's local midwife had fled long ago, her resolve shattered by the promise of death, muttering under her breath about complications. That left only Rhena. That always left Rhena. To them, she was the stranger in the woods, the woman about whom whispers curled like smoke when the village fires burned low. Some called her witch. Others used harsher words. Not that they ever dared to say them to her face.

Ploughing idiots, Rhena thought bitterly, allowing herself a moment of northern vulgarity. As if their whispers could pierce skin that had turned aside steel.

“Breathe,” she commanded softly, her voice gentle yet firm, her accent a curious thing that belonged to no country. It was the voice of someone who had wandered too far, too long, to call any place home. “It’s close. The child comes. Your body knows what to do, Marta, even if your mind has forgotten. One more push. You’re stronger than this pain. Trust me.”

The words slipped from her lips like a prayer. Not to gods—she’d stopped believing in them centuries ago—but to Marta herself. To the woman’s strength, buried beneath pain but not yet broken. Rhena’s hands moved deftly, guided by knowledge older than most of these villagers’ lineages. Her fingers, pale and steady, caught the first glimpse of life as the child’s head crowned, wet and glistening in the firelight. The woman, Marta, whimpered in reply as blood trickled down her thighs, black in the firelight. Rhena’s nostrils flared, unbidden.

The hunger stirred, and an ancient beast coiled tight beneath her breastbone. The temptation stirred, like the first sip of a Toussaint red after decades of watered-down wine. She didn’t need it—their kind didn’t need mortal blood to survive—but old habits died hard, and even older memories died harder still.

The woman’s husband hovered by the door like a particularly useless shade, clutching a bucket of water from the well that had long since gone cold after Rhena had instructed him to warm it by the fire. Behind him, an old crone—there was always an old crone—fingered a strip of red ribbon meant to ward off evil. She could smell the garlic it had been soaked in. The corner of her mouth twitched as she fought back a smile. As if such foolish peasant remedies could affect a higher vampire like herself.

Marta screamed then, a sound that would have curdled milk. The child’s head crowned, slick with blood and vernix. Rhena’s hands moved with a graceful inhuman precision, guiding the infant into the world with movements practiced over countless births. She had delivered hundreds, perhaps thousands of babes, in villages across the Continent. It was, ironically enough, her chosen path, though she never spoke of why to the others of her kind who preferred their wine-dark revelries in Beauclair.

Fresh blood spilled onto her fingers, and for a moment, the scent transported her back to gilded ballrooms where chalices of crimson vintage flowed freely. She could almost taste it—that exquisite warmth, the rush of pleasure that followed. But those days were behind her. She had chosen a different way.

"Vedran," she murmured, an ancient word of focus. The craving subsided, relegated to memory where it belonged.

The child—a girl—slipped into her waiting hands with a wet sound. Rhena severed the cord with an iron knife, not silver as some tales suggested. Silver was for monsters, and whatever else she might be, she was no mindless beast. She waited, hands steady, as the afterbirth followed—that final dark sacrifice of motherhood that so often proved treacherous.

Only when she was certain all was well did she wrap the infant in clean linen, noting the strong lungs as the infant announced her arrival to the world.

"A daughter," she said, her voice carefully modulated to sound human. "Strong. Healthy." She placed the child in Marta's trembling arms, stepping back with measured grace. The scent of blood filled the room like incense in a temple, a reminder of pleasures forsaken.

The old crone’s eyes never left her. Rhena could smell her suspicion, sharp as vinegar. These peasants might need her skills, but they weren’t stupid. They saw too much, or perhaps not enough—the way she never ate their offered food, how she appeared unchanged by the five years she had lived in this particular mountain village, the unnatural grace in her movements.

“Strange times, dearie,” the crone muttered, loud enough to carry. “There’s talk of strange folk abroad. My grandmother once told me tales of ones who walk in darkness, who feast on—”

“My payment,” Rhena cut her off, turning to the husband. “Four crowns, as agreed upon.” Her tone brooked no argument, though the price was far less than most midwives would charge. Money meant little to her; she had accumulated enough over the centuries to live comfortably if she had been truly living at all.

“Mother, please.” Marta’s husband interrupted, stepping forward with a coin purse. His hands shook slightly. “Mistress Rhena saved both my wife and child tonight. We’re grateful.”

“Grateful, aye,” the crone persisted. “But why does one such as you choose to birth babes in hovels like ours? A woman of your…talents could surely find better work in Novigrad or Oxenfurt.”

Rhena’s lips curved into what might have been a smile. “The cities have enough healers. Here, I’m needed.”

The crone fixed them with rheumy eyes that had seen too many winters. Her weathered face betrayed nothing, though the curl of her lip spoke volumes. The husband extended the purse with the awkward reverence of a peasant before his liege, coins jingling like tiny bells. Rhena took it without counting. They always paid what was due, these simple folk. Fear and desperation saw to that.

"Thank you," croaked Marta, tears cutting paths through the grime on her cheeks as she cradled her babe. Her voice was raw from the birthing screams that had echoed through the cottage mere moments ago.

Rhena's nod held the precise measure of dignity her profession demanded. "The child has strength. Rest. Eat well. The first weeks will test you both."

The infant's wail pierced the silence, tiny fists battling unseen foes. For a heartbeat, Rhena's mask slipped. Those eyes—summer-sky blue, so unlike the bottomless black of her own when instinct took hold. She turned sharply, her threadbare cloak billowing like a raven's wings.

Beyond the door, winter had painted the world white with its first true assault. The peasant cottages huddled in the mountain's shadow, their thatch shoulders bowed under snow's weight. Rhena stood motionless, embracing the cold's cruel caress. It scoured her clean, this bitter reminder of all she'd forsaken.

Through the bitter night, Rhena’s boots crunched a steady rhythm in the snow. Her thoughts drifted, unbidden yet again, to the gilded halls of her past life—she had been different then, in Nazir, draped in silks and precious stones, playing the games of court with relative ease, if not comfort. The memories tasted of ash now.

These days, she rarely indulged in such recollections, though sometimes in the depths of night, she still dreamed of that heady vintage—the rush that came with feeding, the warmth spreading through her limbs like strong spirits. The craving never truly faded, merely dulled with age, like an old sword.

The snow muffled everything, leaving only the steady crunch of her steps in the stillness of the winter night. Yet something felt wrong. The forest was too quiet—no owls called, no night creatures stirred. Rhena hesitated, her unease growing, then quickened her pace. Better to return to her cottage before dawn, to maintain the careful routine she'd established among the villagers.

The scent hit her first: decay and old blood, carried on the bitter winter winds. She froze. Oh, gods. She had been careless, let the night’s events and the lingering bloodlust dull her guard.

The attack came without warning. A dark shadow lunged from behind a frost-rimed pine, moving with the desperate speed of the starving. Rhena’s reflexes failed her, perhaps for the first time in her life. Yellowed claws raked across her shoulder, tearing through cloak and flesh alike. The ghoul’s rancid breath hit her nostrils—grave dirt and putrefying flesh.

A small, frightened sound escaped her as her mask slipped, needle-sharp fangs descending against her will, and she cursed herself for it.

Stop it, Rhena. Higher vampires do not weep. Stop it. Stop it.

But the creature was larger than most of its kind, driven down from the higher peaks by hunger and the bitter cold. Its skull-like face twisted in a rictus grin, tendons and rotting flesh visible beneath papery skin. Her wound burned—not with infection, for her kind were immune to such mortal concerns—but with a deep, grinding pain that spoke of torn muscle and sinew. Blood stained the pristine snow crimson red.

The ghoul circled, emboldened by the scent of her blood. It was cunning for its kind, patient in its hunger. Rhena swallowed hard. She had avoided violence for so long and had built this careful façade of the gentle midwife. Now, in one moment of carelessness, it might all unravel. The monster charged again.

This time she tried to dodge, but her injured shoulder betrayed her. Her movement was a fraction too slow. They tumbled together in the snow, a tangle of claws and fangs. The ghoul’s strength was terrifying—all muscle and sinew powered by necrophagic hunger. Its jaws snapped inches from her throat.

Survival instinct took over. She felt her nails lengthen into claws, and with her good arm, she dove stiffened claws into its eye socket. The ghoul shrieked, a sound like steel on slate. She rolled, ignoring the blazing agony in her shoulder, and brought up her knee to its distended belly. Her other hand found its jaw, gripping with inhuman strength until bone cracked beneath her fingers.

The killing blow was neither clean nor elegant. She tore its head half from its shoulders, spattering the snow with black ichor. The ghoul’s corpse collapsed, twitching, beside her. Rhena curled in on herself, shaking, chest heaving with unnecessary breath—an old habit she’d learned to perfect since she’d chosen to live amongst humans. The night was silent save for the whisper of falling snow.

Then she sensed it: a new presence, ancient and powerful. Her nostrils flared as she caught a scent—strong herbs mingled with the sharp tang of embalming spices. Scrambling to her feet, she hastily tried to compose herself, to pull the mask of humanity back into place. Rhena vested herself to remain in one piece, to appear as presentable as the moment demanded.

"Are you alright?"

The words drifted through the darkness like wisps of fog. A silhouette emerged, its movements bearing that peculiar fluidity that marked those of her kind—the sort of grace that made mortals' spines prickle with ancient, instinctual dread.

Another of her kin. A fellow higher vampire.

He stood before her, tall as a gallows tree, all sharp angles and aristocratic bearing. Silver hair swept back from high cheekbones like a corona in the moonlight. His attire—black as a raven's wing, adorned with brass accouterments—bore not a speck of dirt despite the untamed wilds surrounding them. But it was his eyes that gave her pause. Black as the spaces between stars, they held the weight of centuries. And something else. Something she couldn’t discern, something that eluded her understanding like smoke through fingers.

Rhena froze. She felt the wound on her shoulder already knitting itself closed, flesh and sinew mending with supernatural speed. Still, the encounter had left her shaken, her careful composure fractured.

She recoiled like a startled doe, muscles tensing beneath her worn cloak. Decades of solitude had left their mark - each careful step through the years a dance of shadows and silence, never lingering long enough to cast more than a fleeting shade on any one place.

"I—y-yes, I—I think so," she gasped when she had summoned enough strength on her throat to manage a reply, shrinking back. "I mean no trouble." The words spilled forth soft as autumn leaves, though beneath them rustled the unmistakable tremor of prey before a predator. "This territory is unclaimed. I only wish to help these people."

"Peace, my dear. My name is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy," he replied, his voice gentle as if soothing a frightened animal. "Though just Regis will suffice. I'm a surgeon by trade, just passing through when I heard the commotion and thought I could help, but I didn't expect to find..." He trailed off and looked towards her blood-stained clothing and where the wounds had knitted themselves closed. "Are you sure you're alright?"

“Y-yes,” Rhena stammered, still rattled by both encounters. “I was…I was lost in thought after attending a birth,” she quietly explained.

"A birth?" His dark eyes lit with genuine interest. "You're a midwife?" When she nodded hesitantly, he continued, "Fascinating. Most of our kind avoid such... intimate contact with mortals. Yet you choose to bring new life into the world."

"They need help here," she said softly. "The winters are harsh, and trained healers are few. I was on my way home when the ghoul caught me unaware.” She blushed at her ruined dress and cloak self-consciously, acutely aware of just how wild she must look.

“Let me take you back from here. I could escort you home,” Regis offered softly, maintaining a respectful distance, which she was grateful for. “Woods like these are treacherous at night, even for ones such as ourselves.”

Rhena hesitated, centuries of careful solitude warring with something else—curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe loneliness.

“I’ve only just arrived in these parts,” he added as if sensing her unease. “I find myself in need of lodging, actually.”

“The Grumpy Hag has rooms,” she found herself saying. “In the village. Clean ones, even.”

"Excellent. I don't suppose perhaps you'd care to join me for a glass of wine? I find I'm famished after my travels and have an overwhelming desire to have a drink." His teeth, when they flashed in the dim light, were as unremarkable as any man's. "I assure you, my intentions are purely collegial. And as one healer to another, I'd very much like to hear how someone like you came to this chosen path. I could use the company."

The word ‘no’ nearly formed on her lips, decades of caution rising like a castle wall around her heart. But something in his manner—the scholarly interest, the careful distance he maintained, respectful of her boundaries—made her pause.

The weight of her solitude suddenly pressed heavily on her shoulders. Rhena realized then with a start just how much she yearned for conversation unbound by pretense, by the constant dance of hiding her true nature.

“Yes,” she said quietly after a moment, surprising herself. “I think I’d like that. Follow me. The village is this way.”

They walked in companionable silence through the snowy night, Rhena leading the way down the winding path to the village. The scent of woodsmoke and livestock grew stronger as they approached, mixing with the crisp winter air. Every few steps, she found herself glancing at her new companion, still half-expecting him to vanish like a phantom. But he remained, his boots leaving precise tracks beside her own in the fresh snow.

The Grumpy Hag was one of the few buildings in the village with windows still glowing at this late hour. Inside, the common room was warm and smoky, dominated by a massive stone hearth.

Old Bartik's daughter-in-law, Nina, worked the bar with an efficiency born of long practice, her arms thick as tree limbs from years of hauling kegs. The floorboards, worn smooth by countless boots, creaked beneath their feet.

Rhena quickly guided Regis to a table in front of the fire roaring in the hearth, and the moment they seated themselves, Nina set down steaming bowls of hearty stew in wooden crockery bowls, dark bread, and mugs of spiced hot cider before them without comment, though her eyes lingered curiously on Regis. The wine he ordered was better than the Hag’s usual fare—a Beauclair red that tasted of summer nights and distant memories.

Rhena watched, bewildered, once Nina had gone away, as Regis lifted a spoonful of stew to his lips. The rich aroma of herbs and meat filled the air. He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully.

“Quite good,” he remarked, breaking off a piece of bread. “You seem surprised. Why is that?”

Rhena’s brow furrowed. “I…we don’t need to eat. How can you stomach it?” Rhena watched, fascinated, as Regis continued eating.

Regis dabbed his mouth delicately, dark eyes glinting in the firelight. "Sustenance anchors me to this world. And flavors can be... exquisite. Why deny ourselves harmless pleasures?"

Rhena studied him, wary yet intrigued. "Few of our kind bother."

"I imagine you've met few like me," Regis replied wryly. "Now, what compels a higher vampire to bring mortal life into the world?"

Rhena clutched her mug, shoulders tense. "I wanted to balance the scales," she whispered. "I've taken too much life. This feels like... a step forward."

Regis nodded thoughtfully. "A noble endeavor. The mortals suspect you, I'd wager?"

"Fear keeps them at arm's length. Safer that way."

"Yet here you are, speaking openly with me," Regis mused.

Rhena's lips tightened. "You've given me no reason not to hear you out. And it's been long since I've spoken to one who understands."

Regis smiled gently. "May I know your name?"

She hesitated, then murmured, "Rhena."

The name seemed to strike something in Regis, his dark eyes flickering with an unreadable emotion. For a moment, his fingers stilled on his mug, and something ancient and sad passed across his features like a shadow. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a carefully measured smile.

Rhena tensed slightly, catching the flicker of emotion across his features. Her fingers curled tighter around her mug as she studied his careful smile, uncertainty creeping into her voice. "That name... it troubles you?"

Regis lifted his gaze to meet hers, his composed smile softening into something more genuine. "Not troubled, no. Merely... reminded. Names can carry echoes of the past, though the bearer need not be burdened by them." He took a deliberate sip from his mug. "Your name is your own, as is your path forward. I apologize if my reaction gave you cause for concern. Rhena," he repeated her name slowly and softly as if testing the weight of the name. "A name that carries... interesting memories. But perhaps that makes it all the more fitting for new beginnings." He raised his mug, his composure restored though something haunted lingered in his eyes. "To chance encounters in snowy woods, then. May they lead to something worth remembering."

Their mugs clinked softly. For a moment, Rhena's ever-present isolation seemed to lift, if only slightly. The spiced cider steamed in the wooden mug before her, a pointless comfort she'd never bothered to indulge in before. Rhena stared at it, aware of Regis watching her from across the rough-hewn table with that damned patient expression of his.

The common room of the Grumpy Hag smelled of woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and Nina's perpetually burning stew. A normal tavern on a normal night, if you ignored the two higher vampires sharing a drink by the hearth.

"You ought to try it," Regis said, watching her stare down into her mug with raised eyebrows. His voice carried that aristocratic lilt that centuries of wandering hadn't quite erased.

Rhena's fingers tightened on the mug. "There never seemed to be a point to it."

"There's always a point to discovery," he replied with an enigmatic and strange little half-smile. "To remind ourselves we're part of the world, not merely observers of it."

She frowned but lifted the mug to her lips. The liquid burned, sweet and sharp with spices, spreading through her chest like an echo of sensations long forgotten.

Strange, how something so simple could feel like such a transgression.

"Well?" Regis asked, dark eyes glinting with poorly concealed amusement.

"It's... alive," she admitted, surprised by her response. The bowl of stew sat before her like a challenge, and under his encouraging gaze, she lifted the spoon. The broth was rich with herbs and meat, earthy and complex. "I don't know if I like it, but it's not repellent."

"That's perfectly alright," Regis said, his own spoon moving with practiced grace. "You're tasting the world through a new lens, one you've avoided for centuries. The mortals put so much of themselves into the simplest things—their care, their craft. It's a wonder more of our kind don't indulge in the experience."

They sat in silence then, the fire crackling, mortals drinking and arguing around them, oblivious to the predators in their midst.

Regis took another careful spoonful of stew, then began speaking of his travels—tales of vineyards in Toussaint where the grapes grew fat with summer sun, of ancient wine cellars beneath Beauclair where wines aged in perpetual darkness. His voice was measured, and practiced, like a bard who knows exactly when to let a story breathe.

The tension slowly eased from Rhena's shoulders as she listened, finding unexpected comfort in these small glimpses of a world beyond her carefully bounded existence. For the first time in longer than she cared to remember, she felt something approaching peace.

As the stories wound down, Regis set his spoon aside and studied her over his mug, his expression turning thoughtful. "You've surprised me, Rhena," he said finally. "Few of our kind would choose to explore such an unusual path. Midwifery is a... curious vocation for one like us. How did you come to it, if I may ask?"

Rhena’s fingers brushed against the rim of her mug, her gaze dropping to the fire. The question hung in the air, delicate and sharp, like a blade balanced on its edge.

She didn’t respond immediately, her mind tracing old paths worn smooth by memory, paths she rarely allowed herself to tread.

“It wasn’t something I chose,” she said finally, her voice soft. “Not at first.”

Regis waited, giving her the space to continue. His silence was not the kind born of impatience, but one that invited honesty, as though he could sense the weight of what she was about to share.

“I was living in a village in the north,” she began, her words measured, as though testing their weight. “Hiding, mostly. Keeping to myself. They thought I was strange—of course, they always do—but they left me alone, for the most part. Then one winter, a woman came to my door. She was in labor, and something was wrong. The midwife was dead, taken by the pox, and no one else would help her.”

Her hands tightened on the mug, the memory as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d never even seen a birth before. But… she was desperate. She looked at me like I was her last hope. So, I tried. I did what I could.”

“And?” Regis prompted gently, his voice laced with curiosity.

Rhena’s lips quirked in a faint, bitter smile. “The child lived. The mother did not.”

Regis inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than judgment. “I imagine that left its mark.”

“It did,” she said quietly. “I couldn’t save her. But I realized... I wanted to. If I had known more, if I’d been better prepared, maybe things would have been different. So, I started learning. Reading what I could, watched other midwives when I had the chance. Over time, I got better. And the villagers—once they saw I could help, they stopped asking questions. Or maybe they just didn’t want to know the answers.”

Regis studied her, his expression thoughtful. “And that first child? Did they survive?”

Rhena nodded, her gaze distant. “A girl. I stayed in that village long enough to see her grow. She never knew what I was, of course. None of them did. But I remember thinking… maybe this was my way of giving something back. Of trying to balance the scales, even if only a little.”

Regis’s dark eyes softened. “A noble endeavor, though not without its burdens. Mortals live fleeting lives, but their pain and joy—those linger with us, don’t they?”

“They do,” Rhena admitted. “Every birth, every loss—it stays with me. But it’s worth it. For those moments when it goes right, when I can hand a child to their mother and see hope in their eyes… it reminds me why I keep going.”

Regis nodded, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Hope is a rare thing, for us and for them. Yet you’ve made it your craft. That’s admirable, Rhena.”

She shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his praise. “It’s not about admiration. It’s about trying to make something good out of all the harm I’ve done.”

“Perhaps,” Regis said, his tone gentle. “But don’t discount the good itself, no matter its origins. It’s a rare thing to find among our kind.”

Rhena didn’t respond, her thoughts swirling like snow in the wind. Regis’s words lingered, their weight both unsettling and strangely comforting. For the first time in a long while, she felt seen—not as a monster, not even as a healer, but as something in between.

The sound of creaking floorboards betrayed Bartik’s approach with the telltale creak of wood worn smooth by countless boots, most belonging to those who’d rather not be remembered. The innkeeper’s bulk cast a shadow over their table, his eyes darting between them like a merchant weighing questionable coin. They lingered, predictably, on the steaming bowl before Rhena.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” The words tumbled from his windblown and chapped lips with all the grace of a drunken dwarf. He pawed at his beard, confusion etched deep in the creases of his weathered face. "Rhena, you're actually eating?"

Her spoon halted its journey halfway to her mouth, suspended in the smoky air like an executioner's axe. A flush crept up her neck, though her face remained as impassive as a vampire at high noon. "Is that so unusual?"

Bartik's laugh was as rough as cheap vodka. "Unusual? Five years you've darkened my door, and not once have you so much as wet your lips with cider, let alone supped on stew. Thought maybe you had some curse on you, or one of them peculiar habits. Nina swore up and down you just couldn't stomach honest cooking."

Regis, the bastard, was clearly savoring the moment like a fine Toussaint red. "Well, Bartik, perhaps your fare is simply too good to resist tonight."

The innkeeper's eyebrows climbed his forehead like ivy up a castle wall, pride wrestling with disbelief across his features. "Is that so, stranger? Well, I'll take it as a compliment, then. Though I've gotta say, Rhena, seeing you eat here feels like spotting a wolf playing a lute. Unexpected, but not unwelcome."

Rhena's eyes rolled skyward, though her lips twitched traitorously. "Don't make a fuss about it, Bartik. It's just stew."

"Stew you've been ignoring for the past five years since you moved here," Bartik countered, folding arms thick as tree limbs across his chest. "But I won't push. If you're finally taking to it, I'll count it as a win." He shifted his attention to Regis, giving the stranger a quick once-over. “You’re new around here, ain’t you? Don’t reckon I’ve seen your face before.”

“That would be correct,” Regis replied smoothly, inclining his head. “I’m Regis, a barber-surgeon by trade. Just passing through and was fortunate enough to find this establishment. Your hospitality is most appreciated.”

Bartik snorted, though his cheeks reddened faintly at the praise. “Well, we don’t get many surgeons here. The closest thing we’ve got is Rhena, with all her herbs and knowledge. She’s saved more lives in this village than I can count.”

Regis glanced at Rhena, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. “It seems Mistress Rhena is more indispensable than she lets on.”

“She is,” Bartik said, the pride in his tone evident. “Though she’s stubborn as a mule about it.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Rhena said dryly, though the corners of her mouth twitched with suppressed humor.

Bartik chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair enough. Anyway, if you’re staying, I’ll have Nina get a room ready for you, Master Barber-Surgeon. Second floor, first door on the right. Got extra blankets in the chest if you need ’em.”

“Thank you, Bartik,” Regis said with a gracious nod. “I appreciate your kindness.”

Bartik waved a hand dismissively, though he cast one last curious glance at Rhena’s bowl. “You need anything, just holler. And, Rhena?” He pointed at her spoon, his tone half-joking. “Don’t let that stew go cold. It’s good for what ails you.”

With that, he turned and limped back toward the bar, muttering something under his breath about strange times and even stranger people.

Rhena exhaled, her shoulders relaxing as the innkeeper disappeared into the haze of the common room. She caught Regis’s amused expression and scowled lightly. “Don’t say it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Regis replied, though the mischievous glint in his eyes suggested otherwise. “But for the record, I think you handled that remarkably well.”

She sighed, picking up her spoon again. “It’s just stew.”

“To Bartik, perhaps,” Regis said with a chuckle. “But to you? I suspect it’s something more.”

The steam rising from the stew carried hints of rosemary and thyme, herbs that reminded Rhena of graveyards and healing – sometimes the same in her long experience. Bartik's words clung to her like cobwebs, impossible to brush away without leaving traces. She'd spent years crafting her presence in the village with the precision of an alchemist measuring deathroot – each interaction measured, each response calculated. One bowl of stew threatened to upset that delicate mixture like a drop of dragon's blood in a healing potion.

Regis watched her with the patient intensity of a cat at a mouse hole, though his gaze carried none of the predatory intent such a comparison might suggest. He had mastered something she'd long forgotten – the art of seeing without hunting.

"Bartik seems fond of you," he ventured, the words casual as a witcher's sword was sharp.

A sound escaped Rhena's throat, half-laugh, half-scoff, bitter as wormwood. "Fond isn't the word I'd use. He tolerates me because I'm useful."

"I think you're selling yourself short," Regis countered, his voice carrying the weight of centuries yet somehow remaining light as mountain air. "The way he spoke of you—it wasn't just respect. It was admiration. Gratitude, even."

She lifted another spoonful to her lips, letting the warmth spread through her cold flesh like sunshine through ice. The mortal food felt foreign on her tongue, like speaking a language long forgotten. "Gratitude fades when suspicion grows," she said, each word falling heavy as a funeral bell. "It's happened before. It'll happen again."

Regis tilted his head, firelight dancing in eyes dark as midnight in Brokilon Forest. "You've been burned by it, haven't you? Trust, I mean."

Rhena's fingers tightened around the spoon until the metal threatened to bend. Her gaze found refuge in the flames, those eternal dancers that cared nothing for the troubles of immortals or mortals alike. "Trust is fragile. It doesn't take much for people to turn on someone they see as... different."

He nodded, understanding written in the ancient lines of his face. "And yet, you stay. You choose to risk it, even knowing the outcome might be the same."

"I stay because they need me," she snapped, her voice sharp as a silver blade. "Because someone has to help them, and it's the only way I know how to make up for—" The words died in her throat like victims of the Catriona plague.

"For the past," Regis finished, gentle as falling snow.

Her eyes met his, and at that moment, centuries of unspoken horrors passed between them like shadows at midnight. Her silence spoke volumes that would fill the libraries of Oxenfurt.

"Perhaps you're right," he said, words measured as a merchant's gold. "Trust is fragile. But sometimes, it's worth the risk. The mortals we surround ourselves with—they're far from perfect, but they can surprise us. Don't let past failures rob you of the chance for something better."

A laugh escaped her lips, carrying the bitterness of a thousand years. "You're an optimist. That's rare for our kind."

"Perhaps," Regis admitted, his smile as enigmatic as an ancient elven ruin. "Or perhaps I've simply learned that despair is an exhausting companion. We live long lives, Rhena. If we carry only regret and isolation with us, it becomes a burden too heavy to bear."

She studied him like a tome of forbidden knowledge. "You speak as if you've carried that burden yourself."

"I have," he said, simple words carrying the weight of mountains. "And I still do, in some ways. But I've found that sharing the weight, even in small ways, can make it bearable."

Her expression softened, though her defenses remained high as Kaer Morhen's walls. "You sound like a philosopher."

His chuckle was rich as Temerian wine. "You said that earlier. Perhaps I am, though I find philosophy is often just the art of making sense of one's own mistakes."

They lapsed into silence, letting the inn's atmosphere wash over them like waves on Skellige's shores – the fire's hungry crackle, the murmur of conversations best left unheard, the percussion of clay mugs against scarred wood. Rhena took another bite of stew, the act becoming as natural as breathing – which, for their kind, was more habit than necessity. She caught Regis watching her again, approval flickering in his eyes like candlelight, and for the first time since the Conjunction of the Spheres, she felt the cold grip of solitude loosen its fingers from her heart.

The bowl before her sat half-empty, no longer an adversary to be conquered but a bridge crossed. The warmth of cider and hearth-fire had settled into her bones like summer sun into stone, and the evening's unexpected companionship wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak of finest Zerrikanian silk. Yet as conversation ebbed like a retreating tide, the familiar chains of routine began to tighten their grip.

"I should be getting home," she said, her voice cutting through the tavern's din like a witcher's silver through drowner flesh.

Regis's eyebrow arched with the precision of an elven archer. "So soon? I was just beginning to enjoy this rare moment of camaraderie."

Rhena's smile was as faint as moonlight through storm clouds. "The roads aren't forgiving at this hour. And the villagers expect me to keep to my usual habits. If I linger too long, tongues might start wagging."

"A fair point," Regis conceded, disappointment coloring his tone like autumn leaves. His empty mug met the table with the finality of a coffin lid, and he settled back, hands folded like a merchant counting invisible coins. "I won't keep you, then. But may I offer to escort you? The woods are treacherous, and I'd hate for you to encounter another ghoul."

She shook her head, rising and drawing her cloak tight as armor. "I appreciate the offer, but I'll manage. I always do."

As she reached for her hood, Regis observed her with that peculiar expression of his – curiosity and serenity mixed like oil and water, somehow maintaining their separate natures while existing in perfect balance.

"Before you go," he said, voice soft as cat's paws on cobblestones, "I feel I should tell you—I'm unsure how long I'll remain in this area."

Her fingers froze at her hood's edge like a statue touched by a basilisk's gaze. She turned, her face as carefully composed as a noblewoman's at court. "Uncertain plans for a surgeon? I'd think someone of your trade would be in high demand."

His smile carried secrets like a spy's ledger, dark eyes glinting with meanings as numerous as stars. "True. But I've always preferred to let my instincts guide me. For now, this village seems... promising. The work I might do here, the people I might meet—yourself included—it all feels worthwhile. For a time."

She weighed his words like a dwarf testing gold. "So you're staying only as long as it suits you?"

"Perhaps," he shrugged, the gesture elegant as a dancing lesson at Vintrica. "Or perhaps I'll find reason to linger longer than I anticipated. Who can say?"

His answer hung in the air like fog in a graveyard, deliberate in its vagueness. Yet malice was absent from his tone – replaced instead by an openness as rare as dragon's eggs. She pulled her hood up and turned to the door, a shadow among shadows.

"Well," her tone level as an executioner's blade, "if you plan to linger, you'll find there's not much here to hold anyone's interest. Don't expect excitement or luxury."

His chuckle rolled like distant thunder. "I'm not looking for either, Rhena. But I suspect this place has more to offer than it appears. Goodnight, and safe travels."

She cast one final glance over her shoulder, his words following her like persistent spirits as she stepped into night's embrace. Whether Regis's stay measured a week, a month, or a year, she knew his presence would disturb her carefully maintained equilibrium like a stone cast into still water. Yet, for reasons ancient as the stars themselves, she found herself strangely at peace with the prospect.

The night air carried the crisp bite of early winter, though Rhena felt it no more than she felt the passage of centuries. Her boots left no prints in the frost-kissed mud as she made her way down the village's main road, past shuttered windows and sleeping livestock.

From somewhere in the darkness came the cry of an owl – a sound as familiar to her as her own heartbeat, which, like the owl's call, was more habit than necessity. The villagers' homes grew sparse as she approached the edge of the settlement, replaced by ancient trees that stood like silent sentinels against the star-strewn sky. Their branches twisted overhead like gnarled fingers, a canopy that had witnessed countless secrets and would keep countless more. The path to her cottage was well-worn but carefully obscured – much like her own nature.

She paused at the forest's edge, turning to look back at the inn. Light still spilled from its windows, golden squares carved out of the darkness. Through one of them, she caught a glimpse of movement – Regis, still seated by the fire, his profile sharp against the flames. For a moment, she was struck by an emotion she couldn't name, something between recognition and longing, ancient as the stars above and just as distant.

The weight of her satchel reminded her of its contents – herbs gathered for tomorrow's patients, roots for poultices, berries for fever tea. Simple remedies for simple folk who would never know that their healer measured their lives in heartbeats while she measured her own in centuries. She adjusted the strap, the familiar motion grounding her in the present like an anchor in stormy seas. A cold wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of pine needles and possibilities.

Change was coming to her carefully ordered world, as inevitable as dawn and just as blinding. But perhaps Regis was right – perhaps some risks were worth taking, some burdens worth sharing. After all, what was immortality if not an endless series of choices, each one a chance to either remain frozen in the past or step forward into the unknown?

The owl called again, closer now, its cry echoing through the forest like laughter at a jest only it understood. Rhena smiled – a real smile this time, small but genuine as a drop of blood – and began the walk home, leaving the warmth of the inn and its unexpected revelations behind. The night embraced her like an old friend, and for once, she embraced it back.

The darkness between the trees deepened, swallowing her form until she was nothing more than another shadow among shadows, another secret in a world full of them. Tomorrow would bring its challenges: villagers with their ailments, Regis with his questions, and the ever-present dance of hiding in plain sight.

But tonight... tonight she had tasted stew, shared words with one of her kind, and felt, however briefly, a little less alone.

It was, she decided, not an entirely unpleasant way to end a century-old routine.

Chapter Text

THE stench of stale ale and human filth clawed at Regis's enhanced senses, a visceral reminder of his otherness. Perched in the window seat like a carrion bird, he absorbed the cacophony of mortal existence—mice scratching desperate paths through rotting walls, the wet sounds of violence erupting from the tavern below, bitter wind keening through gaps in the glass like a dying thing. The assault on his senses should have driven him to madness. Instead, it grounded him in his curse: forever the predator pretending at humanity.

His fingers closed around the mug of spiced cider, still steaming from when the serving girl had delivered it. Her pulse had fluttered like a trapped bird when she'd set it down, some ancient instinct warning her of the monster that smiled so politely. He didn't drink. The gesture was a mere habit, one more careful pretense in a life built of them.

The weathered satchel at his feet held his surgical implements—props in this elaborate performance of humanity. Usually, these tools brought him comfort, anchoring him to his chosen path. Tonight, they felt like shackles.

After six months drowning in Nilfgaard's gilded suffocation—treating nobles' imagined ailments, enduring their endless political games—he'd fled north. Let the southern sun bleach their marble columns white as bone. He craved the bite of the northern wind, the wild places where herbs grew untamed and villagers still needed a wandering surgeon's skills.

But tonight, his carefully cultivated peace eluded him. Perhaps it was the season's first blizzard, its thick flakes driving against the glass with murderous intent. The storm had begun just after he and Rhena parted ways as if nature itself marked their meeting.

Rhena.

The name tasted different than Syanna's alias had. This Rhena moved with the liquid grace of their kind, but her careful words spoke of scars earned rather than manipulation planned. In the tavern's firelight, her beauty had been devastating—all sharp angles and deadly grace, the kind that drew moths to flame.

A higher vampire working as a midwife. The irony wasn't lost on him—a creature of death choosing to usher in life. There was something achingly vulnerable in that choice, though vulnerability in their kind usually ended in blood.

The fire sputtered in the hearth, casting twisted shadows on the walls. Regis's thoughts returned to that moment when she'd spoken of her first delivery. Something had cracked in her careful mask then, revealing not weakness but recognition. Their eyes had met, dark with shared understanding, and centuries of iron control couldn't stop the predatory tension coiling in his chest.

He moved to the window with inhuman grace, watching the village of Draycott suffocate beneath its blanket of snow. Somewhere out there, Rhena too was awake. His heightened senses caught phantom traces of her presence—herbs and copper-sweet blood and something older, something that made his fangs ache with recognition.

The fire died with a soft hiss. In the darkness, his eyes gleamed like polished obsidian, reflecting what he truly was. The careful part of him—the one that had kept him alive for centuries—screamed warning. But he couldn't deny the electric recognition of finding another higher vampire who'd chosen this path. How many of them willingly spent their immortality healing the very creatures they were built to hunt?

His fingers closed around the mortar and pestle, grinding herbs more from habit than need. The repetitive motion usually cleared his head. Tonight it only emphasized his restlessness, each scrape of stone on stone like bones grinding together.

Regis caught his hand reaching for his cloak and forced it back. No. Running after her now would seem desperate, maybe even threatening. Their kind had rules about these meetings, written in blood over millennia. Breaking them would be foolish.

Still, he found himself hoping she might return to The Grumpy Hag of her own accord. He could picture her entering, snow melting in her dark hair, those ancient eyes holding centuries of stories he yearned to unlock. What memories lay behind that careful mask she wore? What scars had taught her such precise control?

The night grew deeper, and sleep wouldn't come. Regis stood caught between predatory desire and centuries of caution. Outside, the snow kept falling, each flake a glittering possibility in the dark. Tomorrow would bring either another chance meeting or the wisdom to leave this mystery unexplored.

He would wait, as he had for centuries, watching mortals live and die while he remained unchanging. The smart choice would be to leave at first light. But something about Rhena's careful grace, the way her mask slipped when speaking of that first birth...it clawed at his chest with a hunger that had nothing to do with blood.

Dawn crept closer with agonizing slowness. The village stirred to life like a wounded thing, each sound an assault on his heightened senses. Women huddled by the frozen well, their whispers sharp as knives. Children's shrieks pierced the air like blades. The blacksmith's hammer rang against steel, each strike vibrating in his bones like a death knell.

And yet. The memory of Rhena's carefully measured words, the way her guard had slipped for just a moment...it gnawed at him like hunger. A week's journey through the snow, if he traveled as mortals did. His shop and home there could wait. Something more interesting had appeared in this village, though every century of experience warned against such curiosity.

The next few hours crept by like molasses in winter. Regis sat in darkness after his candle guttered, watching the snow pile against his window. The moon set. Stars wheeled overhead, their light catching the ice crystals that had formed on the glass. Dawn came slowly. The cockerel crowed too early, followed by the usual symphony of village life – bread baking, women gossiping, children shouting. Regis made his way down to the common room, choosing a seat with a clear view of both the door and stairs. Old habits.

Bartik, the innkeeper Regis had met earlier during his conversation with Rhena, was scrubbing tables nearby. A bear of a man with greying temples and forearms thick as tree branches, he looked like someone who’d thrown his share of rowdy patrons into snowdrifts.

“Seems our town’s midwife caught your eye last night, master barber-surgeon,” he grunted conversationally by way of greeting, not looking up from his work. Bartik's dark eyes missed nothing, cutting through pretense like a butcher's blade through meat. "Save your breath, barber. Every man from here to Lyria tried getting close to that one. She's got walls higher than the Blue Mountains, our Rhena does. Cold as winter ice, that woman." His thick fingers worked the rag across the table, but his gaze never left Regis's face. 'And those who push too hard tend to disappear, if you take my meaning.'

Regis raised an eyebrow. “We merely discussed our professions. Professional curiosity, nothing more.”

“Aye, and I’m the Emperor of Nilfgaard.” He snorted, moving to the next table. “Five years she’s been here. Comes and goes like a shadow in the night, but there’s not a mother-to-be in the area who’d trust anyone else with their birthing. Saved my daughter and grandson last winter when the birth went wrong.” His voice softened. “She’s a strange one, aye, but she’s got good hands. Like you, I’d wager, surgeon.”

Regis noted the hint of protectiveness in the man’s tone. Interesting—Rhena had earned more than just their trust here, it seemed. She’d found defenders.

“Your daughter,” Regis said carefully. “She recovered well?”

“Aye.” Bartik paused his scrubbing, leaning on his rag. “Though by all rights, neither she nor the babe should have lived. Lost too much blood. But Rhena—gods bless her—she worked through the night. Never seen hands move so quick, nor someone know just what herbs were needed.” He shook his head. “The next morning, both were healthy as spring lambs. Never seen anything quite like it, surgeon.”

Regis noted that detail away. Vampire speed, perhaps? A risky choice, if so. “Sounds like you’re fortunate to have such a skilled healer in your village, Bartik.”

“We are.” His dark eyes narrowed slightly. “And we look after our own here in Draycott.”

The warning was clear enough. Before Regis could respond, the door opened, letting in a blast of frigid cold air and the smell of fresh snow. But it wasn’t Rhena—just a pair of merchants seeking breakfast before the day’s journey.

Bartik moved to serve them, leaving Regis alone with his thoughts. Five years in one place in a small mountain town where everyone here seemed to know each other’s private affairs. Either very brave or very foolish for one of their kind. Perhaps both.

Regis sat for another hour, watching patrons and travelers come and go, but no sign of Rhena. The restlessness and agitation finally got the better of him. He gathered his satchel and left the table, stepping through the inn’s front doors and out into the crisp winter morning air.

The village stirred to life like a beast waking from slumber. Women huddled by the frozen well, breath frosting as they traded whispers about the Alderman's daughter. Children's shrieks echoed off frost-covered walls as they hurled snow at each other. The blacksmith's hammer rang against steel, each strike vibrating in Regis's chest like a second heartbeat. All so vibrant, so alive. So fragile. One quick snap of immortal hands could silence any of them forever. The thought settled cold in his gut, a reminder of what he was. What they both were.

Regis let his feet carry him toward the edge of town, where he’d spotted a small cottage earlier, nestled near the woods.

Two women gossiped by the well as he passed. “Poor thing’s been with the Alderman’s daughter since before dawn,” one said. “Second baby’s always quicker, mark my words.”

Regis turned toward the wealthier part of the village, where the Alderman’s house would likely be. Best not to seem too eager by actively searching. A morning walk to familiarize himself with the village—that’s all anyone observing would see.

If he told himself that enough times, he might even believe it.

The village children as he walked down the street were already at play, their shouts echoing off the frost-covered buildings. Regis heard the whistle of something flying through the air—his vampiric senses catching the sound a fraction of a second too late. Years of maintaining human appearances had dulled certain instincts. By the time he registered the incoming projectile, it was—

The snowball struck his shoulder with enough force to make his carefully maintained human facade slip. For a heartbeat, ancient instincts screamed for blood. His fingers curled into claws before he forced them straight again.

"Sorry master!" A boy scrambled from behind a cart, reeking of fear-sweat despite the bitter cold. His pulse fluttered in his throat like a trapped bird as he twisted his cap between reddened fingers. Such fragile things, children. One quick motion could—Regis cut that thought off before it could fully form, disgust curdling in his gut. “Was aiming for Willem, honest. My aim’s not what it could be, see, on account of my bad eye.” He pointed to his perfectly healthy right eye.

For a brief moment, anger flared—old habits died hard, after all. But something in his quick excuses reminded Regis of the bootblack boy back in Toussaint, a child with an equally creative approach to truth-telling. Geralt and Regis had shared more than a few laughs over that one, when it was all said and done.

He brushed the snow from his coat. “Young man, perhaps some practice would approve your…affliction?” Regis suggested dryly.

The boy’s face lit up at avoiding trouble. He thanked Regis and then scampered off, already scooping up more snow.

Regis let out a frustrated exhale and turned back toward the path he’d been about to follow.

The boy’s laughter faded behind him as he made his way through the winding streets. Snow crunched under his boots, the morning sunlight turning each footprint into diamonds. His enhanced senses caught snippets of conversation from every house he passed.

“—the Alderman’s girl, poor thing, the midwife’s been there since before dawn, they say. Midwife’s hands are blessed, they are. No one else can save her now.”

The voices trailed off as Regis moved beyond earshot, his mind turning over their words like a millstone grinding grain. Rhena’s presence at the Alderman’s house explained her absence.

Regis felt the pull of curiosity deep in his chest, sharp as a bone needle. A birth was a moment of such precarious balance—life and death caught in the same fragile breath.

For a vampire to willingly step into the profession of a midwife, to help usher in a life that would one day end... It was both poetic and profoundly alien to their nature.

He adjusted the strap of his satchel and turned his steps toward the Alderman’s house. Not directly, of course. That would seem suspicious. Instead, he traced the edges of the village, pausing occasionally to inspect a cluster of frostbitten herbs or exchange a polite nod with a passing villager. Always moving, always circling closer to where he knew she must be.

Regis followed these breadcrumbs through the village, past the tanner’s yard and the cooper’s shop, until the houses grew larger and better kept. The Alderman’s house stood apart—fresh paint, glass windows, wealth poorly hidden. Death's stench hit him before he rounded the corner—blood and bile and the sour tang of human grief.

A serving woman stumbled out clutching bloody linens to her chest, eyes red and swollen, throat working against sobs. She hurried past without looking up, but Regis caught the salt-sharp scent of her tears. Behind those fine-painted walls, someone's world had shattered. He knew that smell too well—had caused it often enough in his darker days. The memory rose like bile in his throat. The scent of Rhena lingered—herbs, copper-sharp blood, and something else that made his teeth ache. Death clung to the morning air, turning even the fresh snow bitter on his tongue. His enhanced senses caught every nuance of the tragedy that had unfolded behind those walls, each note of grief and loss as clear as a struck bell.

Before he could retreat, the door groaned open on frost-stiff hinges. Rhena emerged, her careful composure cracked at the edges like river ice in spring. Snowflakes caught in her dark hair, each one perfect for a heartbeat before melting. Her eyes found his, ancient and haunted. Recognition flickered across her features, followed by something that made his chest tighten—raw vulnerability or simple exhaustion, he couldn't tell.

"Master Regis." The words rasped from her throat, quiet enough that no human could have heard, but his immortal senses caught every nuance of exhaustion and something rawer beneath. Blood stained her fingers, turning rusty brown as they dried. Her fingers left rusty smears on her satchel's worn leather, mortality's stain marking each place she touched. "I...I didn't expect to see you here..." Her eyes darted back to the house like prey seeking escape, knuckles whitening around her bag until he heard the leather creak in protest.

"Just Regis, please," he said, his voice gentle as spring rain. "Walk with me? The ravens at the old oak in the forest clearing keep excellent company."

Blood has a way of revealing its truths, he thought. Regis watched crimson smears bloom across the worn leather where Rhena's fingers gripped her satchel. Fresh blood, still tacky, mixed with older stains ground deep into the grain. How many deaths had those hands witnessed? How many lives began and ended under her careful watch?

The copper-sweet scent of mortality hung thick in the air between them, a reminder of the gulf that separated their kind from the humans they walked among. Her fingers tightened on the leather until he heard the material creak, though her face remained carefully blank.

She met his gaze then, and for a moment, the careful mask of the past centuries slipped. Beneath it lay something far more dangerous than fangs or claws: vulnerability.

 “I…I should clean up first.” She glanced down at her bloodied hands. “I’m hardly presentable like this.”

The understatement might have been amusing under other circumstances. Now it hung in the air between them like wood smoke—acrid and impossible to ignore.

“Of course,” Regis said gently, his words emerging even gentler than he’d intended them. “The old oak in the forest clearing, perhaps? In an hour?

Her lips curved slightly—not quite a smile, but something close enough to transform Rhena’s features from merely beautiful to devastating. “You’ll think me silly, I’m sure, but…I feed the ravens there sometimes. They’re good listeners.”

“I would never think you silly,” he said. The truth of it surprised him. Their eyes met. At that moment, something passed between them that had nothing to do with blood or species or the carefully maintained dance of predators pretending at humanity. Recognition, perhaps. Or possibility.

“An hour then,” she murmured. “Though I’m not quite sure why I’m agreeing to this.”

“Perhaps because even immortals weren’t meant to walk always alone.” The words escaped before wisdom could catch them. A blush colored her cheeks—an achingly mortal gesture from an immortal being. Without another word, she turned and vanished down a side street, moving with the liquid grace their kind possessed even when splattered with human gore.

Regis stood watching her go, the brittle crunch of snow beneath his boots the only sound in the stillness. Plans, so meticulously laid, had shattered like fragile glass the moment the unforeseen struck. He should have been in Dillingen by now, safe within the confines of calculated purpose. Instead, he found himself rooted in the frostbitten silence, watching a blood-stained vampire midwife vanish into the curling tendrils of morning mist. A strange warmth stirred in his chest, unwelcome and puzzling. Dillingen seemed distant now, an abstract thought at best. This moment, with its quiet meaning and lingering crimson scent, felt oddly right. Against all logic and reason, he wasn’t certain he wanted to leave it behind.

Regis lingered a moment longer, the frost-laden air biting at his exposed skin, though the cold did not affect him as it would were he mortal. He turned slowly from the direction Rhena had gone, the snow crunching beneath his boots like brittle bones. The air carried with it not only the fresh scent of another coming snowfall, but the sharp tang of iron and the earthy, musty scent of death and decay, each inhale a reminder of her work—of what she’d walked away from. The Alderman’s house loomed behind him, its painted shutters drawn tight against the day. Somewhere inside, grief pressed against the walls like a living thing. His kind knew grief well, though theirs was longer-lived, more insidious.

He had no right to the familiar and long-forgotten feeling blooming in his chest. It wasn’t his to claim, not here, not now. Yet it rooted itself in the marrow of him, a fragile thing blooming despite the frost. Something about her words, her walk, her guarded fragility stirred emotions he had no name for—curiosity mingled with something darker, something more profound, though what it was, he couldn’t discern. The path toward the forest clearing was an easy one, lined with fresh prints from the village’s early risers. He followed it out of habit rather than intention, his thoughts spiraling as they always did in times of stillness.

She’d agreed to meet him. That was something. Not much, but enough to kindle the barest ember of hope. It was foolishness, of course—this fascination with another of his kind who carried the same monstrous weight he did. But in Rhena, he saw a reflection that was not twisted or cruel, but sharp and deliberate. Dangerous in its way.

His mind drifted to her hands again, the way they’d trembled for a moment when she’d spoken his name. Bloodied and steady, those hands had cradled life where death had encroached. She’d saved them—those fragile mortals who would age and die while she remained unchanged. What compelled her to stay, to keep weaving her thread into their fleeting lives?

A murder of ravens wheeled overhead, their shadows like ink stains against the bone-white sky. Their guttural cries followed him to the forest's edge, where darkness yawned wide and hungry. Virgin snow stretched before him, marred only by the desperate tracks of prey animals. He hesitated at the threshold, mortality's stench fading as ancient instincts stirred beneath his carefully maintained facade.

The question of her survival among mortals gnawed at him like a festering wound. Had she learned restraint as he had, through blood and pain and centuries of careful control? Or had she surrendered to the beast that prowled beneath her skin, as so many of their kind did? The villagers' trust in her seemed absolute—but trust was as fragile as a mortal's neck between immortal hands. The tree rose above him like a sentinel, its bare branches clawing at the pale sky. It was a good place for a meeting—private yet alive with the murmurs of the natural world. He placed his back to the trunk and let the stillness settle over him like a mantle.

Time passed in quiet contemplation, each moment weighted with the ghosts of centuries. He told himself this was about understanding, about finding common ground with someone who shared his burden. Yet his thoughts kept circling back to her eyes, to the unspoken depth behind them. He tried to dismiss it, this gnawing curiosity, this spark of something dangerous in its unfamiliarity. But the cold wind cut deep, and his thoughts churned endlessly like the snow-laden sky above.

Was it fascination? Guilt? A need for connection? Perhaps it was all of these things, tangled in a web he couldn’t bring himself to sever.

The ancient oak loomed before him, its bare branches reaching toward the sky like a skeleton's fingers. He settled at its base, pressing his back against bark worn smooth by millennia of winter winds. The rough texture caught at his clothes like hungry teeth. Ravens gathered in the branches above, their black eyes holding wisdom darker than the void.

Dettlaff. His rage, his sorrow, his fall. But not his end.

"I couldn't reach him," Regis muttered aloud, the words bleeding into the still air. "When he needed guidance most, my words fell short. I searched, but he did not wish to be found." His fists clenched at the memory. "He's alive somewhere, and I should feel relief. But all I see are the paths not taken."

A sharp caw shattered the silence. Regis's gaze shifted to the raven perched nearby, its black eyes gleaming with an intelligence that unnerved him. It tilted its head, feathers ruffling in a manner that seemed almost...disapproving.

"You think I don't know?" Regis's voice was harsh, the old guilt clawing its way to the surface. "I failed him, yes. But even now, in Nilfgaard, I have not forgotten him. I could never forget him."

The raven hopped closer, talons scraping against the frostbitten ground. A guttural cry escaped it, the sound cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Fool, the bird seemed to say. Fool to let guilt weigh you down when both your stories continue.

Regis exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the frigid air. “Do you mock me, or offer counsel? It’s hard to tell.” The bitterness in his tone softened as he studied the raven more closely, its gaze sharp and unyielding. “You think I should act. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? That I should find him, not wallow here in regret.”

The bird cawed again, the sound like an agreement—or a challenge.

Regis laughed softly, though the sound was without humor. “You make it sound simple. As if reaching out to him wouldn’t awaken all the old wounds. As if he would even listen to me now.”

The raven flapped its wings, rising a few feet into the air before settling again. Its unblinking stare held as if daring him to counter its silent argument.

What was a little pain, it seemed to say, compared to the chance of redemption?

“I will find him,” Regis said at last, the words falling like stones into the snow. “I will make it right. Somehow.”

The raven cocked its head again, then let out a final cry—a sharp, echoing sound that carried through the stillness. It took to the sky, its shadow slipping over Regis like a fleeting omen.

Regis watched the bird vanish into the expanse of white, his resolve hardening in its wake. Whatever pain awaited him in the path ahead, it would be no less than what he carried now. He turned back toward the village, the snow crunching beneath his boots as he moved with a purpose that had eluded him for too long.

The bird flapped its wings, rising a few feet before settling again. You know the path already. Follow it, or remain chained to shadow. Its final impression lingered in his mind, faint but heavy. The silence that followed was deafening. Regis stared at the place where the raven had perched, his thoughts heavier now than they’d been moments ago.

The snow fell heavier now, each flake a possibility crystallized in ice. Regis remained motionless beneath the ancient oak, his heightened senses alert for her approach. The hour wasn't up yet, and though the clearing remained empty, he felt no trace of doubt.

She'll come. The thought settled in his chest like a blade—sharp and certain and impossibly sweet. The forest grew darker as minutes stretched into eternity, but Regis remained still. Waiting had never been a burden for immortals. If she needed longer than an hour, he would remain. If she didn't come, he would wait until twilight and beyond. Because she would come. He felt it in his bones, in the electric tension that charged the air between them. The snow coated the world in fragile silence, each flake settling like a whispered promise.

Regis tilted his head back, his sharp eyes scanning the darkened forest. This wasn't impatience, nor the restless waiting he'd known in the past. It was something softer, more deliberate. A kind of faith, perhaps—not in gods or fate, but in her. The wind carried the faintest sound—branches shifting, snow falling heavier somewhere in the distance. He leaned into the stillness, his gaze fixed on the forest path. Her presence already lingered in his mind, warm and certain.

Chapter Text

THE cottage was quiet save for the crackle of the hearth fire, its flickering light casting long shadows on the rough wooden walls. The scent of blood clung to Rhena like a funeral shroud, refusing to be washed away by the bathwater’s tepid embrace. The warmth of the water and the fire in the hearth did nothing to warm the hollow beneath her ribs. Even here, in her sanctuary, darkness pressed close—intimate as a lover, patient as the grave.

Beside the tub, a small brown mouse perched on the edge of an overturned wooden bucket, its dark beady eyes glinting with curiosity. Rhena leaned back against the copper tub, its cool rim pressing into her spine as she let the warm water lap over her skin. Her hair hung loose, damp tendrils sticking to her neck and shoulders. Outside, the forest whispered its usual secrets, but now, she couldn’t seem to lose herself in the familiar rhythm.

Why had she agreed to meet him?

Skura watched her curiously from his perch on the overturned bucket, the mouse’s tiny heart drumming a frantic rhythm Rhena could hear across the room. Even he, her constant companion, sensed the predator that lurked beneath her carefully maintained façade. The copper tub creaked as she shifted, its metal edge biting into her spine—a reminder that even the most mundane objects held the potential for pain.

“You’re quiet this morning, Skura.” Rhena’s whispered words hung in the air like frost. He scratched at his face, whiskers twitching in what she chose to interpret as judgment. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not as though I make a habit of this sort of thing.”

The thought of Regis made something ancient and hungry stir beneath her skin. He wore his civilization not as a mask, but as naturally as breathing. In those obsidian eyes, she’d seen not hunger but understanding—and that perhaps terrified her more than any display of savagery. Not like the decadent vampires of Beauclair or Nazir, drunk on blood and excess—no, his was a gentle wisdom that made Rhena’s carefully maintained walls tremble. Every instinct honed over centuries warned her to keep her distance, even as something deeper, something starved for companionship and understanding, urged her closer. His kindness was far more dangerous than any show of claws and fangs.

Rhena sank deeper into the cooling water but couldn’t escape the phantom sensation of blood on her hands. The Alderman’s daughter had survived her ministrations, her screams still echoing in her skull. But her child—that tiny, perfect thing—had slipped away like smoke. Another failure carved into the marble of her conscience. The villagers would talk, their fear and need tangled together like lovers beneath sheets. They would come to her again, of course. They always did. Terror was no match for desperation.

But Regis…His interest carried no such simple explanation. He had no need of her. No mortal dependency to force his hand. He’d sought her out of curiosity, or worse, recognition. He’d looked at her earlier as though he’d understood, as though he saw past the carefully constructed façade she’d spent the last two hundred years perfecting.

She’d caught herself wanting to trust him.

Foolish. Dangerous. Yet here she was, preparing to meet him under the old oak tree in the forest. The fire spat violently, sending crimson sparks dancing across the hearthstone. Skura fled to the safety of a nearby blanket, but Rhena could feel the mouse’s eyes on her still. She rose from the water, rivulets tracing paths down her cold flesh like tears she could not shed. The wooden floorboards creaked and groaned beneath her feet, threatening to betray secrets she’d kept for centuries.

Rhena dressed with the precision of one donning armor: coarse brown wool that scraped against her sensitive skin, matching brown cape with fur trim at the hood, the garment heavy with the weight of concealment, gloves to maintain her human disguise and pretend at sensitivity to the cold. Each layer was another lie, another mask to hide the predator from its prey. The villagers’ suspicion of her was a constant itch between her shoulder blades, but their fears were simple things. The humans looked for monsters in the shadows, never suspecting that the real dangers walked among them in borrowed skins.

The looking glass on the opposite wall—that treacherous piece of silver-backed glass—caught only the faintest impression of her, as though the reflection struggled to hold her image. Skura perched beside the mirror like a diminutive guardian, his dark eyes reflecting twin points of firelight.

“Satisfied?” she asked dryly, turning to face the mouse. Her voice carried an edge sharp enough to draw blood. Her familiar’s answering squeak held more reproach than any sermon. Rhena let out a frustrated exhale. “You’re worse than the villagers sometimes.” Her skin glowed with an unholy pallor in the firelight, a beacon of otherness she could never fully disguise. She drew the hood of her fur-lined cape around her tighter, letting shadows pool in its depths. Let them whisper, then. Let them suspect.

In mere moments, she would walk into the forest to meet another predator, and for the first time in centuries, Rhena wasn’t certain who was hunter and who was prey.

Her reflection flickered in the mirror like a ghost half-formed and struggling to break through the glass. Behind her, Skura chittered with clear disapproval and eyed her with dark eyes that held too much knowing for such a small creature. His tiny heart beat a warning rhythm she’d learned to trust over the years.

“No, Skura,” Rhena said softly. “Not today.”

He answered by walking across her discarded pairs of gloves on the floor by her feet, leaving delicate prints in the fabric. Always making his point, her little friend.

“The forest is dangerous today.” Rhena turned from the mirror and began to slip on her boots, but Skura sat up on his hind legs, whiskers trembling with stubborn determination. “This isn’t like our usual herb-gathering, Skura—”

His sharp squeak cut through her excuses, reminding Rhena of all the times he’d saved her: warning of monsters in the shadows, finding that lost child’s trail when even her keen vampiric senses had failed her, sensing danger before it could find them. Such a small guardian for such a dark world.

“That’s different…” But her words felt hollow. Something in the mouse’s knowing eyes made her carefully built walls crack. Perhaps…perhaps having him with her today wasn’t such a risk. He’d always seen more than he should, this tiny creature who’d chosen to share her cursed life.

The wind howled against the cottage walls as fresh snow began to fall. Before Rhena could protest again, Skura had climbed into her skirts and found his way to his favorite hiding place—the deep pocket sewn into her cloak’s lining. His warm weight settled against her hip like a secret.

“Stubborn thing,” Rhena whispered, touching him gently through the thick wool fabric. He nipped her finger with familiar affection.

Outside her cottage, the forest stretched before them, dark pines heavy with snow. The path to the old oak disappeared into darkness. The forest had been restless for days. Skura noticed it first, as he noticed most things. His usual patrols of the cottage had become more frequent, the mouse’s beady eyes drawn to the east, where the old trade route wound through the mountains.

Something was changing in their quiet corner of the world.

Rhena had ignored the signs at first. The village rarely touched her life beyond the births she attended or wounds she mended. They left her alone in her solitude, and she left them to their whispers. An arrangement that had served them both for the last five years.

Winter sunlight filtered weakly through the pine branches, doing little to warm the frozen world below. Rhena knew these paths as intimately as she knew the lies that kept her alive—every root that might trip an unwary foot, every branch that might catch at a cloak. Today, however, that familiarity felt different. She was painfully aware of the fellow vampire she’d agreed to meet, the one whose gentle wisdom had cracked her careful walls the night before.

Skura’s warmth against her hip was the only real thing in this peculiar morning trek. The mouse’s heart still beat its warning rhythm, though whether he feared for her or because of her remained unclear. Sometimes Rhena wondered if he understood more than she did about the choices she made. The old oak appeared through the morning mist, its ancient branches stark against the pale sky. Snow had settled in the deep grooves of its bark, turning the mighty tree into something from a child’s winter tale.

And there, beneath its spreading barren branches, stood Regis.

He looked different in daylight—more solid somehow, less like the dream-figure who’d stirred such dangerous thoughts in the inn last night. His black eyes found hers immediately, and that same spark of recognition passed between the two vampires, making her breath catch despite centuries of careful control.

“I wasn’t certain you would come,” he said, his voice carrying a note of pleased surprise. No pretense, no careful lies. Just honesty, as dangerous as any silver blade.

Skura stirred in her pocket but didn’t flee. Interesting. Her little friend usually had better instincts where their kind was concerned.

“Neither was I,” Rhena admitted, because lies had short legs and something about Regis made her want to speak the truth. “But here I am.”

Regis smiled then, the expression transforming his features from merely dignified to something that made her chest tighten strangely. “Here you are indeed. Now then, shall we walk? The forest is quite beautiful in the morning light."

As she approached, he offered his arm with an old-world courtesy that seemed at odds with their predatory nature. The gesture surprised her—such genteel manners from one of their kind. After a moment's hesitation, she placed her hand in the crook of his arm. The contact, even through layers of clothing, sent an unexpected warmth through her chest.

They had taken no more than a few steps when Regis tilted his head like a predator catching an unexpected scent. His dark eyes flickered to her pocket with unmistakable curiosity. "You have an... unusual companion," he said carefully. "Most small creatures flee from our kind on instinct alone. Yet I can hear its heart beating steady and unafraid."

Rhena felt Skura stir against her hip. "Ah. I wondered if you'd notice him." She paused, uncertain how to explain a friendship that defied both nature and logic. "His name is Skura."

"A mouse who keeps company with a vampire." Regis's mouth quirked in that way she was beginning to recognize as genuine amusement. "How delightfully contrary to the natural order. Rather like a wolf adopting a lamb, wouldn't you say?"

“More like the lamb adopting the wolf,” Rhena admitted. She felt Skura stirring in the deep pocket sewn into her cloak’s lining, his movements more purposeful than usual. Then, to her shock, he began working his way through her layers of clothing. “Skura, what are you—”

She felt the mouse navigate between the folds of her cloak, emerging at her collar. In the two months since she’d first saved him from one of the village’s tomcats, he’d never shown himself to anyone but her. Yet now he perched at her neck, whiskers twitching with obvious interest as he studied Regis. Then, without warning, he leapt.

Rhena’s breath caught—but Skura landed neatly on Regis’s shoulder, tiny claws catching in the fabric of the vampire’s black coat.

“Well,” Regis said softly, careful not to move. His voice held a note of delighted surprise. “This is…unexpected.”

It was. Skura had never willingly approached another person, let alone another vampire. Yet here he was, boldly investigating Regis’s coat as if he’d found a particularly interesting piece of cheese.

“He’s never…” Rhena hesitated, voice faltering as she sought the right words. “In the time he’s been mine, he’s never revealed himself to anyone else, much less…” She trailed off, her gaze flickering to the small creature perched on Regis’s shoulder.

“Then I am doubly honored,” Regis replied, unmoving as Skura crept around the curve of his collar, his whiskers quivering with studious intent. “Though I admit, I’m curious what singular quality has earned me such rigorous examination from your discerning companion.”

Skura emitted a sound—an odd, chittering noise that might have passed for approval. Then, with the unhurried confidence of one who had reached an important verdict, the mouse settled into the hollow of Regis’s collar, his tiny form nestled snugly against the fabric.

“I believe,” Regis murmured, his voice measured and calm, though a faint tremor betrayed his effort to maintain composure, “I have just been claimed.”

The absurdity of the scene struck Rhena like a breath of cold air, sharp and sudden. A laugh, quick and unguarded, spilled from her lips, breaking the stillness of the forest clearing around them. “I suppose he does have excellent taste,” she said, her voice catching between mirth and disbelief. “Though his usual way of showing it is by keeping people at distance—not…adopting them.”

Regis inclined his head, his dark eyes finding hers with a flicker of amusement laced with something deeper, unspoken. “Or,” he suggested, his tone as calm as it was piercing, “perhaps he recognizes a piece of himself in you—a creature who defies the natural order, as he does.”

Skura squeaked sharply from his perch on Regis’s shoulder, his small paws tapping with urgency as if casting his vote in agreement.

Rhena’s brows lifted, and she sighed, shaking her head. “Traitor,” she murmured, though her voice lacked the sting to make it so. Something within her unraveled—a tightly held thread of wariness, loosed by Skura’s unwavering instincts. He had never steered her wrong before. A quiet smile found her lips, unbidden and soft. Perhaps, she thought with a rare thread of hope, her unlikely friend had chosen well this time.

They walked side by side, the crunch of snow beneath their boots the only sound for a time. The frigid cold winter air carried a sharpness that seemed to heighten everything—the glint of pale sunlight on the frost-laden branches, the faint stirrings of animal life in the woods beyond. Rhena glanced at Regis out of the corner of her eye, the vampire’s expression unreadable, his stride smooth and unhurried. It unnerved her how easily he moved through these moments, as though the weight of their shared existence had long since stopped dragging at him.

For her, it never eased. Each loss added another stone to the burden she carried, another crack in the carefully composed mask she wore. She could feel it now, the weight of earlier this morning pressing at the edges of her thoughts like ice threatening to split a frozen river.

“I imagine it takes some practice.” Regis’s tone was even, conversational. Too carefully neutral to be anything but deliberate.

Rhena frowned, distracted by the sudden turn in the quiet. “Practice?”

“Carrying their grief as if it was your own.” His gaze remained fixed ahead, but she felt his attention, sharp as a scalpel.

Rhena’s steps faltered. She tightened her grip on her satchel, the leather creaking beneath her fingers.

“I don’t need your insights,” she answered, though her voice lacked the knife’s edge she intended. “I’ve had centuries to figure it out on my own.”

“And yet,” he retorted, tilting his head just enough to catch her eye, “their pain still weighs on you.”

“It’s supposed to,” she snapped, quick and sharp as breaking ice. The suddenness of it startled her as much as him. She abruptly stopped walking, staring at the trees lining the path in front of them as if they might hold an answer. “If it didn’t, what kind of monster would that make me?”

The wind stirred loose snow from the branches, tiny flurries cascading like falling ash. For a moment, Regis said nothing, his silence as steady and deliberate as his earlier words. Rhena hated it—the way it left space for her thoughts to unravel.

“I stayed with her,” she said finally, almost to herself. Her voice softened, edged with something raw and unguarded. “Right until the end. I thought I could help. I always think I can help.”

The memory came unbidden, vivid, and aching: the girl’s pale face slack with exhaustion, her voice barely above a whisper as she begged Rhena to save her child. Rhena had worked tirelessly, hands steady even as her heart pounded against her ribs. She’d fought against the tide, as she always did, but the waters had swallowed them both.

“She was so young,” Rhena murmured, the words slipping free before she could stop them. Her fingers trembled against the satchel, still stained with the remnants of her failure. “Too young. And the babe…” She swallowed hard, her throat tightening around the thought. “I should have—”

“You did all you could,” Regis said, his voice calm, unwavering. “More than most would have.”

Rhena let out a breath, sharp and uneven. “Does it matter? In the end, it always ends the same.”

They walked again, her pace brisker now, as if moving faster could outpace the hollow ache settling in her chest. The snow crunched beneath their boots, the air colder with the fading light.

“You can tell me I did everything right, that I made a difference, but it doesn’t feel like it. Not when the only thing I have to show for it is blood on my hands.”

Regis didn’t respond immediately, and she glanced at him, expecting some placating remark. Instead, his expression was quiet, contemplative. For the first time, she thought he might truly understand.

“It’s the blood that makes it matter,” he said finally, his tone heavy with the weight of his centuries. “The grief, the loss—it means you fought for them. That you tried, even knowing the odds. That’s what separates us from the monsters, Rhena. We don’t stop trying.”

She looked away, her jaw tightening. “And if I can’t keep carrying it?”

His gaze lingered on her, warm despite the icy air. “You will,” he said simply. “Because you must. And because they need you to.”

The words sank deep, unsettling in their simplicity. Rhena kept walking, her breaths fogging in the cold as the forest began to thin ahead. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. But somehow, the weight felt just a little lighter. Rhena’s pace slowed as the path narrowed, flanked by frost-laden trees that arched overhead like a cathedral. The morning’s grief lingered, a phantom she couldn’t quite banish, but the silence between her and Regis had begun to feel oppressive. She could sense the vampire’s inquisitive gaze brushing against her, deliberate yet restrained, waiting for her to speak. It was the waiting that made her skin prickle.

She exhaled a sharp breath, watching it bloom into a puff of vapor in the cold air. “Could we—” Her voice cracked, too abrupt, and she cursed herself of the obscurity. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Could we talk about something else? Anything else?”

Regis inclined his head slightly, his footsteps slowing to match hers. “Of course,” he replied with a faint note of apology, his tone as soft as fresh-fallen snow. “What would you prefer to discuss instead?”

Rhena bit the inside of her cheek, reluctant to suggest anything that might reveal more of herself than she was willing to give. She let out a frustrated exhale. “You could try not analyzing me like I’m some rare specimen to be studied,” she said instead, her tone wry.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, warming the cool formality of his expression. “Forgive me,” he assented, his voice carrying the lilt of amusement. “It’s a force of habit, I confess.”

Her lips twitched, though she refused to let the gesture become a smile. She resumed walking, her boots crunching softly through the snow. “And here I thought we vampires were supposed to be free of bad habits.”

“Oh, we have our share,” he said lightly.  “Though most are considerably less endearing.”

“Comforting,” she muttered, her tone wry but lacking the sharp edge from moments ago.

They walked a few more paces before he spoke again, his voice quieter now, threaded with curiosity.

“I hope you’ll forgive another question, but... do you have family, Rhena?”

The word landed like a stone in her chest, and her steps faltered. Her hand instinctively tightened on her satchel as if to steady herself. “Family?” she echoed, her tone too steady to be casual.

“Yes,” Regis replied, his gaze remaining forward, sparing her the weight of direct eye contact. “Mortals, perhaps. Or others of our kind. Some keep such connections, though they are few.”

Her grip on the satchel tightened further. The memories surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome: faces she hadn’t seen in centuries, their features etched in the unyielding permanence of their kind. Her mother’s cold, cutting gaze. Her father’s silence, as sharp as any condemnation.

“I had a sister,” she said at last, her voice carefully measured. “Younger than me. I raised her when our parents…” She paused, her jaw tightening. “Cast me out.”

Regis’s pace slowed, his gaze flicking toward her but without the weight of pity she’d feared. “They cast you out?” he repeated, his tone neither incredulous nor judgmental, but quietly curious. “For what reason?”

“Because I was too much like them.” Rhena let out a bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the still air. “And not enough. They called it rebellion. I called it survival.” Her words hung between them, brittle and sharp. She expected him to press, to peel back the layers of her response, but Regis only nodded, his expression contemplative.

“And your sister?” he asked gently.

“She’s gone,” Rhena said simply, her tone clipped but carrying a weight she couldn’t hide. “We were close once. But time and distance have their way, even with us.”

Regis inclined his head slightly, his voice quiet but steady. “I’m sorry.”

The sincerity in his tone surprised her, and she looked at him, caught off guard by the absence of judgment in his gaze. For a moment, she thought he might leave it there, let the conversation dissolve into silence again. But then his lips curved faintly.

"What about you?" she asked before he could continue, her voice softening as though she feared disrupting the delicate balance of the moment. "Do you have family?"

His expression shifted, a faint, fleeting smile touching his lips like a whisper of a memory. "Not in the way you mean," he replied, his tone laced with a wistful yearning. "But there was… a bond. A brotherhood."

"And?" Rhena prompted, her curiosity flickering to life, persistent despite her restraint.

"And he’s out there," Regis said, the weight of his words settling between them like a winter frost. His jaw tightened, though his voice remained steady, almost tender. "I’ve searched, followed his trail across borders and seasons, but he doesn’t want to be found. Not yet."

Her gaze lingered on him, her sharp eyes probing the depths of his composure. "Do you think he ever will?"

Regis hesitated, his expression shadowed by the ache of uncertainty. "I don’t know," he admitted, his voice as quiet as the snow falling outside. "But some bonds demand perseverance. I owe him that much—and more."

Rhena didn’t press further. The answer was enough, and the weight of it mirrored her own. They walked in silence for a while, the snow falling heavier now, blanketing the world in its soft hush.  The chill no longer bit as deeply as it had before, though she couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was the presence beside her, steady and unintrusive. Or perhaps it was simply the act of sharing the burden, if only for a fleeting moment.

The snow continued its descent in ghostly silence, veiling the forest in pale softness. Each step broke the quiet with a measured crunch, the sound like a steady rhythm binding them to the moment. Rhena’s breath hung faintly in the air, curling away as if to escape into the winter chill. Her hand rested lightly on her satchel, its worn leather grounding her as she walked, though her attention kept drifting to the figure beside her.

Regis, unhurried and composed, carried himself with a grace that unsettled her—not because it spoke of danger, but because it didn’t. Beside him, Skura perched with an uncharacteristic ease, his small claws gripping the folds of Regis’s cloak as though claiming it for his own. It was… peculiar. Peculiar and oddly reassuring.

“He really does like you,” she said at last, her voice quiet but warm as it broke the silence. The words felt strange, though not unwelcome, as if they had slipped free of their own accord. “I can’t explain it, but he does.”

Regis inclined his head slightly, careful not to disturb the mouse’s delicate balance. His gaze flickered toward her, a glint of curiosity in the depths of his dark eyes. “You sound surprised.”

“I am.” Her lips quirked into a faint, self-effacing smile, the kind that barely touched her eyes. “Skura doesn’t trust easily. It took him weeks to stop hiding from me when I first found him. And yet here he is, acting like you’re his long-lost friend.”

Skura chirped, a bright little sound that might have been amusement, and turned his small, bright eyes toward her. Rhena shook her head with a quiet laugh, the sound barely rising above the snowfall. “It’s rare. And a little strange.”

“Perhaps he sees something familiar,” Regis mused, his tone low and contemplative. “Creatures often recognize kindness, even when we try to conceal it.”

The words stilled her for a moment. Kindness. A strange word to hear from another of their kind, let alone about herself. She glanced at Regis, her expression softening despite the flutter of unease in her chest. “Kindness,” she repeated slowly as if testing the weight of the word. “I’m not sure that’s it.”

“Then what is it?” he asked gently, tilting his head, his attention on her as steady and unyielding as the snow.

Rhena hesitated, the faint warmth of her earlier smile ebbing into something quieter. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice soft. “But I’ve learned not to question his instincts. They’re better than mine most days.”

Regis regarded her with the same stillness that marked his every movement, his expression calm but searching. “I’d say they’ve served you well today.”

Her gaze flicked to Skura, who had burrowed more deeply into the folds of Regis’s cloak, his whiskers twitching as if in satisfaction. “Maybe,” she murmured, her voice distant. Then, with a softer laugh: “Though I think he’s taken your side now.”

Regis chuckled, the sound low and resonant, a warmth against the cold. “I can’t imagine a more loyal ally.”

Rhena’s steps slowed slightly as she watched them, the tiny mouse curled against the dark fabric of Regis’s coat like an unlikely sentinel. “You’ve made him happy, at least,” she said, her tone gentle, thoughtful. “And I suppose that counts for something.”

“I’d say it counts for quite a lot,” Regis replied, the weight of his centuries settling lightly in his words. “Happiness, no matter how fleeting, is a gift.”

She turned toward him, caught off guard by the quiet earnestness in his voice. There was no jest there, no clever turn of phrase to deflect the truth. Just a simple, piercing sincerity. Her chest tightened unexpectedly, and she averted her gaze, focusing instead on the snow gathering in faint drifts along the path. The silence between them grew companionable, softened by the rhythm of their steps and the muted rustle of branches overhead. It was Regis who broke it, his voice careful but carrying a note of resolve.

“Rhena,” he began, his words precise, as though selected with care. “Would you… be open to meeting again tomorrow evening?”

The question settled into the quiet air like a snowflake, its simplicity belying the depth behind it. Rhena turned to him, her eyes widening slightly, though her expression held no sharpness. “Tomorrow?” she asked gently, her voice touched with curiosity rather than surprise. “Why do you ask?”

Regis’s gaze met hers, steady and unwavering, his tone as calm as the falling snow. “Because I find your company refreshing,” he said simply, “and I would very much like to spend more time with you—if you’re willing.”

Her breath caught for a moment, a soft flutter stirring in her chest. There was no artifice in his voice, no calculation. Just an openness that she found disarming. She hesitated, not out of doubt but out of an unfamiliar warmth that had begun to unfurl within her.

“I think…” she began, her voice quiet, almost hesitant. Then she met his gaze, her smile small but genuine. “I think I’d like that.”

Regis inclined his head, his expression softening into something warmer, more human than she had thought possible. “Then I shall look forward to it.”

Skura squeaked his approval, a sharp little sound that drew both their gazes. The mouse remained comfortably nestled in Regis’s collar, his posture suggesting he had already deemed the vampire acceptable. Rhena let out a soft laugh, the sound warm and unguarded.

“Well,” she said lightly, “you’ve won over Skura, at least. That’s no easy feat.”

“Then I consider myself fortunate,” Regis replied, his voice carrying a quiet amusement. “And I hope to continue earning his favor.”

Chapter Text

THE path wound through the forest like a serpent's trail, frost glinting on dead leaves. Regis adjusted the strap of his satchel, more out of habit than necessity, and cursed himself his weakness. Thoughts of his walk and conversation with Rhena lingered in his thoughts—the quiet spark of determination in the higher vampire's dark eyes when she'd spoken of her duties as a midwife, the way her small companion Skura had curled protectively into the collar of his shirt, claiming him.

But most striking had been her eyes—not the predatory gleam common to their kind, particularly bruxae, but something softer, almost human in their compassion. It was that humanity that captivated him most. In all his centuries, he'd never encountered another vampire who chose to walk so closely among mortals, who dared to forge such intimate connections. The midwife's practice was more than just a cover - it was a calling. He'd seen it in the gentle way she spoke of the women she tended.

Even the presence of her unusual familiar spoke volumes. What vampire would choose a mouse as a companion?

These thoughts did little to settle his nerves as he approached the Elder's domain. Even after all this time, after facing Vilgefortz, after dying and being reborn, and the massacre at Beauclair that had nearly been his and Dettlaff's end, the mere thought of meeting another Elder made his immortal blood run cold.

The trees loomed overhead, their branches black against the winter sky, seeming to watch his progress. He'd avoided this territory until now, detouring widely the night before to bypass the Elder's domain when he came across Rhena's unexpected clash with the ghoul.

But necessity had a way of forcing one's hand, and he could delay no longer. The rules were absolute: no higher vampire could settle in another's territory without paying proper respects. To do otherwise was to risk a fate worse than death – and Regis knew better than most that death was far from the worst fate a vampire could suffer.

His boot slipped on a patch of ice, and he caught himself against a tree trunk, his sharp nails digging into the bark. The momentary shock cleared his head somewhat. "Come now, Regis," he muttered to himself under his breath, a habit he'd never quite shed in all his four hundred and twenty-eight years of life. "You've faced worse than this. Though perhaps not many worse…" Here, deep in the north, the old laws still held sway with an iron grip. The higher vampires who chose to settle in these parts—Rhena among them—paid fealty to this ancient power. It was, Regis tried to convince himself, a small price for peace. Yet his hands wouldn't stop shaking, and each step closer to his destination felt like moving through molasses.

The forest parted suddenly, revealing the Elder's dwelling, and Regis felt his throat constrict. No grand castle this, no ornate mansion. Just a black mouth carved into the face of a cliff, worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. No guards. No ancient markings. Nothing but silence—and the oppressive weight of the power within that radiated from the opening like heat from a forge. Regis took several deep breaths, though he needed none. The gesture, learned from his years among humans, provided little comfort.

He thought briefly of Geralt, of how the witcher would approach this situation. With sardonic humor, most likely. But Geralt was no match for an Elder. Even Dettlaff, for all his power, was but a child compared to what awaited within.

The darkness swallowed him whole as he entered. Water dripped somewhere in the depths, each drop echoing like a hammer strike against his heightened senses. The smell of wet stone and ancient earth filled his nostrils, along with something else – the metallic tang of old blood, so faint a human would never notice it. But Regis noticed. Oh yes, he noticed.

Regis walked forward, each step heavy with trepidation, as if it might be his last. The darkness was impenetrable to human eyes, but his vampiric sight pierced it with ease - though part of him wished it could not. There, sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor, was the Elder. His angular features and pale skin seemed carved from the very rock surrounding them. Colorless eyes bore into Regis, intense and predatory, though his face remained a stoic mask. Regis felt the weight of that gaze pressing down on him, scrutinizing his every breath and movement.

"Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy." The Elder's voice reverberated through the chamber like distant thunder, the ancient syllables of their native tongue sending a shiver down Regis's spine. He barely suppressed a shudder before the Elder switched to the common language. "You have entered my territory."

Regis executed a deep bow, his body trembling despite his best efforts. "Elder. I've come to pay my respects and confirm my intentions. I mean no harm to your domain or its inhabitants." He cursed the slight quaver in his voice, an undeniable display of weakness.

The twitch of pale lips - amusement or displeasure, Regis couldn't discern. The uncertainty made his knees weak. "A wandering healer, seeking refuge in the north. Your reputation precedes you, Regis. I have no doubt your intentions are as you say."

Without a word or gesture from the Elder, Regis found himself sinking to the ground, mirroring the ancient vampire's pose as if compelled by an unseen force. The frigid stone seemed to siphon away warmth he no longer possessed. He pressed his palms flat against the unyielding surface, willing them to stillness.

"You know our laws." The weight of centuries, of absolute authority, permeated the Elder's words.

"I do." Regis swallowed hard, his throat tight. "I have no intention of breaking them." Unbidden, memories of his tumultuous past resurged - the addiction, the bloodlust, the chaos left in his wake. Had the Elder born witness to his descent? Had he observed Regis's madness with that same impassive gaze?

The Elder's nod was nearly imperceptible. "Good. The peace of these lands must be maintained. Mortals are fragile creatures, prone to fear and hysteria. Their lives pass in the blink of an eye, yet their fear can linger for generations. We do not tolerate disturbances." The last words held a gravity that made Regis's very bones ache.

"You have my word." Regis's voice was scarcely louder than a whisper.

Those depthless eyes flicked to Regis's satchel. He resisted the urge to clutch it protectively to his chest. "A healer among mortals. A peculiar choice for one of our kind. Yet I care not. So long as you remain discreet."

"Discretion is a necessity," Regis managed, fingers digging into his thighs. "And a choice."

A flicker of something akin to amusement ghosted across the Elder's features, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. "Indeed."

Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating. Regis summoned what little courage remained to him. "If I may..." His voice cracked. He forged ahead. "There is another of our kind in this territory. A midwife."

"Rhena." The name dropped like a stone into still water, sending ripples of tension through Regis. "Yes, I am aware of her presence."

"She is... unusual." Regis selected his words with the utmost care, as if traversing a minefield. "Her path is unlike any I have encountered."

The Elder's gaze sharpened, and Regis's breath caught in his throat. "What of it? Do you seek my opinion on her choices? My approval of her existence?" A long pause followed, heavy with unspoken meaning. Then, with the sudden strike of a serpent: "Your friend passed through these lands." The Elder's words hung in the air like frost. "The one who fled the flames of Beauclair."

Regis's nails bit deeper into his thighs. "Dettlaff? When?"

"When the first snows touched these peaks. His mind was... fractured. Like a mirror dropped upon stone." The Elder's voice took on the cadence of their native tongue once more, the words flowing like dark water. "Solace he seeks now, far from mortal realms." Regis felt the weight of each syllable in his bones as the Elder's eyes pierced through him. "Yet isolation mends not a shattered mind."

Regis parted his lips to speak, but the Elder cut him off with a sharp gesture, reverting to the common language.

"His destination matters not. But his instability... that concerns me deeply. Even in isolation, such turmoil threatens the veil between our worlds."

The accusation struck with the force of a griffin's talons. "I've tried to find him," Regis whispered, voice rough as cemetery dirt. "But his wounds run deeper than any herb or potion might heal. It seems...for the moment, he does not wish to be found."

"Indeed. And now you find yourself drawn to another of our kind." The Elder's words carried the weight of centuries. "This... midwife."

"I merely—"

"Do not weave pretty falsehoods, Regis. Your personal entanglements matter little to me. But remember well what love's poison brought to Dettlaff van der Eretein. Remember how swiftly passion blooms into violence, like nightshade in summer heat."

Regis bowed his head, unable to meet that ancient gaze. "This is different."

"Perhaps." The word fell like a headsman's axe. "But should your... fascination with Rhena disturb the peace of these lands, my response will be as swift and final as winter's first frost. For both of you. You may stay," the Elder said at last after an eternity compressed into mere moments. "But remember this: peace is paramount. Should you jeopardize it, there will be consequences." The final word seemed to hang in the air long after the Elder fell silent.

"Understood." Regis's voice trembled. "You have my gratitude, Elder."

Another barely-there nod. "Go, then. Tend to your craft. And remember: our kind has survived because we remain unseen."

Regis rose slowly, his legs trembling beneath him. He backed toward the entrance, counting his steps. The Elder's colorless eyes tracked his retreat with all the warmth of a basilisk studying its next meal. The comparison, he noted with a touch of hysteria, was hardly fair to basilisks.

Outside, the wind had picked up, carrying the promise of snow. His whole body shook with relief so profound he had to lean against a gnarled pine, its bark rough against his palm. The trembling would take hours to subside. The memory of those ancient eyes would take far longer.

The village lay ahead, smoke rising from its chimneys in lazy spirals. The Grumpy Hag's warm glow beckoned invitingly through the gathering dusk, but Regis paused. Tomorrow, he would see Rhena again. The thought kindled an unfamiliar warmth—not the thrill of the hunt or the satisfaction of unraveling a mystery, but something far more dangerous. He recognized it with the same resigned horror with which an experienced physician identifies the first symptoms of a terminal disease.

Affection. How terribly inconvenient.

Regis slipped inside The Grumpy Hag with practiced efficiency, angling his body to avoid the shaft of direct sunlight that always caught the door at this hour. A habit born of centuries—not necessity, as sunlight posed no threat to higher vampires, but instinct ran deep. Like so many of his kind's reflexes, it was easier to accommodate than suppress entirely.

The common room's matin bustle greeted him with familiar comfort: the aroma of fresh-baked bread, freshly killed bacon, and fragrant herbs wafting from the kitchen, tendrils of steam rising from bowls of porridge flecked with honey and dried fruit. He had cultivated an appreciation for human fare over the centuries, finding genuine pleasure in their culinary arts. It provided an excellent façade, yes, but more than that, it connected him to the community in a way blood never could.

Still, he couldn't quite ignore the underlying bouquet of the farmers' blood, running hot and rich with morning exertion as they finished breaking their fast before heading to their fields. He claimed his usual corner table, setting out his mortar and pestle before signaling the innkeeper to bring a cup of hot herbal tea and a slice or two of warm bread to his table. The act helped him feel grounded, and human. Another practice developed over centuries of walking amongst mankind.

Snatches of conversation drifted to his keen ears as he waited for his meal. Two women, voices lowered in conspiratorial tones, caught his attention.

"—swear on my mother's grave, gods bless her soul, something's been at the garden again, third time in four days," the first woman said. "Turnips vanished, and footprints in the snow."

Her companion nodded vigorously. "Thought I heard laughter in the woods yesterday, high-pitched and eerie. Thought 'twas the children at first, but when I looked—naught. Just footprints in the snow, leading nowhere."

"Now Vere," the innkeeper chided as she passed their table, though Regis marked how she touched the amulet at her throat. "Let's not go spreading tales of demons and devils. Likely just some wild creature, or a hungry vagrant."

"Creature or vagrant, it's unnatural!" The woman called Vere raised her voice. "What of young Tomek's missing toys? The knocked-over milk pails? The eerie pranks that couldn't be the work of human hands? Mark my words, something wicked haunts these woods."

The women's words hung heavy in the air, the other villagers exchanging uneasy glances. Regis felt the weight of their fear, the way it seeped into the very bones of the inn. It was a palpable thing, this dread of the unknown. He had seen it countless times over the centuries, the way humans clung to superstition in the face of the inexplicable.

After a moment’s consideration, Regis cleared his throat softly. “If I may,” he offered, his voice gentle and measured, pitched to soothe rather than startle. “I’m a barber-surgeon, just passing through the area, but my next destination will take me on the paths between here and the next village over. I would be happy to keep watch for any unusual occurrences and report them to the alderman.”

The women turned to him, the one called Vere’s eyes bright with barely contained panic, her companion’s more measured but still wary. Regis maintained his carefully cultivated expression of mild concern, neither dismissing their fears nor feeding into them.

“Well,” Vere’s companion said at last, some of the tension leaving her shoulders, “we’d be grateful for another pair of eyes. Especially one that knows his way around herbs and such. Might be you’d notice something the rest of us would miss.”

“I shall certainly endeavor to do my best,” Regis assured them, though privately he wondered if he wasn’t involving himself more than wisdom would dictate. Still, if he was going to stay here a few more days, better to be seen as helpful but unremarkable than to draw attention by remaining aloof.

One of the inn’s serving girls arrived with his breakfast then—a  steaming bowl of porridge flecked with dried fruit, two thick slices of dark bread still warm from the ovens, and a cup of steaming herbal tea. Regis murmured his thanks, inhaling the comforting aroma of honey and oats that momentarily masked the ever-present scent of human blood thrumming beneath the surface of everyday life.

He spread a thin layer of butter across the bread, watching it melt into the dark crust. Such simple pleasures had become a refuge over the centuries, anchoring him to his chosen path among mortals. Yet today, even these familiar rituals failed to fully settle his mind. His thoughts kept straying to Rhena and how her mouse's tiny paws had left delicate tracks from where it had nestled in the collar of his shirt for warmth against the cold.

The memory of her laugh surfaced unbidden—how she'd smiled when her unusual familiar had first approached him, whiskers twitching with curiosity.

Regis caught himself smiling into his tea and quickly adopted a more somber expression. The villagers' fears of something supernatural in their midst had complicated matters significantly, yet here he sat, wool-gathering like some moon-addled youth. He took a measured sip of tea, grimacing at his own foolishness. Four centuries of existence should have granted him better sense than to fixate on another of their kind, especially after the Elder's explicit warning. Still, there was something in the way Rhena moved among humans—not the predatory grace typical of their kind, but something altogether different. The genuine care in her eyes when she spoke of her patients, the gentle press of her hands as she guided new life into the world...

"Careful, old friend," he muttered into his cup, his voice barely a whisper. "This way lies madness." But even as he formed the words, he knew they rang hollow. The porridge cooled untouched before him as his mind wandered again to dark eyes and a smile that held no trace of a hunter's teeth.

Perhaps madness had already taken root, spreading through his thoughts like bindweed through a garden. How else to explain this persistent preoccupation, this... yearning? The word itself made him wince. He was behaving like a character in one of Dandelion's more maudlin ballads, and the realization did nothing to improve his mood.

The innkeeper Bartik passed by again, offering to reheat his neglected porridge. Regis declined with practiced courtesy, though in truth he'd lost all appetite for mortal fare. His hunger had taken on a different character entirely—one that had nothing to do with blood or flesh, and everything to do with the peculiar ache that bloomed in his chest whenever he thought of tomorrow's meeting with the village's unconventional midwife.

"Most inconvenient," he sighed, echoing his earlier assessment. Yet he couldn't quite suppress the warmth that spread through him at the thought of seeing her again, of watching Skura's delicate whiskers twitch as the mouse recognized him, of sharing in the comfortable silence that seemed to settle between them like autumn leaves.

The Elder's warning echoed in his mind: "Remember how swiftly passion blooms into violence, like nightshade in summer heat."

But this... this felt different. Softer. More dangerous, perhaps, for its very gentleness. Regis pushed away his half-eaten breakfast, suddenly restless. He had patients to tend to, and appearances to maintain. The whispers of supernatural activity demanded caution and vigilance.

He could not afford to be distracted by... whatever this was. Yet even as he gathered his satchel and rose to leave, his keen senses caught the scent of frost and juniper on the wind—the direction of Rhena's cottage. His steps faltered for just a moment, and he cursed himself for a fool. Four hundred and twenty-eight years old, and still capable of such sublime idiocy.

How perfectly, terribly human of him.

Regis left The Grumpy Hag with a faint nod to Bartik, his satchel snug against his side. Stepping outside, he pulled his coat tighter against the bitter winds of winter. Not that he needed the protection—vampiric constitution had its advantages—but centuries of practiced habits died hard. Besides, any deviation from expected human behavior risked drawing unwanted attention.

The village stirred to life around him as he walked, the scent of woodsmoke hanging thick in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of approaching snow. His enhanced senses caught fragments of conversation from the cottages he passed—worried whispers about missing items, strange laughter in the woods, tiny footprints in the snow that seemingly led nowhere.

He had heard such tales before, of course. In his centuries of walking among humans, he’d learned that many of their supernatural fears had quite mundane explanations. Yet something about these particular disturbances nagged at him. The pattern was too specific, too…playful. Not the work of desperate thieves or hungry wildlife, but something else entirely.

His musings were interrupted by the sight of fresh tracks in the snow—small, delicate prints that definitely weren’t human. They led from the miller’s storage shed toward the forest edge, where he caught a flash of movement too quick for human eyes to track. Was that…giggling on the wind?

Regis paused, considering whether to investigate further. The prints were curious indeed—too small for a human child, too distinct for an animal. They reminded him of something he’d encountered long ago, in the years before his friendship with Geralt, but before he could chase down the memory, another scent caught his attention.

Frost and juniper. Rhena.

She emerged from between two cottages, her dark hair dusted with flecks of snow as it settled in her hair, Skura’s tiny head just visible at her cloak’s collar. She carried a small basket covered with a cloth, and though she smiled warmly upon seeing Regis, he noted how she shifted the basket slightly behind her.

"Good morning, Regis," she called softly, her voice carrying on the morning breeze like windchimes – a whisper to ordinary ears, but clear as crystal to their heightened senses. "Stretching your legs? Don't tell me Bartik's endless talk about his late wife's pickled cabbage is getting to you already."

A ghost of a smile played across Regis's features as he fought to maintain his composure. He bowed his head in greeting, absently resisting the childish impulse to adjust his collar. "Indeed. Though I confess I'm beginning to wonder if this village needs the services of a witcher more than a passing traveler barber-surgeon. Have you heard the talk about the mysterious thefts in the village?"

A fleeting expression passed across her face—so swift and elusive it defied recognition. Was it worry? Concern? Whatever its nature, it vanished before he could grasp its meaning, leaving him no time to dwell on it. Rhena's voice broke the silence, steady and unruffled. “Oh? I try not to pay attention to village gossip. However I did notice some of my herbs went missing last week. Probably just mice.” She scratched Skura’s head pointedly, but the mouse, previously so animated, now remained oddly still.

“Mice that also have a taste for children’s toys and turnips?” Regis asked mildly, watching her reaction.

Rhena knitted her thin brows into a frown, her look quiet and contemplative. “You know how stories grow in small villages. Next they’ll be saying it’s a dragon stealing their washing off the lines.” She shifted her weight, and he heard the distinct sound of something small and metallic clinking in her basket.

He could have pressed further. Should have, perhaps. But the sight of weeny snowflakes trickling and catching in the vampire’s dark hair was terribly distracting, and the warmth in her eyes when she looked at him made it increasingly difficult to maintain his usual clinical detachment.

Regis found himself quite uncharacteristically at a loss for words, his usual eloquence deserting him as snowflakes continued their gentle descent into her dark hair. The sight was…rather captivating, he had to admit. After several centuries of existence, one would think he’d developed better command over such base responses, yet here he stood, as tongue-tied as a youth at his first village dance.

Curse this damnable shyness. It had plagued him during his teething years, particularly around vampire ladies, until blood addiction had loosened his tongue and granted him false confidence. The memory of those darker days still burned—how easily the words had flowed then, along with the blood and wine and the madness. But he’d trade all the glib charm of those dark years for the stumbling sincerity of now.

“I…that is to say…” Regis cleared his throat, attempting to gather his scattered thoughts. “I look forward to spending more time together tomorrow…” He paused, painfully aware of how each word seemed to tangle itself coming to. “To become better acquainted.”

From the safety of Rhena’s cloak, Skura’s dark eyes fixed upon him with an unnervingly knowing gaze. The weight of that tiny creature’s scrutiny did nothing to help his composure. He felt the mouse’s stare intensify if such a thing were possible from so small a creature.

In four centuries of existence, he’d faced necrophages, angry mobs, Vilgefortz, and even death itself with more composure than he currently possessed while speaking with a vampire lady. The irony was not lost on him.

The silence that followed seemed to stretch for an eternity, though in reality it couldn’t have been more than a few heartbeats. A breeze stirred the falling snow around them, carrying with it that mixture of scents that he was beginning to associate with her—frost and juniper yes, but also something else. Something uniquely Rhena.

"I'm looking forward to it," she said at last, her words carrying a delicate thread of hope that stirred something profound and disconcerting within him. Her smile, though restrained, held an authenticity that kindled a warmth entirely separate from the primal urgencies of their kind. "I know a clearing, not far from my cottage, where the stars seem to pierce the very fabric of the night. If you appreciate such celestial displays."

Regis had barely parted his lips to respond when a metallic tinkle emanated from Rhena's basket as she adjusted it in her grasp. Though she swiftly concealed it behind her skirts, he caught the unmistakable glimmer of what appeared to be a toy soldier – the kind children treasured. He chose, perhaps against his better judgment, to let this curiosity pass unremarked. After all, what right had he to scrutinize another's eccentricities? The shadows of his own past hardly positioned him as an arbiter of the peculiar.

Regis inclined his head, as though seeking to crystallize this delicate moment, and surrendered to an uncommon bout of forthrightness. “Rhena,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper yet unwavering. “I wanted to ask…since the other night at The Grumpy Hag, I’ve found myself dwelling on our conversation.”

Her eyebrows arched with subtle grace, curiosity dancing across the vampire’s delicate features like moonlight on water. In her collar, Skura stirred, the mouse’s whiskers trembling as if sharing in the intrigue of Regis’s unexpected directness.

"Oh?" she responded, her tone a masterful blend of restraint and invitation. "What about it?"

He gestured fluidly toward her basket before threading his fingers together behind his back as if seeking an anchor against both the winter's bite and the more daunting challenge of vulnerability. "You showed remarkable grace in sampling Bartik's stew, particularly given our kind's usual aversion to mortal sustenance. It led me to consider that perhaps this... experiment might merit expansion."

Rhena's lips quirked, the expression hovering between amusement and gentle skepticism. "'Expand the experiment,'" she echoed, her voice carrying notes of a melody that resonated in chambers of his being he'd thought long sealed. "You make it sound rather academic."

"Well, I am a barber-surgeon," Regis countered with a whisper of a smile. "Some habits prove remarkably tenacious."

Her quiet chuckle, soft and ethereal, dissolved like morning mist in sunlight. “And what exactly does ‘expanding the experiment’ entail?”

“I wish to introduce you to more dishes,” he replied, sincerity threading through his words. “Something different—perhaps from beyond the usual fare of Bartik’s kitchen. It might help us discover something you genuinely enjoy, and in the process, allow you to further strengthen your connection with the villagers.”

Rhena canted her head, thoughtfulness shadowing her dark eyes. “Strengthen my connection,” she mused slowly. “You really think food would do that?”

“For humans, food transcends mere sustenance,” Regis elaborated, his voice taking on a thoughtful cadence. “It is a gesture of community, of belonging. To partake in their customs, even in small ways, is to bridge gaps that words often cannot.”

“And what do you gain out of this?” she asked, though her tone lacked accusation or anger. “Another experiment to add to your collection of curiosities?”

“Perhaps,” he conceded, his faint smile returning. “But fundamentally, I’d like to help. Your presence here is valuable, and if something as simple as trying a few new dishes can aid you in your work, it seems a small thing to offer.”

Rhena studied him with careful consideration, her expression unreadable. Snowflakes danced between them, settling like stars in her hair. Finally, she nodded, her smile small but genuine. “Alright then, Regis. I’ll humor you. Bring your dishes to my home, and I’ll try them.”

His relief at her acquiescence ran deeper than anticipated, though he veiled it beneath a composed nod. “Wonderful. Tomorrow evening, then?”

“Tomorrow,” she confirmed, shifting her basket once more. “Though if you’re aiming to impress, I’d suggest avoiding anything with pickled cabbage.”

Regis chuckled, the sound low and rich. “Noted. Until tomorrow, then.”

As Rhena turned to resume her path, her brown cloak rippling like shadows in the wind, Regis watched her form recede with quiet contemplation. The snow hushed her departure, and soon she melded into the forest's dusky embrace, leaving him alone with the cold and the growing anticipation of their next encounter.

The scent of frost and juniper lingered long after she was gone. He stood there for a long moment, torn between following her and respecting whatever secret she was keeping. The Elder’s warning echoed in Regis’s mind, along with centuries of hard-won caution. Yet something about her smile, the gentle care in her deception, in the secret she kept from him, made him question his usual prudence.

Finally, he turned away from the direction she’d gone, though every instinct urged Regis to follow her. The mystery would keep for now. After all, he had tomorrow evening to look forward to—and perhaps then, in the quiet intimacy of dusk and in the comfort of her own home, Rhena might choose to share her secrets. Until then, he had his own appearance of normalcy to maintain.

Though as Regis walked away, he couldn’t help but notice that the strange little footprints he’d spotted earlier led in the same direction Rhena had gone.

Curiouser and curiouser, as the human saying went. But then, nothing about Rhena so far was entirely what it seemed.

Perhaps that was why he found himself so inexorably drawn to her—his fellow higher vampire was an enigma cloaked in shadows, each layer of mystery more alluring than the last. And he, it seemed, had always been susceptible to such intricate puzzles, particularly when they came wrapped in grace and danger in equal measure. Those dark eyes of hers, that smile which seemed to lift the burden of centuries from his shoulders... they were proving to be the most exquisite complications of all.

The snow continued to fall, each flake a silent witness to his contemplation. As Regis finally turned back toward the inn, a distant wolf's howl echoed through the forest—a reminder that some secrets belonged to the night alone. Tomorrow would come soon enough, bringing with it new possibilities, new mysteries to unravel.

For now, the scent of juniper and the memory of her smile would have to suffice.

The basket's metallic clinking haunted his thoughts all the way back to the inn.

Chapter Text

WINTER had sunk its teeth into the forest. Frost painted the branches white against a leaden sky, and the air carried the sharp scent of frozen earth mixed with a distant tang of blood that made Rhena's throat ache with familiar hunger.  Rhena let her boots crunch in the snow—a choice, not necessity. A vampire could move like mist when she wished. Today she wanted the weight of the earth beneath her feet.

Her basket held the evidence—a tin cup, a wooden soldier, a rusted needle. Small things left near her cottage that spoke of larger mysteries. When Regis had asked about strange happenings, she'd played her part: the aloof village midwife, ignorant of such matters. Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth either.

Skura shifted against her neck, tiny claws pricking through the fur lining her hood. The mouse grew more restless with each visit to the forest of late, his rapid heartbeat a fragile counterpoint to the watching stillness. It wasn't just the chaotic spirals of small footprints in the snow, or the faint laughter flitting on the night winds. Something older lurked here. Something that saw, and hungered.

And still, her thoughts circled back to Emiel Regis, as if pulled by threads unseen. To his infuriating patience, that faint knowing smile, and his insufferable insistence on playing at mortality with his talk of dinners and shared meals. The taste of salt and meat, the unnerving warmth of spiced cider, and the simple human pleasures that their kind should be above...and yet she had agreed to this. To see where it led, even as the demons of her past howled in warning.

“I don’t understand what you see in him. In Regis,” Rhena sighed, smiling faintly as Skura scrambled out of the warmth of her hood to perch on her shoulder.

The little mouse’s whiskers twitched, and she could have sworn he was giving her a knowing look, dark eyes bright with an intelligence that sometimes unnerved her.

Rhena raised her eyebrows. “Don’t give me that look. He’s hardly the first of my kind to pass through these woods. Even if he does insist on playing at being human.”

The mouse chittered, tiny paws kneading at the thick wool of her brown cape. Skura squeaked, pawing at her shoulder as if to argue. She suspected exactly what had won him over—she’d smelled the bits of herbs and dried fruit Regis seemed to carry in his pockets.

“You’re such a simple creature,” she teased, reaching up to scratch under his chin. “A few treats and some kind words, and suddenly, he’s your new favorite person in the world.” Not that she could entirely blame him. There was something about the higher vampire that made her want to trust Regis, despite every instinct screaming not to.

Suddenly, the sound of trotting hooves cut through her thoughts, growing louder with each of Skura’s passing little heartbeats. Rhena froze, every sense stretching out into the gathering dusk. The rider approached from the north, following the old trader’s road—one horse, moving steadily, its gait uneven. Either injured or pushed beyond endurance.

Skura's claws dug deeper into her shoulder, his tiny body trembling. Whatever drove someone to ride so recklessly through these woods in the falling dark, it couldn't bode well. Especially not with tomorrow's dinner looming like a storm on the horizon, and Regis's too-keen eyes watching for any crack in her carefully maintained facade. She could slip away now, fade into the lengthening shadows, and let whatever tragedy approached pass her by. That would be the wise choice. The safe choice.

But she had stopped making those long ago.

The crunch of the approaching hooves caused her to turn toward the sound, her movements fluid and unhurried, the easy grace of a predator secure in its own power. A mounted figure emerged from the dreary forest’s gloom, cloak billowing, armor glinting beneath. His blood smelled different…alchemical.

A Witcher, she realized, taking in the wolf’s head medallion gleaming at his throat and the wicked scars twisting the man’s weathered face.

She regarded him calmly as he drew nearer and drew his mount to a halt, golden eyes narrowing as he studied her with eyes inquisitive in return. A Witcher’s presence here in Draycott could be troublesome, drawing unwanted attention to her. To Regis. Still, she felt no fear, only a mild wariness. She was a higher vampire, as far beyond this mutant’s power as the sun was beyond a candle’s flickering light.

“Good morning, sir,” she said softly, her voice low and melodious, a touch of politeness learned long ago in her old life and never quite forgotten. “You seem to be a long way from anywhere. Are you lost, perhaps?”

The Witcher tilted his head, making a quick scan of her figure covered in her brown dress and brown wool cape, her braided dark hair tossed over her shoulder.

"Not lost," he answered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Looking for a village I was told lay somewhere in these parts. Draycott, I think it was called."

Rhena felt a flicker of unease. Her village. Why would a Witcher, a monster hunter, be seeking it out? What possible contract or threat could have drawn him out here, to her carefully cultivated haven of peace and solitude? Still, she kept her expression neutral, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Draycott? Yes, I know it. I work there. It's not far—perhaps a half hour's ride, if you keep to the trail."

The Witcher grunted, nodding. "My thanks, Lady." His golden eyes held hers for a moment longer than courtesy demanded. "You live there? In the village?"

Rhena hesitated, then nodded. “I do,” she said carefully, slowly. “I’m the village midwife. I tend to the women and help them birth their babies when their time comes.”

“Hm. Surprised to see you out here all alone, then. Woods can be dangerous. Especially for women.”

Rhena chuckled softly, the sound rich and dark. “I appreciate your concern, Witcher, but I’m quite safe, I assure you. The woods and I have…an understanding.”

The Witcher’s brow furrowed, a flicker of something like suspicion sparking in his eyes. But he simply shrugged, a ripple of corded muscle beneath his armor. “If you say so.” He made as if to turn his horse, then paused, looking back at her. “You know the village well, then? Its people?”

Rhena went still, a prickle of unease skating down her spine. “Well enough,” she said slowly, giving the Witcher a curious look. “Why do you ask?”

The Witcher hesitated, something calculating in his gaze. “Been hearing rumors,” he said at last. “Strange things happening in the area. Livestock going missing without so much as a trace. Wondered if maybe the village might know something about it.”

Rhena’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her face calm, impassive. “Rumors are often just that,” she said coolly. “Idle talk, spread by people with too much time on their hands and too little sense in their heads.”

The Witcher's mouth twitched, a hint of amusement in the quirk of his lips. "Maybe so," he allowed. "But in my experience, even idle talk can hold a grain of truth. And those grains can lead to bigger things if you know where to look."

He leaned forward in the saddle, golden eyes intent. "So maybe you can help me, midwife. You see and hear things, in your work. If there was something strange going on, something that might need a Witcher's eye...you'd know about it, wouldn't you?"

Rhena’s fingers tightened on the handle of her basket, but she met his gaze squarely, unflinching.

“I’m just a midwife,” she replied, each word precise and measured. “I try not to pay any attention to the village gossip. The only thing I concern myself with is the women who need my help. If you seek monsters to hunt, Witcher, I’m afraid you’ll find slim pickings here.”

The Witcher leaned back, mouth twisting. "Suppose we'll see," he murmured. "Village is still my best bet for information. And coin, if there's work to be had."

"Then I wish you luck," Rhena said tartly. "But I'd temper your expectations if I were you. Draycott is small, not wealthy. The pickings may be slim in more ways than one."

"Story of my life," the Witcher said dryly. "But thanks for the warning."

He gathered his reins but hesitated, studying her face. "You know," he said slowly, "you're not what I expected. For a village midwife."

Rhena arched an eyebrow. "Oh? And what did you expect, exactly? Middle-aged and grey-haired?"

He shrugged. "Guess so. More…grandmotherly, I suppose. Not a woman who looks like she could take on a drowner with one hand tied behind her back."

Rhena couldn’t help it—she laughed, the sound startled out of her. “Appearances can be deceiving, Witcher,” she said, smile playing about her lips. “I’m tougher than I look. I’ve had to be, to survive out here.”

“Hm. I just bet you have.”

There was something in his tone, a note of speculation, of appraisal, that made Rhena’s smile falter. Suddenly, she was viscerally aware of what she must look like to him—a woman alone in the woods, a good distance away from any aid or protection. A woman who carried herself with the confidence of one who had nothing to fear…but who might, to a Witcher’s gaze, seem to be hiding something.

She straightened her gait, smile vanishing as if it had never been there. “Well,” she said briskly, “I’d best be getting back. The miller’s daughter is due nearly any day now, and I promised her I’d check in on her. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.” The Witcher inclined his head, the gesture not quite a bow. “Don’t let me keep you.”

But he made no move to depart, gaze still fixed on her face, a question hovering in their golden depths.

“You never did tell me your name,” he said at last.

Rhena stiffened, the prickle of unease becoming a cold trickle down her spine. A name was a powerful thing, in the hands of one such as him. A key, a bridge…a weapon, if he chose to make it one.

But she could hardly refuse him without arousing further suspicion. And besides, what was a name, to one such as her? She had worn a thousand names, a thousand faces, in her long, long life. What was one more, in the grand scheme of things?

“Rhena,” she said, the word clipped and cool. “My name is Rhena.”

The Witcher nodded, as if filing the information away for later. “Rhena,” he repeated, rolling the name around his mouth as if tasting. “A pretty name. For a pretty mystery. It suits you.”

Rhena’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in her cheek. “I’m no mystery, Witcher. Just a simple midwife, trying to do my work in peace and live a quiet life.”

“Hm. If you say so.” But there was a glint in his eye, a curl to his lip, that said the Witcher didn’t believe her. Not for a moment.

“I do say so,” she said sharply. “And I’ll thank you to leave it at that.”

To her surprise, the Witcher chuckled, a low, rough sound that sent a completely unexpected shiver down her spine. "Fair enough," he said, dipping his head in a gesture of acquiescence. "Far be it from me to pry into a lady's secrets."

He gathered up his reins once more, clearly preparing to depart in earnest this time. But he paused, one last time, gaze locking with hers.

"Name's Eskel, by the way," he said casually. "Of the Wolf School. In case you were wondering."

Rhena lifted one shoulder in a shrug of supreme indifference. "I wasn't," she said coolly.

Eskel's grin flashed, quick and wicked. "Liar," he said, not unkindly. He wheeled his horse and vanished into the shadows as swiftly as he'd come.

Rhena watched him go, feeling an unfamiliar tightness in her chest. The Witcher—Eskel—had seen something in her. Something she'd kept buried for centuries. She shook her head sharply. She couldn't afford such thoughts. She was Rhena, the village midwife. The strange one in her cottage in the woods. That was all she could allow herself to be. Even if some traitorous part of her whispered that it wasn't, that she could be more, that she could let herself be seen, truly seen…

No. Those were dangerous thoughts, foolish thoughts. The thoughts of a young girl, a mortal girl, not the ancient creature of shadow and blood that she was.

But as she turned to stride back into the depths of the forest, her basket clutched close, her heightened vampiric senses prickled with an all-too-familiar sensation—the weight of unseen eyes studying her every breath. The shadows between the bare branches seemed to deepen, to watch, to wait. She wasn't alone. She hadn't been for some time.

The wind whispered through the leafless trees, carrying with it the scent of decay and something else—something that made her ancient blood run cold. Her fingers curled slowly into fists at her sides, nails lengthening into razor-sharp points. Whatever lurked in those shadows would soon learn that stalking a vampire was a deadly game. A flicker of movement. Rhena turned, her vampiric sight catching a small figure behind a gnarled trunk.

Yellow eyes gleamed back at her—a godling. Rhena stared. Here of all places. She had thought their kind lost to time and men's foolishness, yet here one stood, watching her as if it knew all her secrets. Rhena shook her head, pulse quickening as the godling tilted its head and regarded her with ancient, fathomless eyes.

"The trinkets from the village—you've been taking them, haven't you?" she murmured, barely whispering.

As if in answer, the creature stepped clear of the tree, moving soundlessly across the snow. It raised a small, gnarled hand, pointing one long finger directly at Rhena.

"Staring is rude, you know," it snapped, voice high and piping, almost child-like. "Didn't your mother ever teach you manners?"

Rhena blinked, taken aback by the creature's scolding tone. She took a careful step forward, keeping her movements deliberately slow and non-threatening. The little creature's boldness amused her, despite the gravity of the situation. From within her hood, her companion Skura peered out, whiskers twitching with interest at the strange creature.

The godling's demeanor shifted at the sight of the curious mouse, yellow eyes brightening.

"Oh ho! A fellow appreciator of fine things." He gave an absurdly grand bow. "Johnny's the name. And you're the blood-drinker playing midwife. Interesting choice, that." His initial defensiveness melting away, he rocked back on his heels. "And as for the trinkets gone missing, well, collecting's a fancy word for it. I prefer 'liberating.' Some of those folks don't appreciate what they've got anyway." He gestured vaguely through the trees. "Got myself a nice little burrow not far from here. Been making it proper cozy, I have."

Rhena froze. "How long have you been watching me?"

"Long enough to know you're not the scariest thing here," Johnny smirked. "Though maybe the most interesting. Don't fret your fangs—I keep secrets well. Have to, these days. World's not kind to little folk anymore."

Something in his manner, ancient yet childlike, made her smile despite herself. "And what do you do with these...liberated treasures?"

“Make things pretty, don’t I?” Johnny spread his arms wide. “Every burrow needs its decorations. Humans throw away the most fascinating bits and bobs. Or leave them lying about, just asking to be borrowed.” He cocked his head, studying her. “You understand that, don’t you? Living among them but not being them?”

Rhena felt an unexpected pang at his words. “Perhaps I do,” she admitted softly. “But these borrowings of yours are causing trouble. People have started to notice. There’s a Witcher heading to the village now, looking for work. People are likely going to tell him, and he’ll want to take on the job of finding out who’s doing it.”

“Pah!” Johnny waved a dismissive hand. “He’s not the first monster hunter I’ve dealt with. Met a white-haired one once, actually. Real decent sort, for a mutant. Helped me with a bothersome devil, he did. Helped me get my voice back, too!” His yellow eyes glinted with mischief. “This new one’s different though, isn’t he? Something about him caught your eye.”

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rhena said stiffly, but she could feel Skura’s tiny claws digging into her shoulder in what felt suspiciously like agreement with the ornery godling.

“Could I…” Rhena hesitated, curiosity warring with caution. “Could I see this burrow of yours?”

Johnny’s face lit up with unexpected delight. “Finally! Someone with proper appreciation for interior decorating!” He gestured for her to follow, scampering through the trees with the agility of a much younger creature. “Mind your head—not all of us are tall as trees, you know.”

The burrow he led her to was cleverly hidden beneath the sprawling roots of an ancient oak tree, the entrance barely visible unless you knew exactly where to look.

Rhena had to crouch low to peer inside, her keen eyes adjusting quickly to the gloom. The stolen trinkets were arranged with care—tin cup catching stray light, wooden soldier guarding pretty stones, bent needle woven into a mobile of twigs and berries. Beyond that, only leaves for bedding and no provisions for winter.

Something in her chest tightened. "Johnny," she said softly, "how have you managed the winter so far? And it's only just begun..."

The godling’s proud demeanor faltered slightly. “Oh, getting by, aren’t I? Was worse in Velen, what with the wars and the wraiths and whatnot. Place went right to rot, it did. Used to be good bog country, proper place for a godling. Then the armies came through, burning and killing. After that came a plague.” His yellow eyes darkened with recent pain. “Even the monsters in the bog started acting all strange-like. Figured it was time to seek greener pastures, as they say.”

“You came all this way from Velen?” Rhena’s eyebrows rose. “That’s…quite a journey.”

"Followed the merchant roads mostly. Heard tales of the northern woods, how they still had some of the old magic in them." He shot her a knowing look. "Seems they were right about that, at least. Though I didn't expect to find a higher vampire playing nursemaid to human babies."

Rhena studied the little godling, seeing past his bravado to the exhaustion beneath. A refugee, like so many others, fleeing the chaos that seemed to consume more of the world each day. And now here he was in Draycott of all places, stealing to survive, putting himself at risk of being discovered…

“Johnny,” she said slowly, carefully, “what if I made you a deal? The villagers are getting suspicious of these thefts. The Witcher you saw won’t stop until he finds answers if the people ask him to look into it for them. If he discovers you…” She trailed off and let the implications hang in the air.

The godling’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Suppose I have been a bit obvious about it. But a fellow’s got to make a home somehow, right?”

Rhena stood in silence for a moment, watching the godling attempt to arrange his meager pilfered possessions more presentably. The sensible thing would be to walk away. She had spent the last five years establishing herself in Draycott, carefully crafting the persona of the mysterious but reliable midwife. Taking in a mischievous godling could upset that delicate balance in countless ways.

And yet…

Skura shifted on her shoulder, whiskers brushing her ear as if sensing her troubled thoughts. The mouse had been her only true companion for the last two months, the only one who knew her real nature. Even Regis, for all his knowing looks and gentle provocations, didn’t know the extent of everything she kept secret.

The godling would be discovered eventually. The Witcher, Eskel, would see to that, she was sure. And when he was found, the villagers’ fear would turn to violence, as it always did. Johnny might be ancient and clever, but he was also vulnerable, a relic of an older world increasingly without place for his kind.

Like her, in so many ways. Like Regis too.

“Johnny,” she said at last, slowly, as she considered her words carefully. “The villagers are growing suspicious of these thefts. And that Witcher…he won’t stop until he finds answers if the people ask him to look into the thefts on their behalf.”

The godling’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Are you going to tell him about me, then?"

Rhena closed her eyes briefly, knowing she might regret what she was about to suggest. But she had spent too many centuries watching the old magics fade from the world, too many years witnessing the slow extinction of creatures like Johnny. Perhaps it was time to do more than simply observe.

“There might be…” she began slowly, “another way. One that doesn’t end with torches and pitchforks, or gods forbid, your head on a pike outside the village walls.” She met his curious yellow gaze. “My cottage has space. If you returned everything you’ve taken from the village, you could…stay. Help keep an eye on Skura when I’m away, tend to the herbs in my collection…” She smiled slightly. “I could use someone with your talent for ‘arranging’ things.”

Johnny’s eyes widened in disbelief and hope, then quickly narrowed with suspicion. “And what’s in it for you, blood-drinker? Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly developed a fondness for strays.”

Rhena allowed herself a small, wry smile. "Company," she admitted, surprising herself with her honesty. "Someone else who understands what it's like to live between worlds. And perhaps..." Her voice softened to barely more than a whisper, "...a friend?" Her fingers traced the edge of her basket as the weight of another truth pressed against her lips. One Johnny would need to know if he intended to come back with her. "There is something else. Another of my kind dwells in the village."

“Oh, you mean the fancy herbalist?” Johnny’s yellow eyes lit up with sudden interest. “Tall fellow, talks like he swallowed a university library?”

Rhena blinked in surprise. “You know about Regis?”

"Know about him?" Johnny cackled. "Been watching him moon over you these past days! Gets a look when he's near you." His face split into a grin. "And that walk in the woods? Very...collegiate."

Rhena stared. "You've been watching us?"

"Hard not to! Better than a traveling troupe!" Johnny's eyes sparkled. "He looks at you like you hung the moon, you know. Especially when he thinks you're not watching."

“I…” Rhena faltered, her usual composure cracking slightly. She thought of Regis’s gentle manner, his careful courtesy, the way his dark eyes seemed to hold such warmth when they met hers. Had she truly been so blind to what was right in front of her?

She cleared her throat, fingers fidgeting with the handle of her basket. “He’s…coming to the cottage tomorrow evening. For…for dinner.”

Johnny’s eyes went comically wide, and he clapped his gnarled hands together with obvious delight. “Dinner! Two vampires! Oh, that’s rich—two blood-suckers sitting down to break bread together. Planning to share a nice cup of blood pudding, are you?”

“It’s not—” Rhena began, but Johnny cut her off with a gleeful cackle.

“Let me guess—he offered to bring wine? Something aged to perfection, no doubt. Though I suspect he's more interested in sampling other vintage delights." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “And I suppose during this dinner of yours, you’ll be discussing very important medical matters from one healer to another. Like the way his eyes linger on you when you're not looking? Or perhaps you'll analyze the proper technique for those lingering touches he's so fond of?" He pretended to stroke his chin thoughtfully. "Very professional topics, those. This is better entertainment than I could've hoped for!"

“I should never have told you about this,” Rhena muttered, but there was no real heat in her words. Instead, she felt an unexpected flutter in her chest, a warmth she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge before.

Johnny rocked back on his heels, studying her with those ancient yellow eyes. “Tell you what, blood-drinker. I accept your offer, but on one condition.”

Rhena raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?” she asked, having the sudden instinct unready to hear the godling’s next words.

"I want to meet this Regis of yours," Johnny declared, his eyes twinkling. "Been ages since I've seen two higher vampires trying to out-pretend each other at being human. Should be quite the entertainment!"

Rhena felt a flush of heat rise to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the winter air. "Meet him? Absolutely not. Out of the question."

"Why not?" Johnny's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Afraid he'll figure out you've got a soft spot for more than just lost causes?"

"I do not have a—" Rhena stopped herself, taking a deep breath. "Regis is... complicated. He's already far too observant for his own good. And tomorrow night is..." She hesitated, remembering the way snow had settled in Regis's gray hair, how his usual eloquence had faltered when he'd asked to share a meal with her. "It's meant to be dinner. Just dinner."

Skura chittered from his perch on Rhena's shoulder, and she could have sworn the mouse was laughing too. "Don't you start," she warned him. "And you," she turned back to Johnny, "If—and that's a very big if—I agree to let you stay, you'll need to remain hidden tomorrow night. Regis cannot know about you. Not yet. He's already noticed the missing things, and if he connects them to me..."

"Afraid he'll think less of you for harboring a humble godling?" Johnny's voice took on a theatrical wounded tone. "Or afraid he'll see just how much like him you really are—trying to keep a bit of the old world alive?"

Rhena’s fingers tightened on her basket. “I’m nothing like—” But the words died in her throat, because hadn’t she just been thinking the same thing? About preserving what magic remained in the world?

"Tell you what," Johnny said, his ancient eyes twinkling. "I'll return everything I borrowed—well, most of everything—and I'll make myself scarce during your romantic dinner—"

"It's not romantic—"

"—AND I'll even help tidy up your cottage beforehand. Make it proper cozy for your gentleman caller." The godling's grin widened. "All I ask is that you let me watch from the shadows. Just a peek! I promise I won't make a sound."

Rhena pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache building despite her vampiric constitution.

"Johnny..."

“Come now, when’s the last time you had someone to share your secrets with? Besides the mouse, of course.” He nodded respectfully to Skura. “We outcasts ought to stick together, don’t you think?”

She looked between Johnny’s hopeful expression and Skura’s knowing eyes, feeling her resolve crumbling.

"Fine," she sighed, already wondering if she'd regret this. "But you stay hidden. No pranks, no stolen spoons, no mysterious noises—"

"On my honor as a godling!" Johnny pressed one gnarled hand to his chest, though his eyes still danced with mischief. "I'll be quieter than a wraith at a witch hunter's convention."

Rhena turned to leave, shaking her head, but Johnny's voice called after her, pitched loud enough to carry through the trees:

"Should I start picking flowers for the wedding, or is it too early for that?"

Skura's answering squeak sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and Rhena quickened her pace, trying and failing to hide her own reluctant smile. Behind her, Johnny's cackling echoed through the winter woods, a sound as ancient and mischievous as the magic that still lingered in these forgotten places.

As they made their way back through the darkening woods, Johnny's small hand found its way into hers. His palm felt ancient and gnarled, like touching the bark of a tree that had witnessed centuries pass. Rhena found herself unconsciously adjusting her stride to match his shorter steps, an act that would have seemed beneath her dignity mere hours ago.

"Your cottage," Johnny said, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen between them. "It has proper walls, yes? Not like those human hovels that let the wind whistle through every crack?"

Rhena felt a smile tugging at her lips. "Yes, proper walls. Stone foundations that go deep. The humans think I inherited it from my grandmother—another midwife, or so the story goes."

"Clever," Johnny nodded approvingly. "Humans do love their little stories. Makes them feel better about the strange things they can't explain." He squeezed her hand. "Like why a midwife's patients never die in childbirth, or why her herbs always seem to work just a little better than they should."

Rhena tensed slightly, but Johnny's grip remained steady, reassuring. "Don't fret," he said softly. "Your secrets are safe with me. Besides, you're not the only one who's learned to hide in plain sight. Why do you think I took such ordinary things? A cup here, a toy there—nothing valuable enough to raise real alarm. Just enough to be blamed on forgetfulness or bad luck."

They emerged from the deeper woods into the small clearing where Rhena's cottage stood. In the gathering dusk, the stone walls glowed softly with reflected moonlight, wisps of smoke curling from the chimney like ghostly fingers reaching for the stars. Skura darted from Rhena's shoulder to the nearest window ledge, whiskers twitching expectantly.

"It's not much," Rhena found herself saying, suddenly self-conscious. "But it's—"

"Perfect," Johnny breathed, his yellow eyes wide with wonder. "Oh, yes. This will do nicely. I can already see where everything should go. The stolen—pardon me, borrowed—trinkets will look lovely on that shelf by the window. And is that a proper herb garden I spy? Oh, the possibilities!"

Rhena watched as the godling practically bounced with excitement, his earlier world-weariness forgotten. Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed in her chest—an emotion she hadn't allowed herself to feel in centuries.

Hope.

"Just remember," she said, trying to sound stern despite her growing smile, "no mischief tomorrow night. Regis is..."

"Important to you?" Johnny finished, his ancient eyes twinkling with understanding. "Don't worry, blood-drinker. I won't spoil your chances with the good doctor. Though I still say you're both ridiculous, pretending you don't see what's right in front of you."

They reached the cottage door, Johnny's ancient hand small in hers. Perhaps she'd been blind to more than just Regis's attention.

"Welcome home," she said. "Try not to rearrange everything at once."

Johnny's laugh echoed through the cottage like bells. Skura chittered from his window perch, and for the first time in centuries, Rhena felt the weight of solitude lift from her shoulders.

Tomorrow would bring Regis, and change, and who knew what else. But that was a problem for another night.

The winter sun hung high above the treetops by the time Rhena finished showing Johnny around the cottage. The godling had already begun making himself at home, rearranging her collected herbs with surprising knowledge and nattering on about proper storage techniques. Skura watched from his favorite perch, whiskers twitching with apparent approval at their new housemate.

"You'll need more dried chamomile," Johnny declared, peering into her stores. "Can't properly welcome guests without chamomile tea. Even vampire guests." He paused, yellow eyes glinting in the candlelight. "Especially vampire guests."

Rhena didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, she moved to the window, gazing out at the frost-kissed branches swaying in the bitterly cold wind. Somewhere out there, a Witcher named Eskel was making his way to Draycott, carrying questions she couldn't answer. And tomorrow, Regis would come, with his knowing smile and gentle manner, bringing even more complicated questions of his own.

The wind whispered through the eaves, carrying with it the promise of snow. Behind her, Johnny hummed an ancient tune as he puttered about, and Skura's tiny heart beat its steady rhythm.

Strange, how quickly the silence of centuries could be filled.

"You're brooding again," Johnny announced. "Very dramatic, very vampiric. But perhaps save some of that smoldering intensity for tomorrow's dinner?"

Rhena turned from the window, a sharp retort on her lips—but it died at the sight of the godling carefully arranging her herbs, his movements precise despite his mischievous words. He was trying, in his own way, to make this work. To build something new from the ruins of his old life.

Wasn't that what she'd been doing all along?

"Get some rest," she said softly. "Tomorrow will be... interesting enough without you being overtired and cranky."

Johnny's answering laugh echoed through the cottage like wind chimes in a storm. "Oh, blood-drinker," he said, those ancient eyes twinkling, "tomorrow will be interesting no matter what. Best make sure you're ready for it."

Rhena watched as he disappeared into the small nook she'd offered him, Skura scampering after with surprising eagerness. Outside, the first snowflakes began to fall, each one carrying a fraction of winter's bite. But here, in this moment, she felt something she hadn't in centuries: warmth. She turned back to the window, a small smile playing on her lips.

Let tomorrow bring what it would—the Witcher with his questions, Regis with his careful courtesies, the villagers with their suspicious glances. For now, she had this: a cottage full of unlikely companions, the whisper of snow, and the peculiar feeling that perhaps, after all these years, she'd finally found something worth preserving.

The candle guttered in its holder, casting shadows that danced like memories across the wall. Rhena left it burning.

Chapter Text

REGIS stood at the window of his rented room at The Grumpy Hag, watching the snow drift past the frosted glass. The basket he’d prepared sat on the rough-hewn table behind him, each item within selected with a surgeon’s precision. His reflection wavered in the glass—a ghost caught between worlds, neither fully monster nor man. The irony did not escape him.

The wine had been the easiest choice—a Beauclair Red, old enough to have developed character but not so ancient as to seem ostentatious. He’d acquired it earlier today through careful negotiation with a merchant who’d been suffering from a peculiar rash. The man’s gratitude had ensured a reasonable price, though gold meant little to Regis after four centuries of careful investment.

Harder had been deciding what foods might tempt a higher vampire who’d spent centuries denying herself mortal fare. He had chosen a variety of delicacies from across the Continent. This included smoked fish from Skellige, preserved using ancient dwarven methods that were renowned for their flavor. He also had dark bread made from a recipe he once got from an elderly woman in Zerrikania, which he persuaded one of Bartik’s kitchen staff to bake. This bread was dense, packed with seeds and spices. Additionally, there were honey-glazed figs that brought back memories of recent evenings in Toussaint, where he had enjoyed wine with Geralt, not knowing when he and the witcher would meet again.

His fingers traced the basket’s handle, nails lengthening momentarily before he forced them back to human proportions. Strange, how the prospect of dining with Rhena made him more uncertain of his control than he’d been in decades. He hadn’t felt this…untethered since his blood-addicted days, though the hunger clawing at his chest now had nothing to do with crimson vintage.

The sharp rap at his door nearly made him jump—a reflex he hadn’t experienced in centuries. His heightened senses had been so focused on categorizing the basket’s contents that he’d missed the approaching footsteps. Sloppy. Dangerous. When had he become so easily distracted?

“Master Regis?” Bartik’s voice carried through the wood, colored with the particular tone innkeepers across the Continent used when forced to disturb a paying guest. “Beggin’ your pardon, but there’s a woman downstairs needin’ a surgeon’s attention. Says she’s got a tooth that needs pulling, and I figured, since you’re here, maybe you could take a look at it for her?”

Regis closed his eyes briefly, cursing whatever gods might be listening. Time had taught him many things, but the art of being in two places at once remained frustratingly out of reach. “Tell her I’ll be there shortly,” he called back, voice steady despite his inner turmoil. Not daring to let himself look back, he bit the wall of his cheek and left the room.

The common room of The Grumpy Hag, as usual, smelled of stale ale, wood smoke, and human anxiety. The miller’s youngest daughter sat hunched by the fire, one hand pressed to her swollen cheek. The scent of infection hung about her like a miasma, sharp enough to make his fangs itch beneath his gums.

"Now then," he said, gentling his voice to the tone that had soothed countless patients over the centuries, "let's have a look at what's troubling you."

She shrank back slightly as he approached, her heart rabbiting in her chest. The reaction was familiar—humans might not consciously recognize what he was, but something in their primitive brains always sensed the predator beneath the healer's mask. He'd learned to work around their instinctive fear, to make his movements deliberately slow and precise.

"It started aching three days past," she mumbled through fingers still pressed to her cheek. "Thought it might get better, but..." She trailed off with a whimper that spoke more eloquently than words.

"I see." Regis opened his surgical case, arranging his instruments with practiced efficiency. "If I may?" He gestured to her jaw, waiting for her slight nod before gently prying her fingers away from her face. The infection's scent grew stronger, mixed now with the copper-sweet tang of fresh blood where she'd worried at her gum. His throat tightened with ancient hunger, quickly suppressed.

The examination confirmed what his nose had already told him—an abscess had formed at the root of her back molar, the kind that would only worsen without intervention.

"It will need to come out," he said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. "The infection has taken hold too deeply for poultices alone."

Her eyes widened with fresh fear, but she nodded. Brave girl. He'd seen grown men weep at similar news.

"I have something that will help with the pain," he continued, reaching for a small vial in his case. The liquid within—a careful blend of herbs whose recipe he'd perfected over centuries—would dull her senses without rendering her insensible. "Just a few drops under your tongue... there we are."

While waiting for the medicine to take effect, he arranged his tools with precise movements, each one calculated to appear reassuring rather than threatening. The gleam of steel drew her eyes, and he saw her throat work as she swallowed hard.

"Tell me," he said conversationally, selecting a small probe from his array, "have you heard the story of the dragon of Gelibol? No? Well, it seems there was once a rather remarkable reptile who fancied himself a dentist..."

The extraction itself was delicate work, requiring all his concentration to maintain the precise pressure needed while appearing to work at human speed. Blood welled around his fingers as he worked, rich with infection's taint but still enough to make his control waver. He focused on the technical aspects—the angle of approach, careful leverage, the need to remove all traces of diseased root—rather than the primal part of him that wanted to do something else entirely with the blood coating his hands.

Finally, the tooth came free with a wet sound that made his patient gag. He worked quickly then, packing the socket with herbs that would stem the bleeding and fight infection, all while maintaining a stream of gentle patter that kept her distracted from his actual movements.

"There now," he said at last, stripping off his gloves. "The worst is over. Rinse with salt water thrice daily and come see me if the pain worsens rather than improves." He paused, considering. "And perhaps avoid the miller's new barley bread for a few days. Your other teeth will thank you."

She managed a weak smile at that, pressing a few coins into his palm before hurrying out into the gathering dusk. Regis watched her go, then began the careful process of cleaning his instruments. Each tool had to be scraped, washed, and dried before being returned to its proper place in his case. The methodical work usually centered him, but today his thoughts kept straying to the basket waiting in his room, to dark eyes and careful smiles, to possibilities that hung like snow in winter air.

The light was failing by the time he finished, and he still needed to change his shirt—the current one bore tiny flecks of blood that his sharp eyes couldn't ignore—and make one final check of the evening's preparations. He climbed the stairs with less than his usual grace, time suddenly seeming to slip through his fingers like water.

His room felt colder than when he'd left it, though the temperature hadn't truly bothered him in centuries. The basket sat accusingly on the table, a reminder of plans interrupted and time grown short. He changed quickly, adjusting his collar in the clouded mirror one final time. The gesture was pure vanity—he had no reflection to gauge, and centuries of practice meant every article of clothing sat precisely where it should. Still, his fingers lingered at his throat, remembering how Rhena's eyes had traced the same path days ago.

Gathering the basket with more care than strictly necessary, he descended once more to the common room. The usual evening bustle had barely begun—a few farmers warming themselves by the hearth, Nina arranging tankards behind the bar with mechanical efficiency. But it was the solitary figure at the corner table that made him pause mid-step, centuries of careful survival warring with studied nonchalance.

A witcher. The wolf’s head medallion caught the firelight as its wearer looked up, golden eyes fixing on Regis with predatory intensity. Scars twisted the man’s weathered face—old wounds that spoke of battles with creatures that shouldn’t exist outside of children’s fairy tales. His armor bore the signs of recent travel, and his swords rested within easy reach against the table.

Their eyes met across the common room, and Regis felt a familiar prickle of curiosity at the witcher’s presence here in Draycott, though it was quickly suppressed. Now was not the time to satiate his curiosity, not with Rhena waiting and this unexpected complication sitting between him and the door.

“Evening,” the witcher greeted, his voice rough as cemetery gravel. His fingers remained deliberately relaxed on his tankard, though Regis noted how his other hand stayed free, ready to reach for either sword at a moment’s notice. “I guess you’d be the barber-surgeon passing through that the folks mentioned?”

“Indeed.” Regis inclined his head slightly. "Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, though Regis will suffice. I trust you haven't need of my services...?" He left the question hanging, a courteous invitation to exchange names.

"Eskel." The witcher's mouth quirked slightly. "Of the Wolf School. And no, my teeth are doing just fine."

Wolf School. The words stirred memories Regis had carefully packed away—of another witcher with cat's eyes, though his had been accompanied by white hair and a more sardonic smile. He wondered if this one knew Geralt, if they'd trained together in that crumbling fortress in the mountains. But such questions were dangerous, would reveal too much. Better to maintain the careful fiction of a simple barber-surgeon who had never crossed paths with witchers before.

His eyes flickered to the basket in Regis's hands. "Special house call?"

“Of a sort.” Regis kept his tone carefully neutral, though he felt his nails instinctively trying to lengthen against the basket’s handle. “Though I’m afraid I’m running rather late.”

“Wouldn’t want to keep anyone waiting,” Eskel agreed. But he made no move to end the conversation, instead taking a deliberate sip of ale. “Interesting place, Draycott. Heard some curious tales on my way in.”

“Oh?” Regis could feel Bartik’s daughter-in-law Nina watching them from behind the bar, the woman’s heartbeat quick with the instinctive anxiety and mistrust humans felt in the presence of witchers. Or vampires, though she didn’t know to fear him. “I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to local gossip. I’m merely passing through and intend to take my leave once the snow and muck clear off the roads.”

“No?” Eskel’s scarred face remained neutral, but his eyes sparked with something sharper. “Thought a healer would hear all sorts of interesting stories. Especially about missing livestock. Strange sounds in the night.” He paused meaningfully. “None of the villagers here have told you anything about what’s supposedly been going on around here, then?”

The threat should have raised Regis’s hackles. Instead, he felt an odd sort of appreciation for the witcher’s technique—subtle enough to seem like casual conversation, sharp enough to make his point. In another life, they might have had a fascinating discussion about the arts of interrogation.

“I find,” Regis said carefully, “that most peculiarities have perfectly mundane explanations, if one only takes the time to look.” He shifted his grip on the basket, using the movement to check the position of the door. “Though I’m sure an experienced witcher such as yourself knows that better than most.”

“Funny thing about mundane explanations.” Eskel’s voice remained conversational, though his eyes never left Regis’s face. “They tend to fall apart under close inspection. Like a surgeon who doesn’t cast a proper reflection in The Grumpy Hag’s mirror behind the bar.”

Regis felt a flash of genuine surprise, quickly masked. He hadn’t realized the witcher had been watching him that carefully.

“Curious observation,” he said mildly. “Though old mirrors often play tricks with the light. If you’ll kindly excuse me…”

“Of course.”  Eskel nodded politely. “Wouldn’t want to keep your…patient waiting. Though I expect we’ll talk again soon.”

"Perhaps." Regis moved toward the door, maintaining a pace that was neither too quick nor too slow. "Good evening, Master Witcher."

He felt Eskel's eyes on his back all the way to the door. Only when he'd stepped out into the gathering dark did he allow himself a small smile. The witcher was clever—dangerously so. But he was also fundamentally honorable, if his reputation was anything to go by. He wouldn't move against Regis without proof of wrongdoing.

Still, his presence complicated matters significantly. Especially with Rhena to consider, and now the news of something that has been stealing livestock from the village farms.

The village had begun its evening rituals as he made his way through the narrow streets. Shopkeepers shuttered their windows against the gathering dark, while mothers called children in from their play with the sort of urgency that spoke of ancient instincts. Humans might no longer consciously remember why they feared the dark, but their bodies remembered. Their blood remembered.

Snow crunched beneath his boots as he wound through the streets. The storm that had been threatening all day seemed to hold its breath, waiting. A few villagers nodded as he passed, their gazes curious but not hostile. They'd begun to accept his presence, though he noted how they quickened their pace, hurrying to be inside before true dark fell. Their instincts, dulled but not dead, recognized something in him that set their primitive brains screaming in warning.

The path to Rhena's cottage wound away from the village proper, threading between ancient trees whose branches clawed at the steel-grey sky. His heightened senses caught fragments of life in the gathering gloom—a fox's careful steps through fresh snow, an owl's wings beating silent patterns in the air, the thousand small deaths that marked winter's dominion. But underlying it all was something else, something that made him pause mid-step, head tilted like a hound catching an unexpected scent.

Movement. Quick, deliberate, almost playful. Too small to be human, too purposeful to be animal. It darted between the trees ahead of him, there and gone before even his vampiric sight could fix upon it. Curious. But he had more pressing concerns than investigating mysterious movements in the winter woods. The weight of the witcher’s gaze still lingered between his shoulder blades, and Rhena waited.

Her cottage appeared through the gathering gloom like a ship emerging from fog. Warm light spilled from its windows, and smoke curled from the chimney in lazy spirals. His heightened senses detected the familiar aroma of herbs drying in her workshop—herbs he used to disguise his scent from predators. He suspected Rhena did the same. He also smelled the coppery sweetness of blood from her midwifery supplies, and another scent that triggered every honed instinct, making him acutely aware of potential danger. A presence that didn’t quite belong in the vampire’s home, flitting at the edges of perception.

But before he could focus on it, the door opened, and Rhena stood framed in soft golden light. Her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her eyes—ancient and beautiful and dangerous—met his with a warmth that made his chest tighten.

“You came,” she said softly, then seemed to catch herself, adding: “I mean, good evening, Regis.”

He inclined his head, a gesture that felt both too formal and not formal enough. “ Good evening, Rhena. I trust I haven’t kept you waiting?”

“No, I—” She paused, nostrils flaring slightly as she caught the scent of his offerings. “You brought the food with you, then?”

“I did.” He lifted the basket slightly. “Though I understand if you’d prefer not to partake. The gesture is merely…hopeful, not obligatory.”

Something flickered in Rhena’s expression—surprise? Pleasure? It vanished too quickly to name. “Please, come in,” she said, stepping aside. “Before the snow starts again.”

The interior of her cottage felt at once familiar and foreign as Regis stepped over the threshold of her home and he heard Rhena gently close the door behind him, though he remained engrossed in his new surroundings, taking in every detail of the vampire midwife’s home. Herbs hung from the rafters in neat bundles, their shadows dancing in the firelight. Books lined rough wooden shelves, their spines bearing titles in languages few mortals could read. A mortar and pestle sat on a workbench, the pestle worn smooth by years of use.

But it was the small touches that caught his eye—a brightly colored red scarf draped over a chair, a collection of pretty stones arranged neatly on a windowsill, a small tin cup holding wildflowers that should have withered weeks ago. Signs of someone who’d learned to find beauty in a world that held little place for their kind.

“Your home is lovely,” he said, meaning it. Rhena’s cottage somehow managed to be both a healer’s workshop and a sanctuary, much like its owner.

“Thank you.” Her voice was soft. Almost shy, even. She gestured to a small table set with simple earthenware plates. “Though I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what you’re used to.”

“On the contrary.” He set the basket down carefully. “I find it far more welcoming than many grander establishments I’ve known.”

Was it his imagination, or did a faint blush color her cheeks? She turned away too quickly for him to be certain, busying herself with taking plates from a shelf.

"What have you brought?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

He began unpacking the basket, describing each item as he set it out. Her eyes widened slightly at the Beauclair Red, and he caught the way her fingers lingered on the bottle’s label.

“This is…” She traced the vineyard’s name. “From before. From before the sacking?” she asked quietly, and before Regis could answer, she continued. “We heard rumors, even this far north. A higher vampire gone mad with betrayal, a bruxa named Kega told me when she passed through this area a month ago. Streets running with blood.” She paused, studying his face. “Though rumors often grow in the telling.”

Regis’s hand tightened imperceptibly on his glass, memories of Dettlaff, Syanna, and those blood-soaked streets flashing through his mind. But he kept his voice steady. “Yes. They often do.”

The weight of what he’d witnessed and partaken in in Beauclair hung between them, but he didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t, without revealing his own role in those events. Instead, he asked, “And you? Do you miss anything about your old life?”

Something in her tone made her glance away, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. “I suppose all courts have their dark secrets. Their games and cruelties.”

"You speak as though from experience," Regis said carefully, noting the bitterness that had crept into her voice.

She seemed to catch herself, tension flickering across her features. After a moment's hesitation, she said, "I spent time in Nazair. Long ago."

Regis couldn't quite hide his surprise. The vampire courts of Nazair were notorious even among their kind—known for their excesses, their elaborate political machinations, their casual disregard for mortal life. The thought of Rhena, with her gentle hands and careful way with humans, surviving in such a place...

"That must have been... interesting," he said diplomatically.

A soft, bitter laugh escaped her. "That's one word for it." She took a deliberate sip of wine before continuing. "I never quite fit there. Too serious for their games, too soft-hearted for their cruelties. Here, at least, I can do some good. Even if I have to hide what I am."

A particularly strong gust of wind sent something small clattering across the floor—a tin soldier, rolling from beneath a cabinet. Rhena's eyes followed its path, something like alarm flickering across her features before she smoothed them blank.

"You don't have to hide with me," Regis said softly, deliberately not looking at the toy now lying between them. The revelation about Nazair explained so much about her—her careful control, her chosen isolation, her gentle defiance of vampire traditions.

Their eyes met across the table, and something electric passed between them. The fire cast dancing shadows across Rhena’s features as she studied the array of dishes Regis had brought—smoked fish gleaming silver in the firelight, dark bread rich with seeds, honey-glazed figs that caught the golden glow of the hearth.

“After Bartik’s stew the other night,” Regis said carefully, “I thought perhaps you might be willing to try something more…refined.”

Rhena’s fingers hovered over the spread uncertainly. The memory of that first taste of mortal food was still fresh—the strange warmth of the stew, the sharp bite of spiced cider that tingled and burned her throat slightly as it went down. It had been overwhelming then, yet here she sat, contemplating doing it again.

“I’m still not entirely convinced this is necessary,” she said, but there was less resistance in her tone than there had been at the inn. “Our kind don’t need mortal fare.”

"Need? No." Regis selected a piece of the smoked fish. "But there can be pleasure in unnecessary things. The dwarves who prepare these use techniques passed down through generations. Something in the smoking process makes it... different from ordinary food."

Her fingers brushed his as she took the morsel, a touch that sent an unexpected current through them both. She held the fish like it might bite her, studying it with the careful attention of an alchemist examining a potentially volatile substance.

"If this is anything like that stew..." she started, then shook her head. "I still don't understand why you choose to eat their food."

"Perhaps because it connects us to their world," he suggested quietly. "In ways blood never could."

Something small skittered in the rafters above them—a mouse perhaps, or... something else. Rhena's eyes darted upward for just a moment before returning to meet his.

She brought the fish to her lips with deliberate slowness, inhaling its scent. Her eyes widened slightly at the first taste, surprise replacing apprehension. "This is... different from the stew. More intense somehow."

"More intense," Regis agreed, watching her reaction with barely concealed fascination. "The smoking process brings out subtleties that even mortal tongues might miss. For us, with our heightened senses..." He trailed off as she reached for another piece, her movements more certain now.

Outside, the storm gathered strength, wind howling between the trees like a hungry beast. But inside Rhena's cottage, the fire crackled warmly, casting everything in golden light. A log shifted in the hearth, sending sparks dancing upward.

"The wine," Regis said, reaching for the bottle, "pairs particularly well with the fish. If you'd like to try?"

She held out her glass, and he filled it with the dark red liquid. Their fingers brushed again as she took the glass, and this time neither pulled away quite so quickly.

"You seem very practiced at all this," she observed, bringing the wine to her lips. "The food, the wine, the... performance of mortality."

"Practice makes perfect," he said lightly, though something darker flickered behind his eyes. "Though I suspect you understand that better than most, maintaining your role here as midwife."

A particularly strong gust rattled the windows, and something—definitely not a mouse this time—knocked softly against the rafters. Rhena's shoulders tensed slightly, but she covered it by reaching for the dark bread.

"It's different," she said after a moment. "Helping them bring new life into the world. Sometimes I almost forget what I am, when I'm with the mothers. Their pain, their joy... it feels real. Immediate." She broke off a piece of bread, studying it rather than meeting his eyes. "Not like this deliberate playacting at being human."

"Is it playacting?" Regis asked softly. "Or is it finding ways to bridge the gap between their world and ours?"

She looked up at him then, something vulnerable flickering across her features. "Does the gap need bridging?"

"Perhaps not. But consider—" He gestured to the food between them. "Every dish here tells a story. The fish speaks of northern seas and ancient dwarven craft. The bread carries spices from lands most of these villagers will never see. The figs..." He picked one up, studying it in the firelight. "These grew in gardens tended by the same families for generations. When we partake, we're not just tasting food. We're sharing in their history, their traditions."

"Their humanity?" Her voice held a note of challenge.

"Their life," he corrected gently. "Which need not be separate from our own, despite our differences."

Something shifted in the shadows near the ceiling—a quick movement caught in the corner of their eyes. This time, Regis was certain he heard a tiny, suppressed giggle.

Rhena reached hastily for her wine. "You should try the figs," she said, clearly trying to redirect his attention. "Since you speak so poetically about them."

The fire had burned lower now, its light softening the edges of the cottage's shadows. Snow fell more heavily outside, muffling the world beyond the windows until it felt as though they existed in a pocket of time separate from everything else. The wine bottle stood nearly empty between them, though neither could feel its effects—just the warmth of the moment, the rare pleasure of not having to hide.

"Do you ever wonder," Rhena asked suddenly, her voice soft as falling snow, "if this is why humans drink it? Not for the intoxication, but for the excuse to let their guards down?"

Regis studied her over the rim of his glass. The firelight caught in her dark hair, turning it to liquid shadow. "Perhaps," he said. "Though I suspect they have an easier time of it than we do. Fewer centuries of walls to lower."

Her lips curved slightly. "Fewer secrets to keep."

"Fewer monsters lurking beneath their skin," he added quietly.

"Is that what we are?" She set her glass down carefully. "Monsters wearing human masks?"

"No more than they are prey wearing civilized ones." The words came out more bitter than he'd intended. The memory of Eskel's knowing gaze at the inn still prickled at the back of his mind.

Something small—definitely not a mouse—clattered in the shadows above them. This time, Regis was certain he caught a flash of movement too deliberate to be animal, too small to be human. But Rhena's next words drew his attention back to her.

"Yet here you are," she said, "bringing wine and delicacies to share with another monster. How very... civilized of you." There was something in her tone—not quite mockery, not quite flirtation, but dancing somewhere between.

"Here I am," he agreed softly. "Though I suspect neither of us is quite the monster we pretend to be."

The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling upward. One of the herbs hanging from the rafters had come loose, its dried leaves casting strange shadows on the wall. Rhena rose to fix it, her movements carrying that liquid grace their kind possessed. As she reached up, her sleeve fell back, revealing a pattern of fine scars along her wrist—old marks that spoke of silver and suffering.

Regis was on his feet before he realized he'd moved, his hand catching hers with impossible gentleness. "Who?" he asked, his voice rough with an emotion he hadn't intended to reveal.

She didn't pull away from his touch. "It was a long time ago," she said softly. "In Nazair. When I was... different. Younger. More foolish."

His thumb traced one of the silvered lines, feeling the slight raise of scar tissue that even vampiric healing couldn't fully erase. Anger stirred in his chest—not the hot rage of mortals, but something colder, more ancient. Someone had hurt her, had marked her with silver and pain, had tried to cage something as fierce and beautiful as she was.

"Rhena," he breathed, hardly aware he'd spoken.

She turned to face him fully then, and suddenly they were standing very close. The fire painted gold across her skin, caught starlight in her eyes. His hand still held her wrist, and he could feel her pulse flutter beneath his fingers—unnecessary for their kind, yet speaking volumes all the same.

"We all have our scars," she whispered. "All our secrets."

"They don't have to be secrets," he said, his voice low and intent. "Not here. Not now."

Her free hand came up to rest against his chest, where a heart that didn't need to beat was doing so anyway. "Don't they?"

The fire crackled softly, its light turning everything to gold and shadow. Snow fell harder outside, but within the cottage's walls, time seemed to slow, to crystalize around this single moment.

Regis still held her wrist, his thumb tracing those silvered scars with infinite gentleness. Her other hand remained pressed against his chest, and neither seemed willing to move away.

"Sometimes," Rhena whispered, her voice barely louder than the falling snow, "I think secrets are all we have. All we are."

"No," Regis said softly. His free hand came up to brush a strand of dark hair from her face, fingertips ghosting along her cheek. "We're more than our secrets. More than what was done to us, or what we've done."

She leaned almost imperceptibly into his touch. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because you're here," he said simply. "Using these hands that were scarred by silver to bring new life into the world. Finding beauty in their brief, bright lives instead of seeing only prey." His thumb traced one final scar before sliding down to intertwine his fingers with hers. "You could have chosen cruelty, chosen to embrace the monster they tried to make you. Instead, you chose this."

Something small and metallic hit the floor behind them—the tin soldier rolling out from its hiding place again—but neither turned to look. Rhena's eyes held his, dark and ancient and filled with an emotion that made his chest ache.

"And what did you choose, Regis?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "What secrets are you running from?"

Instead of answering, he drew her closer. Her free hand slid up from his chest to his shoulder, and he could feel the slight tremor in her fingers. Snowflakes danced past the window, and somewhere in the rafters, something that was definitely not a mouse held its breath.

Regis leaned forward, drawn by a force stronger than gravity. Rhena's eyes fluttered half-closed, her lips parting slightly. The space between them seemed charged with electricity, with possibilities, with centuries of loneliness about to end—

The pounding on the door hit like a physical blow.

"Mistress Rhena!" The voice that called through the wood was sharp with panic. "Come quick! It's Martha, the baker's wife—the babe's coming early!"

They jerked apart as another series of urgent knocks rattled the door. Reality crashed back in with the force of a winter storm.

"The fluid's come wrong!" the voice continued, edged with desperation. "There's blood—too much blood!"

Rhena was already moving, the mask of the village midwife sliding into place with practiced ease. But her hands trembled slightly as she gathered her supplies, and when she looked at Regis, something vulnerable lingered in her eyes.

"I have to go," she said softly.

"I know." He steadied her hands as she picked up her satchel. "Will you... may I call on you again?"

A small smile curved her lips, fierce and lovely. "I'd like that."

Then she was gone, sweeping out into the storm with her medical bag clutched close. Regis stood in her doorway, watching until she disappeared into the swirling snow, the phantom warmth of their almost-kiss still burning on his lips.

Behind him, something shifted in the shadows of the cottage—too quick, too deliberate to be a trick of the light. But when he turned to look, there was only darkness, and the lingering scent of possibilities yet to unfold. The wind howled through the trees, carrying with it a wolf's distant cry. Or perhaps something else's. Regis gathered his things slowly, reluctant to leave the warmth of what had almost been. Outside, the storm raged on, and somewhere in the village, a witcher waited, asking questions that struck too close to carefully guarded truths.

But for now, all he could think of was the feeling of her hand in his, and the promise in her eyes before duty called her away.

The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that seemed to echo in the growing dark. Regis stood for a moment on Rhena's threshold, the basket considerably lighter but somehow heavier with the weight of what had almost transpired.

The tin soldier still lay where it had fallen, a curious anomaly in an evening full of them. He hadn't mentioned seeing it, just as he hadn't commented on the other oddities—the mysterious sounds, the deliberate movements in the shadows.

Some mysteries, he had learned over his centuries, revealed themselves only in their own time.

The wind cut through the village like a barber's razor, precise and merciless. Snow fell in thick curtains now, obscuring the path back to The Grumpy Hag.

But Regis's feet knew the way, even as his mind wandered through the evening's revelations. Rhena's scars. The whispered confession of Nazair. The warmth in her eyes before duty tore them apart. The peculiar sense that they hadn't been entirely alone in that cottage, though he couldn't quite grasp why.

His heightened senses caught fragments of life in the winter dark—a fox's careful steps through fresh snow, an owl's wings beating silent patterns in the air, the thousand small deaths that marked winter's dominion.

But underlying it all was something else, something that made him pause mid-step, head tilted like a hound catching an unexpected scent. Movement. Quick, deliberate, almost playful. It darted between the trees ahead of him, there and gone before even his vampiric sight could fix upon it.

Perhaps it was the same presence he'd felt in Rhena's cottage. Perhaps it was merely his imagination, made overactive by wine and almost-kisses and centuries of careful survival. The wind howled between the trees, carrying with it the distant sounds of the village—shutters being latched, prayers being muttered, humans huddling close to their fires.

Somewhere beyond those sounds, a woman fought to bring new life into the world, attended by a creature who should, by all rights, view her as prey rather than patient.

Regis adjusted his grip on the empty basket, nails momentarily lengthening before he forced them back to human proportions.

Strange, how the memory of her touch still burned against his skin, how the phantom warmth of their almost-kiss lingered despite the bitter cold.

The witcher at the inn would have questions, he knew. Questions about missing livestock, about strange sounds in the night, about surgeons who cast imperfect reflections. But those were concerns for tomorrow.

For now, snow fell on the village of Draycott, covering everything in a blanket of white that made monsters and men look remarkably similar in the gathering dark.

And somewhere in that darkness, something small and quick darted between the trees—a shadow that moved with deliberate grace, heading toward a cottage where a mother fought to bring new life into a world that held more wonders and terrors than most humans ever suspected.

Regis turned toward The Grumpy Hag, the empty basket light in his hands but heavy with possibilities. There would be explanations needed, truths revealed, and decisions made.

But for now, he held the memory of Rhena's eyes close, like a flame against the winter dark, and wondered what other secrets her cottage might hold.

Chapter Text

BLOOD. The scent filled Rhena’s nostrils, sharp and metallic. Too much of it. far too much for a normal birth. The rich aroma was like fine wine wafting up from an uncorked bottle—not necessary for survival, but tempting nonetheless. A dangerous distraction. The irony wasn’t lost on her—a vampire midwife, surrounded by what could so easily cloud her judgment if she let it. But perhaps that was why she was so good at her work. No human could smell the subtle changes in the blood that warned of complications, could hear the faltering of a fatal heartbeat so clearly.

“Push, Martha!” she commanded firmly, keeping her voice steady despite the urgency thundering in her chest. The young woman before her writhed on the birthing bed, her face ashen, her screams growing weaker with each passing moment.

Her husband paced behind Rhena like a caged animal, wearing tracks in the wooden floor of their modest home. The scent of his fear mixed with the blood, creating an intoxicating perfume that threatened to muddle her thoughts like strong spirits. Rhena focused harder on the task at hand, pushing away the tempting distraction.

She could hear three heartbeats in the room: Martha's—racing and thready, her husband’s—pounding with fear, and the babe’s—growing fainter by the second. The rhythms helped ground her and reminded her why she was here. No. She couldn’t lose another one. Not after the Alderman's daughter had miscarried the other day. Fresh blood trickled down her patient's thigh, and she stopped breathing entirely for a moment, fighting the pleasant buzz that very nearly clouded her judgment.

Control. Always control. Focus on the details and the technical aspects. The position of the child. The mother’s pulse. The medical facts, not the seductive pull of potential intoxication.

“The baby’s turned wrong,” she announced, her enhanced senses detecting exactly how the infant was positioned. “I need to—” Rhena hesitated for a fraction of a second, knowing what she had to do would test the limits of her appearing human. The scent of so much blood filling the room was making it harder to think, harder to maintain the careful calculations of how fast she could move, how strong she could appear to be. “Martha, this will hurt, but I must turn the child. Now.”

With movements almost too swift for mortal eyes, Rhena pressed her hands against her patient’s swollen belly. She could feel the infant’s position with perfect clarity and could sense exactly how to rotate the tiny body without causing harm. The challenge wasn’t knowing what to do—it was doing it slowly enough to maintain her carefully crafted façade while fighting the distraction of her vampiric nature. Each new gush of blood sent a jolt through her system, a reminder of what she truly was, what she was fighting not to be.

Martha screamed again as Rhena worked, and she forced herself to count heartbeats, to move at a pace that wouldn’t raise questions. One turn. Wait. The husband’s footsteps behind her grew more frantic, his fear-scent spiking sharply enough to make her throat constrict.

"The baby—" he started.

"Will be fine," Rhena cut him off, not taking her eyes from her task. "But I need quiet." What she needed was concentration, to focus on being the healer she chose to be, not the predator she was born to be. The blood scent was everywhere now, filling the small room, making her head swim with hunger and need.

Finally, she felt the infant shift into the correct position. "Push now, Martha. Push with everything you have."

The next few minutes passed in a blur of blood, sweat, and carefully controlled movements. When the baby finally slipped into Rhena’s waiting hands, it wasn't breathing. Without hesitation, she brought her face close to its tiny mouth, appearing to check for breath while exhaling ever so gently, sharing just enough of her life force to spark those little lungs into action. The proximity to Martha's blood at that moment was almost unbearable, but the desire to save the child proved stronger than her thirst.

The child's first cry split the air like a thunderclap.

"A girl," she announced, quickly wrapping the infant in clean linens after the cord was severed while using her free hand to prepare the herbs that would stop Martha's bleeding. The sooner she could slow that tempting flow, the better. "A beautiful, healthy girl."

Rhena stayed, monitoring both mother and child, using every ounce of her centuries of self-control to maintain her composure as she cleaned up the blood-soaked linens and disposed of them.

By the time she left, Martha was sleeping peacefully, her baby nursing contentedly at her breast, her husband dozing in a chair beside them. A perfect picture of mortal life, one that sent an old ache through her chest.

Hours later, as Rhena walked home through the darkness, the snow crunched beneath her feet—when she remembered to make it crunch. Exhaustion made it harder to maintain such human affectations, especially after expending so much energy fighting her nature all night.

The storm had grown fiercer since sunset, the wind howling through the trees with an intensity that would keep most sensible creatures, including witchers, in shelter until morning. Perfect hunting weather for her kind.

A twig snapped somewhere in the woods to her left, and she caught an unfamiliar scent that made her freeze: steel and leather, mixed with something else. Something that reminded her of Regis, but sharper, more volatile.

Rhena forced herself to keep walking at a human pace, though every instinct screamed at her to move faster, to fade into the shadows where she truly belonged. More than one set of eyes watched her progress home, she was certain of it now. And beneath the Witcher’s scent was something else, something that made her spine tingle with recognition—another vampire. One she didn’t know. A female, from the scent. A bruxa. What was she doing here?

When Rhena finally reached her cottage, exhaustion weighed heavy on her limbs. The memory of Regis’s almost-kiss from before she’d been called away still lingered, making the empty doorway seem somehow hollower. She paused before entering, catching that strange vampire scent again on the wind—female, bruxa, unfamiliar. Another mystery for another time, perhaps tomorrow.

Inside, her eyes went immediately to the windowsill and its growing collection of shiny objects—buttons, bits of broken mirror, a silver spoon that she was quite certain belonged to the Alderman’s wife, and now, most alarmingly, his wife’s wedding ring. From somewhere in the shadowy rafters came the soft clink of metal on metal as her new houseguest no doubt arranged his newest acquisitions he’d likely acquired while she had been away.

“We need to talk about boundaries, little magpie,” Rhena murmured to the shadows, too tired to properly scold Johnny tonight. The answering rustle from above held a distinctly unrepentant tone.

Rhena sank into her chair by the cold hearth, thoughts spinning between the night’s events: the difficult birth, the Witcher Eskel’s watching eyes in the woods, that unknown bruxa’s scent, and her almost-kiss with Regis before she’d been called away. The threads were coming together into something that dangerously felt like a noose.

In the rafters, Johnny’s stolen treasures clinked again softly and then came the pitter-patter of the godling’s bare feet along the wooden beams. He swung down suddenly, dangling upside down by his legs, his face level with Rhena’s. His impish grin was made all the more mischievous by his inverted position.

“Oho! The healer returns from her heroics, all a-flutter and flushed—and not just from the nasty birthing business, I’d wager!” He wagged a finger at Rhena, the gesture comical from his suspended pose. “I saw what almost was, blood-sucker, before the screaming and hollering started. Saw two birds, perched all cozy-like, about to touch beaks!”

Rhena fixed him with what she hoped was a stern look, though it was difficult to maintain any real authority with him hanging like a bat from her rafters. “And what exactly were you doing, spying on private moments, Johnny?”

He tumbled down with an acrobat’s grace, landing cross-legged on her table. “Private? Ha! In the middle of the room, plain as day! Could’ve seen it from the moon, that almost-kiss could!” He snatched up the Alderman’s wife’s ring, letting it catch the dim light of her cottage. “Speaking of seeing things, I’ve been keeping busy while you played nursemaid. Look what found its way to my collection! All sparkly-like, just begging to be borrowed.”

“Borrowed?” Rhena arched an eyebrow. “Is that what you still intend to call it? After we agreed?”

“Temporary redistribution of pretties!” He declared with theatrical dignity, then his expression turned sly. “Like how you’re temporarily redistributing your affections to a certain other sharp-toothed friend, eh?”

Rhena reached for the ring, but he danced away, agile as a cricket. “Johnny….”

“Oh, don’t get your fangs in a twist! I know when to keep secrets, I do. Won’t tell a soul about the healer and her fancy herb-man’s almost-smooch. Though,” he cocked his head thoughtfully, “might write a verse or two about it. For posterity’s sake, you understand.”

“Johnny. Stop.” This time, Rhena managed to catch the ring as he tossed it from hand to hand. “We had an agreement.”

His playful grin faltered slightly. "Agreements, like rules, are more like... suggestions, aren't they? Guidelines for the less creative folk!"

Rhena held up the ring. “The Alderman’s wife will notice this missing. And the spoon. And whatever else you’ve ‘temporarily redistributed.’ We spoke about this. If you want to stay here—”

“But it’s so BORING being good!” He flopped backward dramatically, sprawling across her table like a tragic hero in a street performance. “My fingers get itchy when they see the pretties all locked away in humans’ dusty drawers. They’re happier here, with me! See how they shine?” He gestured to his collection in the rafters. “I make them dance in the moonlight, give them proper appreciation, I do!”

“And what happens when people start looking for their missing treasures? When they start asking questions?” Rhena softened her voice. “When they start suspecting their midwife might be connected to the thefts? What then?”

He sat up abruptly, leaves and twigs in his wild hair bristling. "They wouldn't! I’m careful! Take only from those who have too much anyway. From those who wouldn't notice, or don't deserve—"

“But they do notice. And they will come looking. Sooner or later.” Rhena held out her hand. “You know what needs to be done.”

Johnny stared at her outstretched hand for a long moment, the godling’s mischief replaced with something almost vulnerable. “I like it here,” he said quietly. “Like having a proper roof over my head for once. I like having someone to talk to or isn’t a bird or a drowner in his own shadow.”

“Then help me stay here too. Return what you've taken. All of it." Rhena tried not to let her voice waver. In truth, she could feel herself already growing quite fond of her odd little house guest, with his clever rhymes and sharp observations. "You can still collect pretty things—leaves, feathers, interesting stones. Things that won't be missed."

He heaved a sigh worthy of a martyr facing execution. "I'll return the pretties. But," his eyes gleamed with sudden inspiration, "perhaps not all at once? Might look suspicious, things appearing too quickly. Better to do it slow-like, careful-like. Like a proper reverse thievery operation!"

Rhena couldn’t help but smile. “Just see they all find their way home. And no more stealing from villagers. Promise?”

"Promise," he said solemnly, then added with a quick grin, "though if something should happen to fall off a passing merchant's wagon, well, that's hardly stealing, is it? More like... road cleaning!"

"Johnny..."

"Yes, yes, no stealing at all!" He sprang up, agile as a squirrel. "Though speaking of stealing..." His grin turned wicked. "Does it count as theft if one steals a kiss? Asking for a friend, of course. A tall, herb-scented friend who—"

Rhena swatted at him with a nearby cloth, but he was already scrambling back up to the rafters, his laughter echoing in the cottage beams. At least his teasing had lightened her troubled thoughts about the eyes she'd felt watching from the woods—both the witcher's and whatever other presence lurked out there.

But as Rhena moved to stoke the fire, Johnny’s voice drifted down, suddenly anxious. “I see things, you know. Not just pretties worth collecting.” There was a soft shuffling above as he repositioned himself. “Seen them in the woods sometimes. The tall dark one with the sad eyes and his lady-friend. They smell like you and the fancy herbalist do—not quite human smell.”

Rhena’s hand stilled on the poke. “What do you mean?”

“The broody one, all wrapped up in black like a storm cloud with legs. Prowls around the woods at night, he does. And the lady…” More rustling above. “She moves like water in the moonlight, but I don’t like her smile. Too many teeth, like a wolf pretending to be a sheep.”

A chill ran down her spine. Another higher vampire, and a bruxa? Here? And why hadn’t she sensed their presence? “Do they…do they meet each other?”

"Oh no, no, no. Never together, those two. She follows him sometimes, though. Watches from the shadows. And now that he’s in town, she watches the monster killer too. She's clever about it too. Leaves signs pointing the other way, draws him off with false trails. Keeps him chasing shadows while she hunts." He made a disapproving clicking sound. "Think she's playing games. Dangerous games. Not fun ones, like my games. The kind that end in blood."

From outside came the distant cry of a raven—too clear, too deliberate to be natural. Johnny's head snapped toward the sound.

“There he is now,” Johnny whispered, his voice unusually subdued. “The dark one. I saw him earlier, while you were away. I’ve noticed him watching you a few times before we even met. He watches your cottage but never comes close. Just stands in the shadows, looking… lost.”

Johnny paused thoughtfully. “Kind of like how you look sometimes, when you think no one’s watching.” He hesitated before continuing. “The dark one… he stays far up in the peaks, where even the goats don’t climb. He only started coming down after you caught his eye. Watches you like he’s seen a ghost.”

Rhena peered out the window but saw only darkness. Yet she could feel it now—that familiar presence, like a storm brewing just over the horizon. “Does he…does he ever say anything?”

“Nah. Silent as a shadow, that one. But his eyes say plenty. Sad eyes. Angry eyes.” Johnny swung down suddenly, hanging upside down again. “Think he’s looking for something. Or someone.” His usually mirthful face turned uncharacteristically solemn. “But the lady with the sharp smile…she’s hunting. Different thing entirely, that is.”

The implications settled heavily in Rhena’s stomach. She hadn’t sensed another higher vampire in the area besides Regis before tonight, but a bruxa…that explained the prickling sensation she’d felt while walking home. But why were they here? What did they want?

Before Rhena could pursue that troubling thought, Johnny’s voice brightened, back to its usual playful lilt. "But enough of lurking strangers! I've composed the first verse about your almost-kiss with the herb man. Want to hear it? It's quite good, especially the part about—"

"Johnny!"

His giggle echoed in the rafters, but Rhena’s smile was forced this time. Dawn was approaching, and with it would come more questions than answers. She needed to understand why two more of her kind had appeared in Draycott—and more importantly, what the bruxa's interest in Eskel might mean for all of them.

The raven’s cry came again, closer this time. Rhena moved to the window, peering into the darkness. Snow had begun to fall, thick flakes dancing in the gloom. Perfect weather for concealing tracks—both those made and suspiciously absent.

“She’s out there too, you know,” Johnny said softly from above. “The toothy lady. Always shows up after he does. Like she’s playing follow-the-leader, only he doesn’t know what he’s leading.” A pause. “Should I put the pretties back tonight? Might not be the best time for early morning wanderings, what with all the creepy-crawlies about.”

The offer caught Rhena off guard—Johnny volunteering to return his stolen treasures without prodding was unprecedented. But then, godlings had always had a good instinct for danger, and she suspected this one she’d taken in was no different. “No,” she said finally. “Wait until tomorrow night. For now, stay inside. Stay hidden.”

"Don't have to tell me twice. Had enough of sharp-toothed ladies for one lifetime." There was more rustling as he retreated deeper into the shadows of the rafters. "Though yours aren't so bad. You only bare them when you yawn."

Rhena touched her lips self-consciously, realizing she’d failed to hide a tired yawn. The birth had taken more out of her than she’d thought, and daylight was approaching fast. But sleep would have to wait. She needed to warn Regis about these new developments. The bruxa’s interest in the witcher complicated everything—and if her connection to the mysterious dark-clad vampire was what she suspected…

"Think I'll just have a little nap then," Johnny's voice drifted down, already heavy with sleep. "Wake me if anyone starts killing anyone else. Or if you decide to practice kissing the herb man again. Either way, shouldn't miss the entertainment."

Rhena didn’t bother responding to that last jab. Her mind was already racing ahead to what needed to be done. First light would bring the villagers to rouse from their beds and she was sure Eskel would undoubtedly make another appearance, watching, assessing.

Somewhere out there, a bruxa prowled the village of Draycott, preying on livestock, while a higher vampire lingered unseen in the shadows. It was only a matter of time before the bruxa turned her hunger toward humans once the animals were gone.

It wasn't just about maintaining her cover anymore. Over the last five years, she'd grown to see this village as more than just a convenient place to hide. These people—with their small daily dramas, their struggles, their moments of joy—had become her responsibility.

Her territory wasn't just a matter of vampire politics; it was about protecting something she'd come to value. Something that mattered. The bruxa's presence threatened that in ways that went beyond mere exposure. It threatened everything Rhena had come to believe about coexistence, about choice, about the possibility of being more than what nature had made them.

She had built something here—a life, a purpose, a place where she could do genuine good. She couldn’t let it all unravel now. Not because of unwanted attention from her kind, and certainly not because of a witcher’s suspicions. But as Rhena stared out into the swirling snow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was no longer the one controlling this game. The pieces were moving of their own accord now, and she could only hope she’d recognize the pattern before it was too late.

A shadow moved among the trees—too solid to be merely branches in the wind. Rhena held perfectly still, waiting. The figure stood motionless for several long moments, a darker patch of black against the black of night. Even at this distance, she could sense the power radiating from him like heat from a forge. Another higher vampire, without question. But unlike Regis’s familiar, almost comforting presence, this one felt…turbulent. Like a storm contained in a bottle, barely controlled.

He lifted his head slightly, and though Rhena couldn’t see his eyes clearly through the snow, she knew he was looking directly at her. The intensity of that gaze sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. Not threatening, exactly, but…searching. Desperate, almost.

From somewhere above her came Johnny’s whisper. “He does that a lot. Just stands there and stares. Like he’s trying to remember something. Or someone.” A pause. “Never seen him this close before though.”

Rhena didn’t respond, afraid any movement might break this strange moment. The figure remained utterly still, save for his dark coat whipping in the wind. He seemed to be waiting for something. A sign? A reaction?

The decision was taken from her when another sound cut through the quiet—the distinctive screech of an animal dying piercing the air. The bruxa’s shriek split the night, farther off but moving closer.

Rhena’s muscles tensed, every instinct screaming to join the fray—whether to help or hinder, she wasn’t even sure. But she stayed where she was, forcing herself to remain still. To maintain her cover. To protect what she’d built here.

“Well,” Johnny muttered from above, “this is getting properly interesting, sounds like.” He paused. “Should I start packing the pretties?”

Before Rhena could answer, another pitiful sound from the dying cow rent the air. The sounds moved deeper into the forest—whatever poor beast was being slaughtered, and the sound of the bruxa feeding.

Either way, she had a choice to make. She could stay here, safe in her carefully constructed life… Or she could follow, and finally discover what game was truly being played in their quiet village.

“Stay here,” Rhena told Johnny, already reaching for her cloak. “Bar the door behind me. Don’t let anyone inside.”

“Except the herb-man?”

She hesitated at the door. “Especially not the herb-man. Not until I know where everyone’s loyalties truly lie.”

The sound of the bruxa's shrieks rang out again, more distant now. Time to choose a side. Or perhaps, time to make sure there were no sides left to choose.

Once outside, the familiar scent of blood filled Rhena’s nostrils. Too much blood for a normal night. The rich aroma was like fine wine wafting up from an uncorked bottle—not necessary for survival, but tempting nonetheless. A dangerous distraction.

The storm's intensity worked in her favor tonight—the howling wind and thick snow would muffle any sounds that might draw unwanted attention, witcher or otherwise. Nature herself seemed determined to keep this confrontation between their own kind. She paused in the darkened forest path, inhaling deeply. Livestock blood, yes, but also something else. Something that made her spine tingle with recognition—another vampire. One she didn't know. A female, from the scent. A bruxa.

The snow crunched beneath her feet as she changed direction, following the blood scent. Her exhaustion from the night's birthing work faded as ancient instincts took over. This was her territory. Her protectorate. Whatever was killing in these woods threatened everything she'd built here.

The snow fell in white sheets now, the storm reaching its peak. Even a witcher's enhanced senses would struggle to track anything through this maelstrom. The bruxa had chosen her moment well—or perhaps this other higher vampire had chosen it for them both. Either way, they would have their privacy for whatever was about to unfold. The trail led her to a small clearing.

The bruxa's flagrant disregard for territory boundaries wasn't just about feeding. Among their kind, such behavior was a direct challenge—a declaration that the established order meant nothing. That the careful balance Rhena had maintained between their world and the human one was worthless.

It was the old way of thinking: that might made right, that humans were merely prey, that any attempt at coexistence was a form of weakness. She'd fought against that mindset for centuries, proving through action that there was another path. She wouldn't let this bruxa's bloodlust destroy that progress.

Even in the darkness, she could see the carnage—a farmer's cow, torn apart, its blood painting the snow black in the moonlight. And crouched over it, feeding with unrestrained savagery, was a bruxa.

The lesser vampire looked up at Rhena's approach, blood dripping from her chin. She was beautiful in her human form—striking black hair, pale skin, features that would turn any mortal's head. But her eyes held nothing but predatory hunger.

"Well," the bruxa purred, rising with liquid grace. "The famous midwife of Draycott. We wondered when you'd notice us."

"Us?" Rhena kept her voice steady, though her muscles tensed for action.

A shadow detached itself from the trees—a tall, imposing figure wrapped in black, moving with the fluid grace that marked him unmistakably as one of their kind. A higher vampire. His presence hit Rhena like a physical force, power radiating from him like heat from a forge.

He stepped into the moonlight, and Rhena’s breath caught. His face was strikingly aristocratic, with high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a sharp, aquiline nose. Pale skin stretched taut over his features, made almost translucent by the silver light, and his expression was austere, haunted by a grief so profound it seemed etched into his very being. Thick, dark hair fell back from his brow in soft waves, framing his face and giving him an air of both elegance and menace.

But it was his eyes that held her. An otherworldly blue hue that seemed to pierce straight through her, burning with an intensity that made her want to take a step back. Those eyes widened slightly as they fixed on her, something like recognition flickering in their depths, though she was certain she had never seen him before.

"Impossible," he breathed, his voice rough with emotion.

The bruxa laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "Oh, my love. Is this why we've lingered here? Does she remind you of your lost bird?"

"Silence." The word cracked like thunder, making the bruxa flinch. He took a step toward Rhena, his movements jerky, as though fighting some internal battle. "Syanna?"

"I don't know that name. My name is Rhena," Rhena said carefully, noting how he seemed to flinch at her voice. "This is my territory. You're not welcome here."

"Your territory?" The bruxa's laugh turned cruel. "A vampire playing nursemaid to mortals dares claim territory? These humans are cattle, nothing more. Their lives are meaningless."

"Not to me." Rhena's voice hardened. "The killings stop. Now."

"You even sound like her," the male vampire whispered, his voice raw with pain. "The same steel beneath silk. But no—the scent is wrong. The hair..." His gaze burned into her, desperate and searching, as though trying to reconcile the figure before him with a ghost from his past. "Rhena," he repeated the name with a tortured softness. "She used that name when she..." His hands clenched into fists, claws extending and retracting as he visibly struggled for control.

"Dettlaff," the bruxa moved to his side, touching his arm possessively. "She's nothing like your Syanna. Just another vampire gone soft, forgetting what she truly is. You've broken your own vow, my love. Drawn back to the humans you swore to forsake, all because this one reminds you of her..."

The name meant nothing to Rhena, but the raw emotion in his voice made her skin prickle with unease. This was no ordinary higher vampire - power radiated from him like heat from a forge, ancient and barely contained.

"I know who I am," Rhena said quietly. "And I know what you've been doing here. The livestock killings. Drawing attention. Risking exposure. Your reckless hunting is drawing attention. You risk exposing us all."

The bruxa bared her fangs in a mockery of a smile. "What else are they for, if not food? Or do you prefer to play pretend, healing their weak bodies while denying your own nature?"

"Enough." Dettlaff's voice was thunder again, but his eyes never left Rhena's face. "Your movements, your voice...how is this possible? What game are you playing?"

"No game," Rhena said softly. "I'm not who you think I am. I'm just trying to build something here. Something that doesn't end in blood."

"Lies," the bruxa hissed. "Just like her, isn't she? Another pretty deceiver, wrapping herself in false virtue while—"

She never finished. Rhena moved faster than thought, her hand closing around the bruxa's throat. The younger vampire tried to shift forms, but Rhena was ancient, powerful. Her grip tightened.

"I warned you," she said quietly. "This is my territory."

The crack of the bruxa's spine echoed through the clearing like breaking ice. Before the body could fall, Rhena's claws flashed, severing head from shoulders in one clean strike. The temperature in the clearing plummeted. Dettlaff's power erupted outward in a wave of unbridled fury, so potent it made the trees groan. His refined features twisted, unraveling into something primal and terrifying.

"You dare?" His voice was a symphony of broken glass and thunder. "Again? After everything—"

But as Rhena turned to face him, something in her movement made him falter. His fury melted into raw desperation, recognition and denial warring in his storm-blue eyes.

"That's exactly how she would move," he whispered, his voice splintering. "Every gesture, every turn...do you mock me? How many faces do you wear, healer? How many times must I lose what I—" He cut himself off, grief and something darker washing over his features. For a moment, he looked lost, ancient, weighted down by memories Rhena couldn't begin to understand.

Then his form wavered, like smoke caught in a draft, before dissolving entirely into the storm.

Rhena stood alone in the blood-stained snow, the bruxa's corpse already beginning to decay at her feet. The wind carried echoes of wolves—or perhaps something else—howling in the distance. Dawn was approaching, and with it would come questions she couldn't answer.

She needed to find Regis. Warn him. But as she turned toward home, she couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted tonight. The careful life she'd built here suddenly felt as fragile as the snowflakes still falling silently around her.

In the growing light, her blood-stained hands looked almost human. Almost.

The irony wasn't lost on her. She'd just proved her dominance, her power, in the most traditional vampire way possible—through violence and blood. But it had been a choice, calculated and necessary, to protect something greater than herself.

That's what separated her from the bruxa, from this Dettlaff's tortured existence. They were slaves to their nature, while she had chosen to master hers. Every day was a choice: to heal instead of harm, to protect instead of prey, to build instead of destroy. The blood on her hands didn't negate those choices—it reinforced them. Sometimes protecting peace meant being prepared for war.

The stillness in the clearing was deafening, broken only by the faint whisper of snow falling through the pines. Rhena’s gaze lingered on the bruxa’s crumpled form, the blood pooling in thick rivulets around its pale, lifeless shell. A part of her wanted to feel something—pity, remorse, satisfaction—but all she felt was tired. Tired and exposed, like a threadbare curtain barely hiding the storm beyond.

She straightened slowly, brushing the back of her hand across her mouth. The bruxa’s last words still coiled in her thoughts: “Just another vampire gone soft, forgetting what she truly is.”

Her jaw tightened. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. She wasn’t weak, and she hadn’t forgotten. She’d made a choice. That mattered, didn’t it? She repeated the thought like a mantra as she turned toward home, each step through the forest snow dragging heavier than the last.

And then, unbidden, the memory came—Regis, standing close enough that she’d been able to feel the faint, delicate pull of his breath against her skin. The stillness of his hand hovering over hers, his voice soft as he’d murmured her name in that way only he could.

For one fragile, suspended moment, she’d allowed herself to believe that closeness could mean something more. She’d let herself lean in, just enough to feel the warmth of him against the chill that always seemed to follow her. But then the world had come rushing back—screams, demands, duty tearing them apart before the fragile connection could solidify.

Rhena stopped mid-step, the snow crunching beneath her boots, and cursed under her breath. She didn’t have time for this. Not for memories that led nowhere, not for feelings that only complicated the sharp lines she’d drawn between herself and everyone else.

The duality of her existence had never felt more stark. She could still feel the savage satisfaction of defeating the bruxa, the primal rightness of defending her territory. Yet here she was, worrying about appearing human, about maintaining the gentle facade of a village healer.

Both sides were equally real, equally true. The challenge wasn't in choosing between them, but in finding a way to honor both—to be both protector and healer, both vampire and humanitarian. The bruxa had seen this as weakness, but Rhena knew better. True strength lay not in rejecting one's nature, but in choosing how to express it.

But even as she told herself that, her hands curled into fists. She’d seen the look in Regis’s eyes, the way his restraint had faltered for just a moment before it had snapped back into place. It had been the same restraint she’d fought to maintain all night—walking when she wanted to run, appearing human when every part of her wanted to dissolve into shadow.

Rhena shook her head, resuming her trek home. The ache in her chest would have to wait, buried alongside the bruxa’s broken corpse. She couldn’t afford to linger on the things that might have been, not when there were so many things demanding her attention now: the bruxa’s hunting, Dettlaff’s storm-cloud presence, the witcher’s suspicious eyes.

But when the faint glow of her cottage came into view, the longing crept back in. The flickering firelight through the window reminded her of Regis’s eyes, their soft amber glow like the warmth of a hearth after a storm. She swallowed hard and pushed the thought away.

Inside, Johnny sat perched on the table, a shiny copper token spinning lazily between his fingers. “Well, well, the mighty healer returns. Blood on her hands, a storm in her eyes. And—what’s this?” He leaned closer, sniffing theatrically. “A bit of something else too. Guilt, maybe? Or…” His grin sharpened. “Something sweeter?”

Rhena scowled, though her heart wasn’t in it. “Not now, Johnny.”

“Oh, but it’s always now, isn’t it? Now’s when all the best moments happen.” He leaned back, tossing the copper trinket into the air and catching it with practiced ease. “Like earlier, for instance. Almost kissed him, didn’t you? The fancy herb man? Thought I wouldn’t notice?”

“Johnny,” Rhena warned, pulling off her cloak and draping it over the chair.

“What? Just making an observation. It’s what I do.” He tilted his head, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “Though I have to admit, I didn’t think you had it in you. Letting someone get that close. Brave, that is. Risky.”

Rhena sighed, sinking into the chair by the hearth. She stared into the flames, letting the heat seep into her frozen limbs. “Go to bed, Johnny.”

“Bed’s boring. Besides…” He swung himself onto the rafters with effortless grace. “You can say ‘not now’ all you like, but it’s written all over you. The way you’re staring into that fire, thinking about what could’ve been.”

“I said go to bed.”

“Fine, fine. Don’t listen to me. But just so you know…” He leaned down, his face appearing upside down in her line of vision. “He’s thinking about it too. No question about that.”

Before Rhena could respond, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving her alone with the fire and the echoes of his words.

She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes for just a moment. Her mind flitted to Regis again, the warmth of his hand hovering near hers, the quiet intensity in his gaze. She hadn’t meant to let him that close—hadn’t dared. But something about him made it hard to keep her walls intact.

For someone like her, that was dangerous. And yet…

The fire crackled, its heat a poor substitute for the warmth she’d nearly allowed herself to feel. Rhena opened her eyes, her gaze hardening. She’d deal with Regis later—after she dealt with the bruxa’s remains, the witcher’s suspicions, and Dettlaff’s haunting presence in the woods.

For now, she needed to focus. But even as she stoked the fire, she couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if the screams hadn’t interrupted them.

And she hated that a part of her wanted to find out.

Chapter Text

THE storm outside roared with the fury of a wounded fiend, drowning out all but the faintest creaks of The Grumpy Hag Inn’s ancient timbers. Snow clawed at the shutters like some feral thing, desperate for entry, while the faint light of the hearth cast restless shadows against the room’s weathered walls. Regis sat in the chair near the window, unmoving save for the rhythmic tapping of his finger against the wooden armrest—a habit he’d acquired years ago, those years spent in Dillingen.

The memory wouldn’t leave him, try as he might to focus on the treatise on rare herbs that lay abandoned in his lap. Rhena’s face lingered in his mind as if etched there by the storm itself—sharp yet soft, framed by the flickering light of that moment before she was called away. The way her gaze had softened when she’d looked at him, her lips parting ever so slightly, fangs extending. The sheer proximity had been intoxicating in ways he hadn’t anticipated, hadn’t prepared for.

It hadn’t been the usual draw between higher vampires—that familiar resonance of power and predatory grace that they all recognized in one another. No, it had been something else entirely. The quiet intimacy of it. A whisper of trust. The way she’d reached out, unhesitating, to brush a speck of dust from his sleeve, her ancient dark eyes holding a warmth he hadn’t seen in centuries. As if they were more than just two immortals passing time in the endless march of years.

How foolish of him to linger on it now, like some lovesick youth barely past his first century. Regis closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, forcing the memory to dissipate like morning mist before the sun. It wasn’t the first time he’d let himself stray too close to the fire, metaphorically speaking.

He had spent centuries perfecting his discipline, his careful detachment—lessons learned at great cost, written in blood and regret. Rhena had not asked for his affection, nor would he allow it to burden her. She deserved better than to be entangled in the complexities of his life that had invariably followed him since Toussaint.

Regis opened his eyes, frowning at the sudden shift in the air outside. Something sharp lingered at the edge of his senses, threading its way through the usual scents of smoke and old wood, of unwashed travelers and spilled ale. Faint, but unmistakable, like the first hint of decay in a fresh corpse. He would know the scent anywhere.

Dettlaff.

Regis froze, his pulse quickening—an old reflex. He had been chasing him for weeks, following faint trails and whispers of his presence across mountain passes and forgotten towns. He had eluded him every time, his movements erratic, his path like smoke caught in shifting winds. And now, here in Draycott, of all places…

But there was more. Always more, in this realm of endless complications.

His breath hitched as another scent mingled with his, one that was becoming achingly familiar—softer, warmer. Frost and juniper, with just a hint of chamomile and an undercurrent of steel. Rhena. Regis stood abruptly, the chair groaning under the sudden shift, its protest lost in another howl of wind. Rhena’s scent intertwined with Dettlaff’s? The implications were immediate and troubling, like a physician noting the first spots of a plague.

Had they met? Had Dettlaff sought her out? What was his reaction if he’d learned her name? The thought sent a cold jolt through him, colder than the winter air beyond these walls. Dettlaff’s presence was rarely incidental, and if he had taken an interest in her… No. He wouldn’t allow himself to think that way. Not yet. Speculation without evidence was the refuge of fools and politicians—often the same, in Regis’s experience.

The storm outside beckoned, and Regis answered in a way that was unique to their kind. His form dissolved, the carefully maintained solidity of flesh and bone surrendering to mist—a transformation as natural to him as breathing was to humans. The dark vapor that was his essence slipped through the gaps in the window frame, joining the whirling snow in its frenzied dance.

Physical discomfort ceased to have meaning in this state. The howling wind became merely another current to ride, another path to follow. And follow he would. The alternative was to wait, and waiting had never suited Regis well. Not when the stakes were measured in his blood brother’s life rather than hours. The mist that was him swirled once around the inn’s weathered eaves, orienting itself to that familiar presence, before streaming northward into the heart of the storm.

The world became a blur of sensation. In this form, scents carried differently—less distinct, perhaps, but broader, more encompassing. Like reading a book and scanning entire pages rather than individual words. Dettlaff’s presence pulled at him, a dark undertow beneath the surface of consciousness. And there, braided through it, Rhena’s essence, bright as starlight on snow.

The storm’s fury worked to his advantage, masking Regis’s presence as he streamed through the darkness. Dettlaff’s scent grew stronger, pulling him toward the outskirts of town. As Regis approached, another scent assaulted his senses—blood, a bruxa’s, fresh and copious, with the unmistakable sweetness of a higher vampire’s essence mixed in.

Regis gathered himself back into corporeal form at the edge of a small clearing, and the scene before him made his centuries-old blood run cold.

The snow was painted black with blood—both animal and bruxa—and in the center lay the bruxa’s mutilated corpse, her head severed cleanly from her body. The precision of the killing stroke spoke of ancient power, of experience. Of Rhena, he was sure of it.

“You always did have an inconvenient habit of appearing at precisely the wrong moment.” Dettlaff’s voice cut through the darkness, sharp as a blade. “Though perhaps not so inconvenient, given how determinedly you’ve been hunting these past weeks.”

He emerged like a piece of night-given form, his features twisted with grief and fury. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice, Regis? Your presence in every town, always a few steps behind? Following my trail like some common bounty hunter?” His lips curled in a snarl. “I expected better from you, old friend.”

The title ‘old friend’ carried more venom than endearment. Regis kept his voice steady, though the tension between them could have sparked flame from the very air. “If you knew I was following you, you could have simply spoken to me.”

“Spoken to you?” Dettlaff’s laugh was brittle as ice. “So you could attempt to reason with me? Convince me to return to your carefully constructed world of pretense and restraint among the humans? No.” His eyes flashed dangerously. “I’ve had enough of others trying to shape my path.”

“What happened here?” Regis asked, though the evidence was clear enough. Better to focus on the immediate concern than let old wounds fester.

“Another higher vampire killed her,” Dettlaff said simply, his gaze fixed on the bruxa’s remains. “She moves like her, Regis. Every gesture, every turn of her head...Sounds like her. But it’s not her.” His words splintered like ice. “The scent is wrong. Her eyes and hair are wrong. Everything is wrong. And yet, it’s uncanny—every gesture, every turn of her head. Even the name she uses… It’s the same Syanna once used.” His voice dropped to a whisper.

A cold knot formed in Regis’s chest that had nothing to do with the blizzard that raged all about them. He knew that tone in Dettlaff’s voice—had heard it before, back in Beauclair, when his obsession with Syanna had led to massacre. The way he spoke of Rhena now held that same desperate edge.

“She isn’t Syanna, Dettlaff,” Regis said carefully, fighting to keep his own emotions in check. The thought of Dettlaff fixating on Rhena—seeing her as only an echo of his lost love—stirred something protective in him that he wasn’t entirely prepared to examine. “She’s her own person, with her own path to follow.”

Dettlaff’s eyes snapped to his, blazing with sudden fury. “You think I don’t know that? You think I’m so far gone I can’t tell the difference?” He laughed, the sound like breaking glass. “No, old friend. I see what she is. What you both are. Playing at humanity, pretending you can escape what you truly are.” His lip curled. “And you, Regis….the way you look when you speak of her. Does she make you forget too? Make you believe you can be something other than what nature made you?”

His form began to waver like smoke in wind, and Regis knew with the certainty of long acquaintance that any attempt to continue their discussion would be futile. Dettlaff had always preferred dramatic exits to reasonable discourse.

“She will reveal herself in time, Regis,” his voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere as his body dissolved into mist. “And I intend to watch every moment of her unmasking. To understand what she truly is.” A pause, heavy with dark promise. “After all, we have eternity to become…better acquainted.”

Then he was gone, leaving Regis alone with a corpse and the weight of unspoken warnings. The snow continued its relentless descent, already beginning to shroud the evidence of what had transpired here. By morning, there would be nothing left to see—a fitting metaphor for how humans dealt with the inexplicable, really. Cover it up and pretend it never existed.

Regis remained motionless, staring at the space where Dettlaff had stood, his thoughts whirling like leaves caught in a maelstrom. He had known him long enough to recognize the precipice of madness when he saw it. The real question was whether his friend would drag others down with him when he finally fell.

The wind howled through the pines, carrying with it the mocking cry of ravens. Dawn was here with all its accompanying complications—complications he wasn’t entirely prepared to face, despite his centuries of supposed wisdom. But as Regis turned to leave, he couldn’t help but wonder if Dettlaff’s warning held more truth than he cared to acknowledge.

He had spent centuries learning to master his nature, to walk among humans as one of them. And now, in the span of a mere few days, he found himself caught in a web of vampire politics and grudges. All because he couldn’t seem to maintain a proper distance from a certain immortal midwife whose eyes held secrets as numerous as her years.

How utterly, absurdly predictable.

But…

Dettlaff’s words coiled in his mind like poison. “Every gesture, every turn of her head…”

The raw obsession in his voice when he’d spoken of watching her made his jaw clench. Regis knew what he was capable of when fixated on something—or someone. The blood-soaked streets of Beauclair and Syanna’s murder stood testament to that.

Regis found himself dissolving into mist once before he’d made the conscious decision to move. The wind carried him swiftly through the village, past shuttered windows and smoking chimneys, toward the small cottage at the edge of the woods where Rhena made her home. Simple reason dictated that she could handle herself—she’d proven that quite thoroughly with the ghoul in the forest the first night he’d arrived and now this night with the bruxa. But still…

The warm glow of candlelight spilled from her windows, a beacon in the storm. Regis reformed in the shadows of the trees, struggling with himself. This protective, instinctual urge was beneath him, surely. Unworthy of both their ages and abilities. She neither needed nor had asked for his concern.

But then he caught the metallic scent of blood—it clung to her door frame, to the path leading to her home. Not enough to suggest injury, but enough to confirm she’d returned from the confrontation. Before Regis could stop himself, he moved closer, drawn by an instinctual impulse he didn’t care to examine too carefully.

Through the window, he could see her sitting by the hearth, still wearing her blood-stained clothes. Her face was turned away, but he was coming to know every line of the vampire’s profile by heart—a fact that should have troubled him more than it did. He should leave. Return to the inn. Maintain the careful distance that had served him so well these past centuries. Instead, he found himself approaching her door, each step feeling like a surrender to something he’d been fighting since the moment he first saw her. His knuckles had barely brushed the wood when her voice came from within.

"Either come in or go away, Regis, but stop lurking on my doorstep. You're letting in the cold."

He opened the door slowly, every sense alert. The cottage’s interior was warm, filled with the familiar comforting scents of dried herbs and healing ingredients. But there was something else—a new presence that darted at the edge of perception, there and gone like a fish’s silver flash in deep water.

Rhena sat in a chair by the hearth, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes holding an exhaustion that made his chest ache. But before he could speak, a small voice piped up from somewhere in the shadowed rafters:

“Oho! The fancy herb man returns! And in such dramatic fashion too—all misty and mysterious-like. Very theatrical, very vampiric! I like it!”

Regis’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing as they fixed on the small shadowy figure perched among Rhena’s drying herbs. A pair of ancient yellow eyes gleamed back at him, set in a wizened face that somehow managed to look both childlike and impossibly old.

“A godling? Here?” Regis breathed, genuine surprise coloring his voice as his eyes took in the creature’s unsettling appearance.

The being perched in the rafters had the size and rough shape of a human child, but any similarity ended there. Its skin was an unnatural pale gray, like cemetery ash, and its eyes—ancient, knowing things—glowed with an eerie yellow light.

A crown of twisted twigs sat askew on its black hair, which hung in wild, unkempt strands around a face that seemed both young and impossibly old. Dried blood—or perhaps red clay—stained its tattered clothing, giving it the appearance of some forgotten victim of ancient sacrifice.

Yet despite its macabre appearance, there was something undeniably impish in its expression, a spark of mischief that seemed at odds with its ghoulish visage.

“Little magpie,” Rhena scolded, a warning in her tone. “We talked about this…”

“Oh, but discretion’s boring!” the godling pouted as he swung down from his perch, dangling upside down by his knees. “Besides, he won’t tell a soul, will he? What’s one more secret between new friends?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Or should I say, between almost-more-than-friends?”

“Johnny! Enough!” This time Rhena’s voice held real steel.

The godling only grinned wider, swinging his legs like a child on a branch. “What? Just saying what everyone’s thinking! Wish you two could’ve seen yourselves in a mirror—” he affected a dramatic pose, clasping his hands to his chest— “all moony-eyed and leaning in close like, like characters in one of them fancy romance books collecting dust at the Alderman’s place.”

Regis went very still, centuries of careful control warring with a surge of anger as realization struck. The mysterious sounds from the rafters during their almost-kiss, the strange movements he’d sensed—it hadn’t been his imagination after all. This creature, this ancient child with its knowing smirk, had been watching their most private moment.

"You were there." His voice emerged soft, dangerous. The kind of quiet that preceded storms. "In the rafters. Watching us."

The godling’s grin faltered slightly as he met Regis’s gaze, perhaps finally sensing the ancient predator that lurked beneath the herbalist’s carefully maintained façade. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees, despite the warm fire crackling in the hearth.

“Now, now,” Johnny chirped, swinging himself right-side up with an exaggerated show of nonchalance. “No need to get all fangy about it. I’m a keeper of stories, I am. Can’t help but collect the interesting ones. And you two blood suckers…” He waggled his eyebrows again, though with notably less enthusiasm. “Well, let’s just say you’re the most interesting thing to happen to this backwater place since that merchant tried selling ‘authentic dragon scales’ that turned out to be painted fish bits.”

“Johnny,” Rhena’s voice carried the same clinical firmness she used with mothers-to-be, though it seemed somewhat ill-fitted for the situation at hand. “To your nook and to bed. Now.”

The godling’s face scrunched up in an expression of theatrical dismay. “Is that how you speak to all your little friends? No wonder you only deal with the fresh-born ones!" He swung his legs, sending a shower of dried herb fragments onto the floor below. "I'm ancient, I am! Older than both of you put together, probably!"

Rhena's jaw tightened, her usual composure with difficult births clearly not translating well to managing an impish godling. She cast a quick, almost helpless glance at Regis before squaring her shoulders. "Your... nest awaits?"

"Nest?" Johnny cackled, clearly delighting in her discomfort. "It's a proper fortress up there, it is! Built it myself, didn't I?" He gestured proudly toward the rafters where, Regis now noticed, an ingenious arrangement of borrowed blankets, pilfered pillows, and what appeared to be several misappropriated curtains had been woven between the beams to create a snug den. "Though I suppose you two would prefer I retire to my humble abode, eh?"

He scrambled up the wall with surprising agility, disappearing into his carefully constructed hideaway. His voice drifted down, muffled slightly by layers of fabric: "Don't worry, I know when I'm not wanted. Well... usually. Just try to keep the brooding to a minimum, yes? Some of us are trying to sleep up here!"

With that parting shot and an impish grin, he scampered off to a small, cozy-looking alcove tucked into the far corner of the cottage, lined with soft fabrics and sweet-smelling herbs.

Regis remained perfectly still, his fingers drumming against his thigh in that old nervous tic. The silence stretched between them like a drawn bow, taut with unspoken words.

"He means well," Rhena said, gracefully rising from her chair. "Even if his methods of showing it are... questionable at best." She moved to a shelf lined with bottles and began methodically arranging them, though Regis suspected it was more to give her hands something to do than out of any real need for organization.

"A godling." Regis's voice was carefully neutral. "You neglected to mention you had such an... interesting houseguest."

Rhena’s hands froze on the bottles she was fidgeting with, and Regis watched as guilt flickered across her pale features like candlelight on water. Even after centuries among humans, Regis found himself fascinated by how readily she displayed such emotions—a trait most of their kind considered beneath them.

“I…I suppose I should have mentioned him earlier,” she stammered, facing him. Her dark eyes met his with that disconcerting directness he’d come to expect from her. “His name is Johnny. He’s… um, complicated.” Rhena’s voice faltered, her eyes darting to the floor as though the weight of her own words pressed down upon her. “You see, all those missing items from the village that’s been causing such a stir…” She trailed off, her voice dwindling to silence, as though she’d spoken too much already—or perhaps too little.

Regis arched a brow, his expression calm, almost amused, though the glint in his eye betrayed his suspicions. “I take it our little friend in the rafters is the mastermind behind these thefts?”

She nodded, an odd interplay of frustration and reluctant affection flickering across her face like shadows from a guttering flame. “I found his burrow yesterday. It was…” She stopped again, her lips tightening as her gaze turned distant, troubled. A rare and genuine concern dulled the usual sharpness of her features. “Regis, he had nothing. Nothing but a few moldy crusts of bread, hard as stone, and a bed of leaves to sleep on. Sticks, barely enough to make a decent fire. And now, with winter closing its jaws around us, and that witcher sniffing about the village…” Her hand lifted, gesturing vaguely to the frost-rimed world beyond the cottage’s creaking walls.

“You couldn’t leave him there,” Regis finished for her, understanding all too well that particular weakness. How many times had he been unable to turn away from suffering, even when prudence dictated otherwise?

“He’s not malicious,” Rhena continued, her voice turning softer as she glanced briefly up towards the rafters. “Just…resourceful in his peculiar way. And lonely, I think. Very lonely. How many other godlings are left in the world?”

From above came an indignant sniff. “I can hear you both, you know! And I’m not lonely—I have plenty of friends! Your mouse Skura for example, he’s an excellent conversationalist, once you get to know him!”

Regis shifted uncomfortably, centuries of experience doing nothing to prepare him for conversing with what was, essentially, an ancient being with the mannerisms of a particularly mischievous child. The combination was…unsettling, to say the least.

“I see,” Regis said stiffly, addressing Rhena rather than attempting further dialogue with their new roof-dwelling friend. “And I don’t suppose simply purchasing supplies occurred to either of you?”

A high-pitched giggle erupted from above. “Listen to him! Your blood-sucker gentleman caller is one of those stuffy ones, isn’t he? All proper-like with his fancy words and disapproving frowns!” Johnny’s head appeared upside down through a gap in his nest, black hair dangling like a strange curtain. “You’re making that same face you made earlier, fangs, when you were thinking about ki—”

“That’s quite enough,” Regis interrupted sharply, his fingers drumming against his thigh with increased tempo. The last thing he needed was this impish creature discussing his…personal matters.

Regis pinched the bridge of his nose, the constant barrage of unnecessary and unwanted commentary coming from above was becoming insufferable, each word needling at his carefully maintained composure. Even the drumming of his fingers against his thigh couldn’t fully dispel the tension and agitation building in his chest.

“Rhena,” he said quietly, careful to keep his voice neutral despite the godling’s presence. “Could we perhaps take a walk? There’s something we need to discuss…alone.”

Her dark eyes met his, understanding flickering in their depths. It was clear by the look on her face in that moment that she knew now why he’d come so late. But he was pleased when she nodded all the same.

"Oh, come now!" Johnny's voice carried a note of theatrical despair. "Just when things were getting interesting! You can't possibly want to go out in that frightful weather—"

"Johnny," Rhena cut him off with surprising firmness, already reaching for her cloak. "Mind the house and look after Skura. I won't be gone long. And no following us."

The godling snorted indignantly. “As if I would! It’s far too cold for such shenanigans! Besides,” he added with a knowing smirk, “I know when I’m not wanted and when I am…” He withdrew into his nest with a final conspiratorial little wink.

Regis held the door open for Rhena, trying not to appear too eager to escape the cottage and its peculiar new resident. The storm had thankfully calmed somewhat, the snow now falling in gentle swirls rather than angry gusts. As they stepped out into the night, Regis couldn’t help but feel a profound relief at the sudden quiet, broken only by the soft crunch of snow beneath their boots.

The snow had begun falling more heavily now, obscuring what few stars managed to peek through the storm clouds. Regis followed Rhena through the darkness, his own footsteps silent against the fresh powder.

Her presence ahead of him stirred something in his chest he wasn't quite ready to examine—a warmth that had nothing to do with bloodlust and everything to do with the way she'd looked at him earlier, before duty had called her away.

The iron stink of blood hung thick, like a mourner's veil drawn across the winter air. Not the crude splatter of some common brigand's work—no, this was the precise signature of a bruxa's feeding. But underneath writhed another scent, one that made his ancient blood run cold: Dettlaff's essence, wild and untamed as the first time they'd met in Nazair. Regis would know it anywhere, like recognizing an old lover's perfume in a crowded tavern. His encounter with Dettlaff moments ago ghosted across his skin like frost on a windowpane.

Rhena halted, her form a dark cut against the curtain of snow.

"Cave ahead," she said with that iron-wrapped-in-silk voice of hers. "Local peasants say spirits dwell there." Her lips curved like a drawn bow. "Fitting, wouldn't you say? Two higher vampires discussing their sins in a haunted hole."

"After you," he murmured, though the real weight still hung between them like an executioner's axe. From behind came what might have been Johnny's laughter floating from the cottage, though more likely 'twas just the wind playing its eternal game of deception.

The hour approached when truths must be laid bare as corpses on a battlefield. Yet Regis found himself wondering which secrets cut deeper—the ones about Dettlaff that needed speaking, or the ones about himself that even he dared not whisper.

Chapter Text

DARKNESS had always been a peculiar thing to Rhena. Humans feared it, lit candles against it, and huddled in their homes to ward off what monsters lurked in its depths. But to her kind, darkness was merely another type of light—one that revealed far more than it concealed. Like now, in this gods-forsaken cave that reeked of bat droppings and moldering leaves and winter, where she could see every crack in the limestone walls, every droplet of water that carved its endless path through the stone.

What she couldn't see, however, was a way out of this mess. Bureaucracy, vampire politics, territory disputes—it seemed even immortal beings couldn't escape such tedious affairs. Though usually, she mused darkly, such disputes didn't involve a dead bruxa.

The ravens' calls echoed across the snow-laden valley like bad omens given wing. Rhena watched them through narrowed eyes, counting the dark shapes against the pewter sky. Seven of them. She'd never seen ravens behave quite like this—too deliberate in their patterns, too focused in their surveillance. Another peculiarity in a night already full of strangeness.

"We're being watched." Rhena let the words hang in the cold air, her gaze shifting, as if she could trace the presence she already knew lurked beyond sight. He’d be able to sense it too. The way Regis’s posture stiffened ever so slightly confirmed it. She paused, letting the tension settle before adding, "I met another higher vampire tonight. And a bruxa." Her tone remained measured, as if speaking of such things were routine, but her eyes flicked toward Regis, gauging his reaction. "He had your scent on him. Not strong, but it was there. Old, like the lingering echo of an old friendship. You know him, don't you?"

A grunt from Regis. Not quite agreement, not quite denial. Even after only a few days, she was coming to recognize his habits—the way he chose his words with the precision of a surgeon selecting his tools, the careful distance he maintained from others. Though lately, that distance seemed to be shrinking between them, despite his best efforts.

The wind shifted, bringing with it the iron-sweet scent of blood. Martha's blood, from the birth, mixed with the fresher scent of the bruxa's death. It clung to Rhena's clothes, her hair, her skin—a reminder of both her chosen path and the violence she was still capable of when pressed.

"Tell me more about him," she said, breaking the silence that had grown thick as cemetery moss between them. "This Dettlaff. The way he looked at me..." She trailed off, remembering the strange intensity in the other vampire's eyes. "It was as if he was seeing someone else entirely."

"He was." Regis's fingers had begun their rhythmic tapping again—that nervous tic she'd noticed the first night he'd arrived. "Someone named Syanna. Someone he loved. Someone who died."

"And I look like her?" The thought sent an unpleasant chill down her spine. Immortality was complicated enough without being mistaken for someone else's dead lover.

"No." His voice was soft but certain. "But there's something in the way you move, he says. In your gestures. Even your chosen name..."

A lone wolf howled in the distance. Not a natural sound—too precise, too controlled. More watchers, she realized. The woods were filling with eyes that belonged to neither beast nor man.

"Wonderful." The laugh that escaped her held no humor. "I've spent decades building a life here, and in one night I've managed to attract the obsessive attention of an unhinged higher vampire. Should I expect more dead bruxae on my doorstep, or does he plan to vary his courtship gifts?"

"This isn't a joke, Rhena." The sharpness in his tone made her turn to face him fully. Something in his expression made her breath catch—concern, yes, but something else too, something that made the space between them feel suddenly too small and too large all at once.

"Tell me."

She watched his face as he spoke of blood-soaked streets and revenge, of a vampire's grief transformed into murderous obsession, revealing Dettlaff to be the vampire who had orchestrated the attack on Beauclair in Toussaint. Each word added weight to the air between them, making the cave feel smaller and more confining. When he finished, silence stretched between them like a drawn bowstring. Above, the ravens continued their dark dance against the winter sky, no longer just birds but messengers carrying tales back to their master.

"Well," she said finally. "That certainly puts a damper on our evening." She was acutely aware of his proximity, of the way her skin seemed to tingle whenever he moved closer, of all the words they hadn't yet spoken. "Though I suppose I should be flattered. Five days in your company and already I've acquired a homicidal admirer. You certainly know how to show a lady an interesting time, master barber-surgeon."

"Rhena." The way he said her name held warning and worry in equal measure.

"Don't." She paced the narrow confines of the cave, her movements fluid as water over stone. "Don't start treating me like something fragile. I've survived worse than an obsessive vampire with poor boundaries."

"Have you?" His eyes followed her movement, dark and intent. "Dettlaff isn't like other higher vampires. His emotions... they consume him. Control him. And now he's fixated on you."

Dawn painted the horizon in shades of steel and smoke, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled—calling the faithful to prayer, calling her back to her chosen life among the humans. Back to the familiar routine that had been so thoroughly disrupted by this strange, herb-scented vampire with his careful manners and unspoken possibilities. A life now complicated by another vampire's dangerous obsession.

"This is madness," she said softly, more to herself than to him. "Five days ago my biggest concern was keeping the miller's wife from discovering she's carrying twins before I could properly prepare her for the news."

"Life does tend to get rather complicated around me." He stepped closer, and the air between them grew charged with possibility. "Though I hadn't intended quite this level of complication quite so soon."

Some choices, Rhena knew, demanded payment in blood. The bruxa's death was only the beginning—she could feel it in her bones, in the way the ravens circled overhead like harbingers of chaos to come. The price of this night would be measured in blood. The only question was: whose?

"I should return." Rhena's voice cut through the heavy silence. "Martha's child will need checking with the dawn, and new mothers tend to panic when their midwife appears wearing yesterday's bloodstained clothes."

"Of course." Regis's response was careful, and measured. Everything about him was measured, she'd noticed. Every word, every gesture, every breath calculated to appear as human as possible. Though sometimes, like now, she caught glimpses of what lay beneath those careful pretenses.

She moved toward the cave's entrance but paused, watching the dance of snowflakes in the pre-dawn light.

"Tell me something, Regis. You've been hunting him for weeks, following his trail across how many towns?"

"Weeks of pursuit." His fingers had begun their nervous tapping again. "Though I didn't expect…"

"To find another higher vampire playing at humanity?" Her laugh held no humor. "Or to find yourself in quite this situation?"

"Any of it," he admitted quietly. "You were…unexpected."

A raven's cry pierced the darkness, closer now. Too close. Rhena felt her fangs extend reflexively, a response to a threat as natural as breathing was to humans. The beast within her, so carefully leashed these past decades, stirred at the proximity of other predators.

"Well." She forced her fangs to retract with practiced control. "This is certainly not how I expected my week to go. Five days ago I was just a midwife with an unusual aversion to aging. Now I've got a homicidal higher vampire fixated on me because I apparently move like his dead lover, and I'm standing in a cave with the vampire hunting him, trying very hard not to think about things I probably shouldn't be thinking about." She shook her head. "The universe has an interesting sense of humor."

"Rhena—"

"Don't." She held up a hand, stopping whatever careful response he'd prepared. "Just... don't. Not now. I need to think, and I can't do that with you standing there looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're as surprised by all this as I am." She pulled her cloak tighter, though the cold had never bothered her. "Like there's something happening here that's about to complicate an already impossible situation."

His silence was answer enough.

The ravens circled lower, their wings cutting dark shapes against the lightening sky. Watching. Always watching. Her peaceful life of the past fifty years seemed suddenly very far away, shattered by a chance encounter with a barber-surgeon who turned out to be so much more.

Let them watch, then.

She held his gaze for a long moment, letting him see everything she wasn't quite ready to say, before turning away. The tension between them stretched taut as a bowstring, full of all the possibilities they hadn't yet dared to explore.

Rhena took one step toward the cave’s mouth, then stopped. Curse it all. Five days of this delicate dance, this careful routine of almost-but-not quite, and now here they were with a dead bruxa at their feet and blood in the air. The scent of it clung to her clothes, mixing with the earthier smells of the cave—bat droppings, rotting leaves, limestone, and beneath it all, the herbs that always surrounded Regis. Sage, wormwood, and mandrake. A healer’s scents. A killer’s scents.

She turned back.

He stood exactly where she’d left him, straight-backed and proper, but something had shifted in his expression. That carefully maintained mask of humanity had slipped, just slightly. Enough to remind Rhena of what lurked beneath, just as what lurked beneath her.

“Earlier,” she said, her voice barely carrying over the endless drip of water. “Before we were….so rudely interrupted…”

“Indeed.” His fingers stilled their incessant nervous tapping against his thigh.

“We were about to—”

“Yes. We were.”

Damnation. Her feet carried her closer without conscious thought. The cave suddenly felt too small, too confined. Above them, another raven called—a harsh, grating sound. Let them watch. Let them carry their tales back to their master. Some things were worth the price they’d demand, she realized with a jolt.

“And then we didn’t,” Rhena continued, watching the way Regis’s pupils dilated slightly. Vampiric eyes, betraying what his carefully controlled expression wouldn’t.

“No.” His voice had roughened, lost some of its cultured polish. “We…we didn’t.”

Another step closer. The air crackled between them like static before a storm. “I’ve been thinking about that. About what might have happened if—”

“If duty hadn’t called?”

"Precisely." The word came out barely more than a whisper. Close enough now to catch every nuance of his scent—herbs and earth and something darker underneath, something that called to the predator in Rhena. Something that reminded her of what they both were, beneath their careful pretenses at humanity.

His breath caught—an entirely unnecessary gesture for their kind, but telling nonetheless. “Have you?”

“Mmm.” She let her fingers trace the line of his jaw, feeling the latent power thrumming beneath cool skin. No human would notice it, but to her it sang like steel against stone. “Though I suppose the timing’s shit now. What with a dead bruxa and obsessed vampires and little spies with wings…”

“Terrible timing,” he agreed, but his hand found her waist, and drew her closer. The touch burned through the fabric of her dress like brands. “Absolutely awful.”

"We should wait. Be sensible." Rhena pressed her other hand against his chest, where a human heart would beat. They both knew better. "Everything's complicated enough."

"Frightfully complicated." His free hand tangled in her hair, cradling the back of her head. No pretense at human weakness in that grip.

"We're both rational creatures, after all." Rhena tilted her face up to his, close enough that their breaths mingled, though neither truly needed to breathe. "Centuries of wisdom between us. Perfectly capable of—"

His mouth caught hers, swallowing whatever nonsense she’d been about to spout. For a moment, everything else fell away—the ravens, the danger, the complications. Just this. Just them. Just the taste of him and the feel of his hands in her hair and at her waist, the press of his body against hers. No pretense now at being anything other than what they were.

His fingers traced down her spine with careful restraint, as if mapping unexplored territory. Her breath caught—an instinctive reaction that surprised them both.

"Strange, isn't it?" Regis murmured against her ear. "How quickly everything can change."

"Five days ago, I didn't even know you existed," Rhena replied, letting her hands explore the solid plane of his chest with similar cautious wonder. "And now..."

"And now here we are." His voice held a note of amazement. "Though I must say, you've made quite an impression in such a short time. The way you handled the Alderman’s daughter's difficult birth alone..."

"Discussing my patients? Now?" She nipped at his jaw, just sharp enough to make him intake a sharp breath. "Your timing needs work, master barber-surgeon."

"Professional curiosity," he defended, but his eyes had darkened further, and his grip on her waist tightened possessively. "Though perhaps this isn't the moment for academic discussion."

"Perhaps not," she agreed, enjoying the way his carefully maintained composure wavered at her touch. Even after just days of knowing him, she could read the subtle shifts in his expression, the way control and desire warred in his gaze.

His laugh rumbled through his chest, soft and wondering. "I suppose we have more pressing matters to attend to."

"Much more pressing," she agreed, and pulled him down for another kiss, marveling at how natural it felt, how right—despite the newness of it all.

To a human, five days would be absurdly fast—too soon for anything beyond fleeting infatuation, a reckless tumble in the hay at best. But for their kind, time did not soften things; it sharpened them. They did not fall in love like humans did, slowly and uncertainly, waiting for trust to bloom. When it happened, it was written into blood and instinct, as undeniable as hunger.

And still, it unsettled her—the speed of it, the certainty. How quickly he’d slipped beneath her skin, how natural it felt to want him, to crave his presence like something vital. No slow unraveling, no careful courtship—just an unshakable knowing, as inevitable as the pull of the tide.

When they finally broke apart, Rhena kept her eyes closed for a heartbeat longer, savoring the sensation.

“Well,” she managed softly, opening her eyes to find Regis watching her with an intensity that made something low in her belly tighten. “I suppose that’s one way to complicate things even further.”

His laugh was barely more than a breath. “Some complications are worth the trouble they bring.”

Above them, a raven’s cry split the pre-dawn air like a blade—sharp and deliberate. A reminder that they weren’t alone, that danger still circled on dark wings. But with the taste of him still on her lips and his hands still holding her close, Rhena found she didn’t give a damn about their audience.

“More trouble than a homicidal admirer and his flock of little spies?” Rhena asked, letting her fingers trace patterns against his chest.

"That remains to be seen." He caught her hand, and pressed his lips to her palm. No pretense at humanity in that kiss either—just the barest scrape of fangs against sensitive skin. "Though you make a compelling argument for finding out."

She watched him, feeling the weight of everything unsaid hanging between them. The sharp edges of the past five days—of danger, of secrets, of everything that should make this a mistake—blurred in the face of the one undeniable truth: she wanted this. Wanted him.

And so she made the choice.

This time when Rhena kissed him, she let some of her own careful control slip. Let him feel what lurked beneath her midwife’s manner, her healer’s hands. Let the ravens see what they would. Some things were worth the risk, worth the complications, worth whatever price might come due.

The horizon had begun to lighten when they finally parted, the first true rays of dawn painting the world in shades of blood and gold. The church bell tolled again, louder this time—a reminder of the human world that waited beyond their cave, with all its petty demands and duties.

“I really should go,” Rhena murmured, though she made no move to step away. “Before my patients send out another search party.”

“Of course.” His fingers traced the line of her jaw, memorizing the curve of it. “Though I don’t suppose you’d consider taking a day off from your duties?”

That startled a laugh from her. “A vampire suggesting I neglect my responsibilities to the humans? How inappropriate, master barber-surgeon.”

“Merely a thought.” But his smile held fang now—just enough to remind Rhena of what lay beneath Regis’s careful manners. "Though I do believe we have several conversations to finish."

"Several?" Rhena arched an eyebrow at him. "I wasn't aware we'd been doing much talking just now."

"Minx." He pressed one more swift kiss to her lips before stepping back, allowing the proper distance to resettle between them. "Go. Tend to your patients. I'll come to you when you're finished."

"Promise?" she asked, already missing his touch.

“Yes. I know a place.” His eyes held promises that made heat pool in her belly.  “When you’re finished with your rounds?”

“When I’m finished,” Rhena agreed and finally forced herself to step toward the cave entrance. Dawn painted the sky in shades of rose and gold now, and overhead, the ravens had begun to disperse—carrying who knew what tales back to their master.

Let them tell what tales they would. Some debts were worth the price they demanded.

She did not dare look back as she left the cave, knowing that if she did, Regis would tempt her to return. The weight of his presence clung to her like mist, thick and inescapable.

She had barely covered a quarter mile when the wind shifted, carrying a scent both familiar and unmistakable—leather and steel, herbs, and the acrid bite of potions. Witcher. Eskel.

And he was coming from the direction of—

Damn.

The taste of Regis still lingered on her lips, the heat of their kiss a stark contrast to the frigid cold of the winter air. No time to savor that memory now. The Witcher had found her kill, and judging by the heavy footfalls approaching through the frost-laden trees, he had questions. Many questions.

She could have melted into the shadows. Could have been nothing more than mist between the trees. But that would only confirm his suspicions, and then he’d truly start hunting. No. Better to brazen it out. Play the part of a simple midwife, just as she had when they’d first met the other day. Never mind the blood on her dress or the bruxa’s cooling corpse in the clearing behind her.

The Witcher slipped from between the pines like a wolf on the hunt, his golden eyes taking in every detail. Rhena watched him catalogue the scene—her torn dress, the blood, her presence in the woods before dawn. His face remained carefully neutral, but she could sense the wheels turning behind those cat-like eyes.

"It's...Rhena, isn't it? The midwife." Eskel's voice held a note of deliberate casualness. "I didn't expect to find anyone out here in these woods at this hour, given the weather." His gaze flickered to her bare arms, exposed by her torn sleeves. "Bit cold for a morning walk, isn't it?"

Rhena kept walking, matching his tone. "Master Witcher. I could say the same thing about monster hunting."

His scarred face twisted. Whether it was meant to be a smile or a grimace, she couldn't tell. "Funny you should mention monsters." He gestured back the way he'd come. "Found something interesting in that clearing. Something that might explain all those missing livestock your village has been whispering about."

"Oh?" Rhena raised her eyebrows, feigning polite interest. She made sure to keep breathing, to maintain the illusion of human necessity that had become second nature over the decades.

"Bruxa." His eyes never left her face. Watching. Measuring. "Dead one. Quite recently, from the looks of it. Quite...thoroughly dead, actually." He took a step closer, head tilting slightly. "Interesting thing about the kill—whoever did it knew exactly where to strike. Perfect precision. Like they understood vampire anatomy intimately."

The lie came smoothly, though it sat bitter on her tongue after the truth of Regis's kiss. "I'm afraid I don't know what that is. Some kind of wolf?"

"No tracks in the snow," Eskel continued as if she hadn't spoken. "No signs of a struggle. Just a dead vampire and bloodied snow. Almost like..." His hand rested casually on his sword hilt. "Like whatever killed it could move without leaving traces. Like it appeared out of nowhere."

Rhena met his gaze. Let him look. Let him wonder. "Are you trying to ask me something, Master Witcher?"

He drew his silver sword in one fluid motion, but didn't point it at her—not yet. Instead, he held it at an angle, letting the dawn light play across the blade. Rhena kept her expression neutral, even as she noticed her reflection in the silver seemed to...ripple. Just slightly. Just enough.

Eskel's eyes narrowed. "You know, in all my years hunting monsters, I've learned that the most dangerous ones aren't the ones that look like beasts." The sword blade caught another ray of dawn light, and again, Rhena's reflection wavered—a momentary slip in an otherwise perfect disguise. "They're the ones that look just like us. The ones that learn to hide in plain sight."

Then another scent hit her, carried on the bitter winter wind—earth and autumn leaves and ancient magic. Her blood ran cold. Johnny's distinctive odor grew stronger, mixed with the acrid tang of the godling's fear. The little fool had left the cottage despite her explicit instructions to stay put, to stay safe.

A twig snapped in the trees behind her, too deliberate to be wind, too clumsy to be an animal. Panic clawed at her throat. Johnny didn't seem like the type of godling to be good at stealth, too used to humans being blind to his presence. The temperature dropped suddenly—a sure sign of Johnny's distress. Frost crept across the ground between them, delicate patterns spreading like spilled ink. Eskel's medallion gave its first true tremor of the encounter, responding to the godling's magic.

Rhena’s chest tightened with real fear now. Not for herself—she could handle a witcher if it came to that. But Johnny? Johnny was ancient and clever, yes, but also vulnerable. Fragile in ways he’d never admit.

Eskel noticed. Of course he noticed. His witcher’s medallion gave a slight tremor, and his hand tightened on his silver sword’s hilt. Behind her, Rhena heard Johnny's breath catch. The frost patterns grew more frantic, spreading faster across the frozen ground.

"Pretty unusual weather we're having, isn't it?" Eskel said softly, dangerous. His medallion hummed as the frost crystals danced across the snow. His eyes tracked the unnatural patterns, then snapped back to her face with renewed suspicion.

Don't, she silently begged, her own fear mounting with each passing heartbeat. Stay hidden. Stay safe. I'll handle this—

But she was quickly coming to know Johnny well, and the mischievous creature had only been with her a few precious hours at least. Already, the spirited little godling had left quite an impression on her. He possessed fierce loyalty and a reckless sense of courage. She'd seen it in the way he'd tried to warn her about Dettlaff and the bruxa, in how he'd kept watch from the rafters like some self-appointed guardian.

The frost spread faster, more erratically, matching Johnny's rising agitation. Rhena felt her careful control slipping, her fear for the godling overriding centuries of practiced restraint. For just a moment, her perfect disguise wavered.

"Well," Eskel said, his sword now pointed directly at her heart. "That's interesting. Your eyes just went completely black." His other hand moved to a potion at his belt. "Want to tell me again how you don't know what a bruxa is, midwife?"

The temperature plummeted further as Johnny's distress peaked. Ice crackled across the trees, forming delicate, deadly patterns in the pre-dawn light.

"Tell me something, Rhena." Eskel's voice cut through the frozen air. "Do all midwives have such interesting effects on their surroundings? Or is that another of your special talents?"

A branch cracked behind Rhena, snapping both their attention toward the sound. Johnny stood there in the snow, leaves tangled in his wild hair, his ancient eyes blazing with protective fury. Rhena barely had time to register the surge of warmth in the heart she didn’t technically need—because there, perched on Johnny’s shoulder, was Skura. The little mouse’s whiskers twitched with worry, his beady eyes darting toward Eskel in silent fear. She flicked her gaze back to Johnny. His small hands were clenched into fists, and beneath them, the ground had frozen solid, a sheen of pure ice spreading outward.

"Leave her be, monster hunter!" The godling's high voice rang through the clearing. "She's not the one you should be worried about! The dark one's the real threat—the one who watches from the shadows with his storm-cloud presence and his grief-mad eyes!"

Curse it all. She’d seen this coming from the moment she’d sensed his presence, had known his protective nature would overcome his sense sooner or later. The signs had been there all morning—his increased agitation, his muttered warnings, the way he'd watched her with those ancient, worried eyes.

Eskel's sword cleared its sheath in a single fluid motion, the silver blade catching the dawn light. His whole demeanor shifted—gone was the probing investigator, replaced by the professional monster slayer. His medallion hummed loud enough that even Rhena could hear it.

“A godling?” His voice was cold, calculating. “Consorting with vampires. Well. That explains a few things.” His eyes never left Rhena’s as he shifted his stance. “How many humans have you really killed, ‘midwife?’ How many deaths covered up as natural causes?”

Johnny stiffened, his wild eyes darting between them. His usual energy was there, but something about it was off—too sharp, too forced.

“Ploughing witcher, swaggering about!” His voice rang out, higher than usual, cracking just slightly at the edges. “All fancy swords and scowly face—bet you couldn't even catch a drowner without tripping over your own feet! Seen you in the village, I have, sulking about like a wet cat in summer!"

“Johnny.” Rhena’s voice held warning, fear. “Stop.”

But the godling wasn’t stopping. He couldn’t stop.

He wagged a finger at Eskel, stepping forward now, as if sheer defiance could keep a Witcher’s blade from striking. “Oh ho! Should've seen him yesterday, trying to track those missing chickens! Round and round the village he went, while the real culprit was just a hungry fox with more sense than our mighty monster slayer!"

Eskel’s scarred face darkened, his hand moving to his sword hilt.

Johnny saw it. Saw the shift in Eskel’s stance, the weight moving toward a strike. He knew, he knew, but still, he ran his mouth, desperation bleeding through the mockery.

“What's that now? Going for your sword?” His laugh was too sharp, too wild, something untamed straining beneath his words. “Careful you don’t hurt yourself with it! Though I suppose that's why you're so grumpy—must be hard being a witcher who can't even spot a simple bloodsucker right under his nose! Been here a few days, and only now figured it out? Not very clever, are you? You’re not at all like the other one, the white-haired one!”

"Silence, creature."

“Creature, he calls me!" Johnny was still grinning, but there was something frantic in his eyes now, something flickering between instinct and helpless rage. "Rich words from a man who drinks potions like my old friend the Drunkard drinks mead! At least our healer here helps folks—what do you do besides stomp about looking important? Haven't seen you save any babies or ease any suffering!" His breath hitched, barely noticeable. "Unless you count putting everyone to sleep with your boring monster stories at the tavern!"

Eskel’s hand tightened around his sword hilt. "Enough." His voice was ice. "I don't waste silver on fools. But a monster that tries to hide behind them?" His grip coiled, muscles flexing. "That, I put down." His golden eyes flicked to Johnny, full of contempt. "And you—godlings were always a nuisance, but I didn’t take you for a parasite-lover. Maybe I should gut you too, see if your kind bleeds like everything else."

Johnny, for once, stilled. His usual bravado faltered for a fraction of a second before he swallowed hard and forced himself to smirk again. His fingers twitched, like he was resisting the urge to bolt.

"Ooh, scary!" His voice wavered just slightly, but he pushed through it. "What’s next, Witcher? Gonna stomp on some pixies for sport? Kick a gnome down a well?" He snorted, but the sound wasn’t as strong as before. "You’re all the same. Kill first, think later."

"Thinking’s why my sword’s still in my hand," Eskel shot back, stepping forward. "You should run, creature. Before I decide you’re not worth the headache."

Eskel took another step forward, his golden eyes locking onto Johnny with the cold precision of a man who had already decided the kill was necessary. His grip on the sword shifted, weight adjusting, muscles tensing. A single clean stroke—silver, fast, final.

Rhena saw it a heartbeat before it happened.

Oh gods, he’s actually going to—

"JOHNNY!" Her panic broke through the tension like a thunderclap. "RUN!"

For once, the godling listened. His eyes widened, all the reckless bravado vanishing in an instant before he turned and bolted. Rhena heard him scrambling away through the underbrush, his terror sharp as broken glass in the air, co-mingled with the sound of Skura’s distressed squeaks, but she had no time to think about that now. The Black Blood hit his system just as Rhena lunged. She could smell the change in him—herbs and toxins designed to make his very blood lethal to her kind. His sword moved with preternatural speed, silver blade singing through the air. She shifted to mist, but not quite fast enough.

Pain exploded through her side as the silver bit deep. Cursed steel, forged with spells meant to harm creatures like her. Rhena reformed several paces away, blood seeping between her fingers where she pressed them against the wound. Eskel pressed his advantage, moving with the fluid grace of a master swordsman. The potions had transformed him—veins black against pale skin, eyes like endless pits. A true monster hunter now, stripped of all pretense at humanity.

The witcher didn’t hesitate. He was already on her, pressing his advantage, moving with the brutal efficiency of a seasoned killer. The potions had turned him into something monstrous—veins black against pale skin, wolfish eyes burning in the dim light. He was rage honed to a fine edge, stripped of hesitation or mercy.

“No more running, leech.” His voice was gravel and venom, roughened by elixirs and exhaustion alike. “No more playing human. No more pretending.”

Rhena bared her fangs and let the beast rise. Claws extended, pupils swallowed by pure black, muscles coiling with unnatural strength. If he wanted the monster, she would give him one.

She struck fast, but not fast enough. Eskel sidestepped her with a predator’s ease, his silver blade carving a deep gash across her chest from shoulder to sternum. Blood sprayed onto the snow, hissing where it met his armor. Rhena staggered. The world tilted. Silver. Gods, so much silver. The wound burned like acid, the cursed metal slowing her, weakening her. Eskel kicked her full in the ribs. Hard. Something cracked, and she crumpled to one knee in the bloodied snow, gasping.

“Should’ve stayed in the shadows,” he snarled, advancing without hesitation. His blade was steady. He didn’t waste words. No threats, no grandstanding—just the cold certainty of a man who had put down one monster too many to flinch now. “Should’ve stayed where you belong.”

Rhena tried to dissolve into mist again, but the silver in her blood made it impossible. Her limbs felt leaden, her vision blurred. She looked up just in time to see Eskel raise his sword for the killing blow.

A true Witcher—remorseless, relentless, and ready to finish the hunt.

Rhena tried to dissolve again, to escape, but the silver in her blood made it impossible to maintain her mist form. Her legs gave out and she fell to one knee in the bloodied snow. Through dimming vision, she watched the Witcher approach, sword raised for the killing blow that would take her head.

It wouldn’t be a true death, of course—only a blow from another higher vampire could grant that release. But it would incapacitate her long enough for him to burn what remained, to ensure she never threatened his precious humans again.

The air temperature plummeted suddenly, frost crackling across the ground like spiderwebs. A shadow fell across them both, and with it came a presence she’d felt before, earlier—power like a storm contained in a bottle, grief and rage made manifest.

“No.” The word was thunder, was breaking glass, was every nightmare given voice.

Dettlaff materialized between them, his form already more beast than man. One massive clawed hand caught Eskel’s descending blade, snapping the silver sword like kindling. The other closed around the witcher’s throat, lifting him off his feet.

“She is not yours to kill, hunter.”

Eskel’s potions fell from his belt as he clawed at the hand crushing his windpipe. The witcher’s mutations made him stronger than any human, but against an enraged higher vampire? He might as well have been trying to fight the tide.

“Dettlaff.” Her voice came weak, blood bubbling between her lips. “Don’t…”

His head turned toward her, and for a moment, Rhena saw something flicker in those storm-blue eyes—recognition, possession, grief, madness. All of it twisting together into something truly terrifyingly intense.

“Rest now, little bird.” His voice was softer but no less dangerous. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Silver burned through Rhena's veins like liquid fire. She lay in the bloodied snow, each breath a struggle as the cursed metal worked its way through her system. Through dimming vision, she watched Dettlaff hurl Eskel into a tree. The impact cracked through the winter air like breaking ice. The witcher hit the ground hard, blood staining his lips crimson, yet somehow rolled to his feet. His mutations kept him moving where a normal man's spine would have shattered.

"You dare," Dettlaff's voice held centuries of rage, "to lay hands on what is mine?"

Rhena tried to speak, to stop what was about to happen, but blood filled her mouth. The silver burns spread deeper, each heartbeat carrying poison further into her flesh.

Eskel spat blood onto the snow. "Yours?" His laugh was wet, broken. "Another vampire staking claim—not just to human lands, but to your own kind?"

"She is nothing like your kind." Dettlaff's form rippled, bones cracking as he let his true shape emerge. "Nothing like the mortals you scurry to protect."

The sound of impact reached her before she could focus her eyes—the meaty thud of claws meeting flesh, Eskel's grunt of pain.

"Oy!" Johnny's voice pierced through her fading consciousness. "Let her go, you shadow-skulking bastard! Let her—"

The world tilted as arms lifted her from the ground. Dettlaff's scent surrounded her—storm winds and mountain air, tinged with the copper of Eskel's blood. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the violence he'd unleashed moments before. She felt him gather her against his chest, heard the rumble of his voice threatening the witcher.

"If you follow us," the words vibrated through his chest where her head rested, "if you dare pursue what is mine again, I will ensure your death is neither quick nor kind."

"Leech!" Johnny's voice cracked with panic as the godling called frantically to Rhena. "You fight everyone else—why not him? Don’t let him take you, you stupid, stubborn healer!" His small hands curled into fists, trembling with rage and terror. "You think the village can go without you? That I can?"

She tried to turn toward his voice, to reach out, to do something—anything—but her body refused to obey. Dettlaff's arms tightened around her, and she felt the peculiar sensation of his form beginning to shift, preparing to take them both into mist.

"Sleep now, little bird," he murmured, and there was something terrible in the tenderness of his voice. "When you wake, everything will be as it should be. As it was meant to be."

The last sounds to reach her were Johnny’s broken screams—her name, ripped from him like something torn against his will, raw and desperate as it carried into the uncaring winter wind.

Then darkness took her, and she knew no more.

Chapter Text

REGIS remained in the cave long after Rhena's departure, her scent lingering in the air like autumn leaves and night-blooming flowers, mingled with the metallic tang of the bruxa's blood. The kiss still burned on his lips—their first, and quite possibly their last, given Dettlaff's ravens circling overhead. He should follow her. Should make sure she reached the village safely. Should—

A scream split the dawn air.

Not Rhena's—higher, ancient, filled with terror and rage. A godling's voice.

Johnny.

Regis didn't hesitate. He dissolved into mist, rushing through the trees toward the sound. The scent hit him before he reached the clearing—silver and blood and fear, Rhena's blood, and beneath it all, the acrid stench of a witcher's potions.

The ravens had scattered.

Regis stood in the bloodied snow, fingers still against his thigh for once, every sense alert. Silver-scorched earth. Fresh blood on broken branches. The witcher's chemical tang clung to the broken brush, and Dettlaff's presence lingered like a storm's aftermath.

"Stupid, stupid, STUPID!"

The godling’s voice cracked through the dawn air like breaking ice. Johnny paced the edge of the clearing, his ancient little face twisted with grief and rage.

“Should’ve kept my ploughing mouth shut, that’s what! Should’ve stayed hidden like she said! But no, had to play the hero, didn’t I? Fat lot of good that did!”

“Johnny.” Regis kept his voice carefully neutral, though his damned fingers had begun their nervous tapping again. “Tell me what happened. Everything.”

The godling’s wild yellow eyes fixed on him. “What happened? What HAPPENED?” He kicked a frozen branch, sending it spinning across the snow. “Your friend went mad, that’s what happened! First, the witcher with his silver sword had a go at her, then the dark one with his stormy sad eyes, and our midwife caught between them like a hare in a snare!”

Regis knelt, examining the blood-spattered snow. The patterns told a story his centuries of experience read all too clearly: the spray pattern of silver cutting vampire flesh, the impact point where Dettlaff had thrown Eskel, the spot where Rhena had fallen. His fingers delicately brushed the crimson ice, and he fought back a snarl at the scent of silver poison in Rhena’s blood.

“Start from the beginning,” he said, his cultured voice oddly flat. “Leave nothing out.”

And so Johnny told him, words tumbling out between muttered curses and self-recrimination. Told him of Eskel’s suspicions, of his ill-fated attempt at distraction, of silver singing through the air and blood on the snow. Of Dettlaff’s arrival, terrible in his rage, and Rhena’s weakness from the silver burning through her veins.

“He took her.” Johnny’s ancient voice cracked. “Just…bloody took her. Like she was his to claim! And I couldn’t—” He broke off, small hands clenched into trembling fists. “What kind of protector am I? Can’t even help one stubborn healer!”

“You tried to save her.” Regis’s fingers stilled their tapping. “That’s more than most would dare. Though perhaps," Regis added, fingers twitching in irritation, "if you hadn't made such a habit of eavesdropping from those rafters of yours, we wouldn't be in this predicament at all."

“Oh, and a fat lot of good it did me! Now she’s gone, and the village ladies need her, and I need—” The godling cut himself off, swiping angrily at his eyes.

Regis adjusted his cuffs with precise movements, jaw tightening at the godling's display. Even centuries-old beings could act like children, it seemed. A frantic squeaking interrupted the creature's tirade. Skura emerged from Johnny’s pocket, whiskers quivering with distress. The little brown mouse scrambled down the godling’s leg and darted across the snow toward Regis, tiny paws leaving precise tracks in the bloodied frost.

“Oy!” Johnny made a mad grab for the mouse. “Get back here! I promised her I’d keep you safe, didn’t I?”

But Skura was having none of it. The mouse stood on his hind legs before Regis, squeaking with such determined intensity that even Johnny fell silent. There was something unnervingly intelligent in those beady black eyes—something that spoke of months in Rhena’s company, absorbing who knew what influences from a higher vampire’s prolonged presence.

“Well,” Regis said softly, kneeling to offer his hand to the mouse. “It seems someone else wishes to join our search.”

“Don’t be daft!” Johnny protested. “It’s a mouse, herb man! A clever mouse, sure, but still just a—”

Skura chittered angrily, his tiny teeth bared in what could only be described as a snarl.

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence,” Regis advised, his lips twitching slightly as Skura climbed determinedly up his sleeve. “I believe we’ve just been overruled.” His dark eyes met the mouse’s fierce gaze. “Though I wonder what our dear midwife would say about this development, hmm?”

Skura’s only response was to settle firmly on his shoulder, whiskers forward, clearly ready for whatever came next.

“Well?! Aren’t you going to do something?” Johnny demanded, stomping his foot in frustration, though the godling’s voice held a note of admiration for the mouse’s courage. “Chase after them? Fight the dark one for her?”

Regis stood slowly, brushing snow from his knees with deliberate care. "No." Regis's tone held the same clinical detachment he'd used when discovering Johnny had been spying on them from Rhena's rafters. "And your previous attempts at 'helping' have caused quite enough damage for one night, wouldn't you agree?"

"No?" Johnny's voice rose an octave. "What do you mean, no? Don't you care that he took her? That she's hurt? That—"

"Dettlaff will not harm her."

"How can you be so sure? After what he did to—"

"Because," Regis interrupted, his voice holding an edge that made even the ancient godling pause, "I know him. Better than most. And I know what drives him."

He turned in a slow circle, taking in the scene with vampire-sharp senses. The dawn light caught on broken branches, on scattered potions, on the twisted remains of Eskel's silver sword. But more telling was the things he couldn't see—no signs of Dettlaff's true rage, no bodies torn asunder, no devastation left in his wake. Just precise, controlled violence. Protection, not possession.

“The silver would have incapacitated her completely,” Regis said quietly. “Eskel’s blade was cursed, spelled specifically to harm our kind. While it  couldn’t grant her true death, it would have left her helpless, trapped in a state of endless agony until the poison was purged.” His fingers resumed their nervous tapping against his thigh. “Dettlaff knows this. Knows the specific rituals required to cleanse such poison from a higher vampire’s system.”

“So what?” Johnny kicked another branch. “We just wait here? Let him keep her?” he demanded, almost sounding angry with Regis.

“No.” Regis’s dark eyes fixed on the horizon. “We follow. But first…” He turned toward the trees, where heavy footfalls announced an approaching presence. “We deal with our witcher problem.”

Eskel emerged from the pines like a wolf with a broken rib—cautious, dangerous, and more than slightly unstable. Blood stained his armor where Dettlaff’s claws had found purchase. His remaining potions clinked at his belt, and his hand never strayed far from his steel sword, though the silver one lay in pieces across the snow.

“Ploughing whoreson,” Johnny spat with disgust. “Come to finish what you started, witcher?”

“Language,” Regis chided mildly, though his dark eyes never left Eskel. “I believe our healer would have something to say about that particular habit of yours, would she not?”

Johnny’s wild hair bristled. “Well, she’s not here to scold me now, is she? Thanks to him and his cursed silver—”

Eskel’s cat-like eyes narrowed. “Came to make sure the leech didn’t leave any presents behind. Like dead villagers. Or a certain meddling godling.”

“Ah.” Regis stepped forward, placing himself between Eskel and Johnny. “Then we find ourselves at an interesting convergence of priorities. You see, master witcher, I too am concerned about the village. About its people. About their rather remarkable midwife.”

“Their so-called ‘remarkable midwife,’” Eskel’s scarred face twisted in disgust, “is a gods-damned vampire.”

“Indeed.” Regis’s voice remained pleasant, though something darker lurked beneath the cultured tones. “As am I. How fascinating that we’ve both managed to live among humans for so long without incident. Almost as if we’re not the monsters your bestiary would have you and your brothers believe.”

Eskel’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. “You’re saying you’re one of them? Like her? Like the one that took her?”

“I’m saying,” Regis replied in as calm a voice as he could manage, though he could feel his frustration mounting, “that the situation is more complex than your silver sword can solve, witcher. And that we now face a choice: continue this rather tedious dance of threats and prejudices, or work together to prevent this from becoming the very tragedy you fear.”

“Hah! That's rich!” Johnny’s shrill laugh cut through the tension. “Have you gone off your wits, herb man? Work with him? The same witcher who just tried to take our midwife’s head? Who’s threatened every non-human he’s met? Who—”

“Who,” Regis interrupted smoothly, “has not yet raised the alarm in the village. Who came here alone rather than with a hunting party. Who, despite his rather dramatic attempts at violence, has shown remarkable restraint for a witcher facing three vampires in as many days.”

Eskel’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in those inhuman eyes. “Four,” he said finally. “Four vampires. The bruxa makes four.”

“Ah.” Regis’s eyebrows rose. “So you’ve been counting. Observing. Learning, perhaps?”

“Learning that your kind’s been infiltrating this region like rats in a granary.”

“Interesting metaphor.” Regis tilted his head. “Though I wonder—in all your careful observation, did you notice how many of those rats, as you so colorfully put it, have harmed the humans they live among?"

A muscle ticked in Eskel’s jaw. “The bruxa—”

“Was not one of us,” Regis cut in. “Was not, in fact, even from this region. Was dealt with rather definitively, I might add, by the very vampire you just attempted to execute.”

“Aye!” Johnny bounced on his toes. “Our healer’s saved more lives than you have, witcher! When was the last time you helped birth a babe? Or treated the flux? Or—”

“Enough.” Regis’s quiet voice stopped the godling’s tirade. “Perhaps we could focus on more immediate concerns? Such as the fact that the village’s only midwife is currently missing, and the miller’s daughter’s twins are due any day now?”

That got both of their attention. Eskel’s scarred face darkened. “Twins?”

“Oh aye,” Johnny’s ancient yellow eyes gleamed. “And not just any twins. Breeched ones, if our healer’s right. And she’s always right about these kinds of things.” He shot Eskel a withering look. “Course, if you’d rather explain to the miller’s wife why her babies died because you drove off the only midwife who could save them…”

Regis watched the conflict play across the witcher’s face.  For all their mutations, for all their training, witchers were still bound by their codes. Their understanding of necessary evils.

“The bruxa,” Eskel said finally. “You’re sure it wasn’t…local?”

“Quite sure.” Regis kept his voice neutral. “As was Rhena. Which is why she killed it.”

“Killed it.” Eskel’s laugh held no humor. “A vampire killing vampires. That’s rich.”

“Is it?” Regis raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, witcher—how many monsters have you killed to protect humans? How many of your kind have you put down when they proved dangerous to others?”

The silence stretched between them past the point of comfort, thick as winter fog. Above, the ravens had begun to return, circling the clearing like harbingers of ill fortune. Regis could sense Dettlaff’s presence in them, keeping watch through borrowed eyes.

Finally, Eskel spoke. “You know where he took her.”

“I have theories.”

“And you’re going after them.”

“Naturally.”

Another long pause. Only the sound of snow falling from laden branches broke the unnatural stillness that had fallen over the clearing.

“Those twins,” Eskel said finally, his voice strained. “When are they due?”

“Any day now,” Johnny piped up.

Eskel’s hand tightened on his sword hilt rather than leaving it. His scarred face was a mask of conflicting duties. Another long pause. Only the sound of snow falling from laden branches broke the unnatural stillness that had fallen over the clearing. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “You’ll regret it. Sooner or later.”

Regis smiled faintly. “Perhaps. But I suspect that’s a risk I’ll have to take.”

Eskel exhaled sharply through his nose. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the trees, leaving them with the weight of his unspoken warning hanging in the bitter cold air.

Johnny scowled. “What? That’s it, fangs? He just walks off? Not even an apology for nearly carving us up?”

Regis watched Eskel’s silhouette fade into the distance. “He didn’t come here to apologize. He came to see if we were worth sparing.”

Johnny spat into the snow. “Tch. Humans.”

Regis’s lips quirked, but his eyes remained distant. “Indeed.” Regis knelt once more in the bloodied snow, his keen senses filtering through the cacophony of scents. The lingering scent of Dettlaff’s rage. The bite of the witcher’s potions spilled in battle. And beneath it all, the sweet metallic thread of Rhena’s blood, tainted with silver.

“Well?” Johnny demanded, his voice turning tight with worry. “Can you track them or not, herb man?”

“Your incessant questions do nothing to expedite the process,” Regis replied tersely, closing his eyes to focus. “Tracking a higher vampire is rather like trying to catch smoke with one’s bare hands. Particularly when said vampire doesn’t wish to be found.”

Skura squeaked indignantly from his perch on Regis’s shoulder, the mouse’s tiny claws digging into the fabric of his doublet.

“Yes, well, your presence has been duly noted,” Regis murmured, more to himself than the mouse. “Though I suspect Rhena would have strong opinions about this particular development.”

He stood, brushing snow from his knees with deliberate care. The ravens still circled overhead, their black wings cutting shadows across the dawn-painted sky. Dettlaff was watching, waiting. The question was—for what?

“He’ll have taken her somewhere defensible,” Regis mused aloud, ignoring Johnny’s restless pacing. “Somewhere he can perform the ritual without interruption. Somewhere with significance…”

Johnny stomped his foot impatiently, the wind bristling in his wild black hair. “Well? Don’t just stand there looking grim, fangs! You must have some idea where the stormy one’s taken her!”

Regis’s fingers stilled their agitated tapping as a thought struck him—one that sent a chill down his spine despite his vampiric nature.

“There is…someone who would know. Though approaching them is not without risk.”

"Well?" Johnny bounced impatiently on his toes. "Out with it then! Who's this mysterious someone?"

"We call them Elders," Regis said carefully, watching the godling's reaction. "An ancient power that rules these lands, to whom all of our kind must present themselves. Every vampire who wishes to remain in this territory must declare their intentions, must receive permission to stay."

Johnny's wild eyes widened. "Wait, you mean there's something even scarier than you lot? Something that makes vampires ask pretty please before settling down?"

“Scarier is…perhaps not the right word.” Regis chose his next words with careful precision. “Elders are to us what we are to humans. A force of nature. Ancient. Absolute.” His fingers resumed their nervous tapping. “Dettlaff would have had to present himself, would have had to declare where he intended to make his lair.”

“And you think your Elder will just…tell you?” Jonny’s face scrunched up with skepticism. “Just like that?”

"No." Regis straightened his spine, steeling himself for what lay ahead. "Not just like that. But they are bound by certain rules and certain traditions. And I suspect they're already aware of what has happened here."

Skura squeaked anxiously from his perch on Regis's shoulder, tiny claws digging deeper into the fabric of his doublet.

"Don't suppose there's a less terrifying option?" Johnny shifted uneasily. "Maybe we could try searching the woods instead?"

"The woods are vast, and we have precious little time." Regis's dark eyes fixed on the horizon. "The Elder will know where Dettlaff has taken her. Though getting that information..." He trailed off, unwilling to voice just what dealing with such an ancient power might cost. "You cannot come with me,” Regis continued, his tone brooking no argument. “The village will be waking soon. Questions will be asked about Rhena’s absence. Someone needs to maintain appearances, to prevent panic from spreading.” He fixed the godling with a stern look. “And you, my diminutive little friend, need to stay hidden. The witcher’s presence has already drawn too much attention to what lurks in these woods.”

“But—” Johnny began to protest.

“No.” Regis’s voice held an edge sharp enough to make even the ancient ornery godling pause. “The Elder is not like us. Not like anything you’ve encountered. He would sense your presence instantly, and I cannot guarantee your safety.” His expression softened slightly. “Besides, Rhena would never forgive me if I led you into such peril.”

Skura squeaked from his perch on Regis's shoulder, as if lending weight to his argument.

Johnny trembled with indignation, but there was real fear beneath his bravado. "And what am I supposed to do?" The godling's yellow eyes narrowed in disgust. "Hide in my rafters while you poke ancient bloodsucker powers with a stick?"

"You will return to the cottage," Regis said firmly. "Keep watch. Make sure no well-meaning villagers check on their missing midwife. And most importantly—" He fixed the godling with a stern look. "Stay out of sight. We don't need tales of strange creatures spreading through the village. Not with a witcher already suspecting more than he should."

"Don't like it," Johnny muttered, kicking at the snow. "But suppose you have a point."

"You don't have to like it. You simply have to do it."

The godling lingered at the edge of the clearing, his small frame shrinking beneath the weight of inaction. "You'll bring her back then?"

"I will do what must be done." Regis kept his tone carefully neutral.

"That's the sort of thing people say when they're planning something stupid." Johnny's yellow eyes held surprising wisdom. "Just don't get yourself killed. She wouldn't forgive me for letting you go alone."

"Letting me?" Regis arched an eyebrow.

"Someone's got to look after you fancy blood drinkers." Johnny straightened, trying to look fierce despite his size. "Three days, remember? That's what the witcher said."

"I remember." Regis adjusted his doublet. "Now go. Keep watch over her cottage. And Johnny?" He fixed the godling with a stern look. "Do try to refrain from 'borrowing' anything while I'm gone."

"Everyone's a critic." But the godling's voice held no heat. He turned to go, then paused. "Herb man?"

"Yes?"

"When you find her..." The godling's voice softened. "Tell her the rafters are too quiet."

Then he was gone, vanishing into the shadows between the trees with a grace that belied his usual clumsy demeanor. Regis watched him go, noting how even ancient godlings retained their childish dramatics. Another complication in an already delicate situation.

Only when Johnny's footsteps had faded completely did Regis turn toward the deeper woods, where the air grew thick with ancient power and the promise of answers that would not come without cost.

THE Elder's domain gaped before them. No birds. No wind. Only silence and earth that swallowed snowflakes before they could land. Skura had fallen silent, his tiny heart thrumming a frantic rhythm against Regis's shoulder.

Nature itself seemed to hold its breath, as if afraid to draw the attention of what dwelt in the depths below. The entrance to the Elder's lair gaped before them—a jagged mouth in the mountainside that seemed to swallow what little light remained of the dawn.

The last time Regis had walked this path, he'd come to request permission to stay. Now he sought something far more dangerous—information the Elder might not wish to give. Every step closer sent ancient instincts screaming in warning, the kind of bone-deep recognition of a greater predator that even centuries of civilization couldn't quite silence.

At the threshold of the Elder's domain, where the cursed earth began, Regis paused as Skura's heartbeat spiked. The mouse's fear was a tangible thing, as rational as it was futile. Even the smallest creatures knew when they stood at the edge of something ancient and terrible.

"You don't have to continue," Regis said softly, reaching up to offer his palm to the mouse. "What lies ahead...even we vampires fear to tread here without cause. The Elder is..." He paused, searching for words that could capture the terrible majesty of what waited below. "Time itself has a different meaning to them. Mortal concerns, even vampire concerns, are like ripples on a vast ocean. Meaningless. Temporary."

Skura stood on his hind legs in Regis's palm, whiskers quivering as he faced the vampire. His tiny black eyes held that unnerving intelligence that spoke of long exposure to Rhena's influence. The mouse chittered sharply, then deliberately turned to face the darkness ahead, his stance unmistakable.

"Loyal to her, aren't you?" Regis studied his diminutive companion with growing respect. "Though I wonder—did she choose you, or did you choose her? What did you see in her that made you decide to stay, knowing what she was?" His voice grew softer, almost contemplative. "Perhaps you saw the same thing I did. That rare ability to walk between worlds without losing herself. To be both predator and healer, monster and savior."

The mouse's only response was to scramble back onto his shoulder, tiny claws gripping the fabric of his doublet with fierce determination.

"Very well then." Regis's voice held a quiet respect. "Though I suspect she would strongly oppose us both risking ourselves this way." He gazed into the consuming darkness ahead. "Shall we face the ancient terror together, little friend?"

Skura's answering squeak held more courage than any mouse should possess. Together, they stepped into the darkness, where the very air grew thick with power older than empires.

The darkness swallowed them whole. Regis's vampiric sight revealed more than he wished to see—walls that wept something thicker than water, leaving trails in the ancient stone that seemed to pulse with their own inner light. Their footsteps, despite Regis's natural grace, echoed unnaturally in the stillness. As if something wanted to announce their approach. As if their very presence was an amusement to whatever waited in the depths.

The passages twisted in ways that defied mortal geometry, spiraling deeper into the mountain's heart. Regis had walked this path before, when he'd first come to these lands, yet somehow the way seemed different now. Longer. More treacherous. The very stone beneath their feet seemed to shift and breathe, as if the mountain itself was alive and aware of their intrusion.

"Strange," Regis murmured, more to himself than to Skura, "how paths change when our purpose differs. Last time, I came seeking permission. A simple thing, really. Bureaucracy, even among our kind." His fingers resumed their nervous tapping against his thigh. "But now... now we come seeking something far more precious than permission. We come seeking truth. And truth, little friend, always carries the highest price."

The passage opened suddenly into a vast chamber that defied mortal architecture. The ceiling soared into darkness, supported by columns that might have been stone, bone, or something else entirely. The air hummed with power older than empires, than civilization itself. Ancient symbols carved into the walls pulsed with an inner light that cast no shadows, their meanings lost to all but the most ancient of their kind.

The Elder waited in the heart of the chamber, seated cross-legged on the floor as he had during Regis's first visit. His form was deceptively simple—a figure that might have passed for human if one didn't look too closely, didn't notice how the light bent wrongly around him, how the very air seemed to recoil from his presence. His face remained a careful mask of serenity that did nothing to hide the predatory hunger in his ancient eyes. Those eyes fixed on Regis now, ancient and knowing and utterly inhuman.

"Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy." The name rolled from his tongue like thunder, like broken glass, like everything that had ever inspired terror in mortal hearts. Each syllable carried weight, as if the Elder was tasting memories associated with each part of his name. "You return to me so soon. How... interesting."

Regis sank to his knees, careful not to disturb Skura's perch on his shoulder. The mouse's whiskers trembled, but to his credit, he didn't flee. "Elder. I come seeking—"

"I know why you come." The Elder's voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, echoing not just in the chamber but in the very marrow of Regis's bones. "The one who bears the weight of grief like a crown. The one who sees ghosts in the faces of the living." His eyes narrowed slightly. "And the female, the healer, who dares to walk between worlds. Who plays at being mortal while carrying power that could burn villages to ash." A pause, pregnant with meaning. "Tell me, Regis, what fascinates you so about these... experiments in mortality?"

The question carried layers of meaning, centuries of observation. Regis felt the weight of it press against his skin like physical force. "Elder, with respect, I haven't come to discuss—"

"Haven't you?" The Elder's laugh was like ice breaking, like bones snapping, like everything that haunted mortal nightmares. "Everything you do, every choice you make, circles around this same question. This... obsession with mortality. First the witcher, now the healer. You collect them like precious stones, these creatures who dare to defy their nature."

"Dettlaff has taken her." Regis kept his voice steady through centuries of practice, though his fingers betrayed him with their constant motion against his thigh. "She's been wounded with silver. I must—"

"Must?" Power crackled through the chamber like lightning, making the ancient symbols on the walls flare with sickly light. "You dare speak to me of must?"

Skura squeaked—a tiny, defiant sound that somehow carried more courage than sense. The Elder's gaze shifted to the mouse, and something like amusement flickered across their features.

"How fascinating." The Elder's voice held the same detached interest a scholar might show a particularly unusual specimen. "You bring we Elders such interesting companions, Emiel Regis. First, the witcher who dared to be your friend, and now... this." He gestured to Skura. "A mortal creature that chooses to stay despite knowing what you are. That bears your presence without fleeing in terror." His head tilted at an angle that was just wrong enough to send shivers down Regis's spine. "Perhaps there is something to this... experiment of yours after all."

"The mouse belongs to her," Regis said carefully. "Another example of her ability to bridge worlds that should remain separate, I suppose."

"Ah, but he chose to come with you, did he not? To face ancient terror for the sake of his mistress?" The Elder's smile held too many teeth, all of them sharp. "Love makes fools of us all, it seems. Even the smallest of creatures." Their gaze fixed on Regis with terrible knowing. "Even the most controlled of vampires."

Regis remained carefully still, every muscle coiled with tension. "Elder, please. The silver poison spreads with every moment we delay. I seek only to—"

"To save her? To play the hero?" The Elder's voice held centuries of amusement. "Or perhaps... to prove something to yourself? About the nature of monsters and men, about the boundaries between worlds?" He  rose in one fluid motion that seemed to defy both gravity and sense. "Tell me, Regis, when did you first realize you were falling? Was it when she dared to face the bruxa rather than flee? When she proved herself a predator worthy of our blood? Or was it earlier... when you first saw her healing the very mortals she could so easily prey upon?"

"My feelings are irrelevant to the current situation."

"Are they?" The Elder glided closer, each movement a whispered threat. "Everything flows from the same dark river, Emiel Regis. Every choice, every desire, every fortress you've built around your heart. All paths led here - to you on your knees, bargaining for what you could find yourself, if only you had..." The Elder's lips curved in a smile that never reached his pale, empty eyes. "But that's the crux, isn't it? Time is the one currency you cannot spare."

"If I could find her on my own," Regis said carefully, "I would not risk coming here."

"And if I choose not to help?" The Elder's head tilted again, that terrible wrongness in the movement making Regis's immortal blood run cold. "If I decide this... attachment you've formed requires correction?"

"Then I will find her anyway." The words escaped before wisdom could catch them, raw with an emotion Regis usually kept carefully contained. "Though it may take longer, cost more."

"Cost more?" The Elder's laugh was like ice breaking. "And what would you pay, Regis? What price would you consider fair for this... information you seek?"

Regis met the Elder's ghostly gaze without flinching. "Whatever you ask."

"Whatever I ask?" The Elder's voice held ancient amusement. "How... reckless. Though I suppose that's rather the point, isn't it? This... attachment you've formed. It makes you reckless. Makes you willing to pay prices you haven't even heard named."

The air grew thicker, heavier with power that made even Regis's immortal blood run cold. Skura trembled against his neck but held his ground, tiny claws digging deeper into the fabric of the doublet.

"Very well." The Elder moved with that terrible fluid grace that defied natural law. "I will tell you where your grief-mad brother has taken his prize. But first..." He moved closer, and the very darkness seemed to shrink from its approach. "You will give me a truth. One you've not yet spoken aloud. One that burns in your blood like poison."

Regis went very still. "A truth?"

"The one you've been avoiding since you first caught her scent on the wind." The Elder's colorless eyes seemed to pierce through centuries of careful control. "The one that makes you willing to kneel here before me, offering blank promises of payment."

Regis's fingers stilled their tapping against his thigh. His face remained carefully neutral, though something shifted behind his dark eyes. "You want me to admit—"

"Say it." Power crackled through the chamber, making the ancient symbols pulse with sickly light. "Name it. Give it form. Speak the truth that terrifies you more than silver, more than sunlight, more than all the mortal hunters who have ever sought our kind."

"She... matters to me." The words fell into the darkness like stones into still water, creating ripples that seemed to distort reality itself. "From the moment I saw her, something shifted. I don't understand it yet—five days is nothing to our kind—but something draws me to her. Something I can't ignore."

"Ah." The Elder's satisfaction filled the chamber. "Fascinating. You dance around what's growing between you, something that could become more terrible than silver, more binding than any curse." He gestured, and darkness parted like a curtain, revealing a path deeper into the mountain. "He has taken her to the Caves of Silence, where the mountain's heart beats slowest. Where silver first grew in the earth's bones. There he will attempt to purge the poison from her blood through the old rituals."

"The Caves of Silence?" Regis fought to keep his voice steady. "But the rituals there—"

"Are dangerous? Yes. Fatal, if performed incorrectly." The Elder's smile held no warmth. "But then... you already knew the price of such attachments would be measured in blood, didn't you?" He turned away, his form seeming to blur at the edges. "Go then. But remember—some choices, once made, reshape the very fabric of fate."

Regis didn't run. Running before a predator was never wise. But his pace as he left the Elder's domain might have been described as deliberately swift. Only when they reached the surface, where clean winter air replaced the cloying darkness below, did he allow himself to truly breathe.

Skura squeaked questioningly, whiskers brushing against Regis's ear.

"Yes," he said softly, gazing toward the distant peaks where the Caves of Silence waited. "I suppose I did mean it. Every word."

The ravens wheeled against the iron-grey sky, carrying tales back to their master. Regis watched them wheel against the iron-grey sky and made a choice. Some truths, once spoken, could never be untold. Some paths, once chosen, could never be untaken.

Time to see where this one led.

Chapter Text

CONSCIOUSNESS returned slowly, like blood seeping through bandages. First came the scents—damp stone and stale air, moldering leaves and something metallic that might have been blood. Then sound—water dripping somewhere in the darkness, the scrape of claws on stone, the whisper of wings. Finally, pain—silver burning through her veins like liquid fire, each breath a struggle against wounds that refused to heal properly.

Rhena kept her eyes closed, gathering what information she could without alerting her captor. The stone beneath her was cold and smooth, worn by centuries of water and time. The air held the musty stillness of a place long abandoned by mortal feet. A cave system, then. But where? How long had she been unconscious?

"I know you're awake." Dettlaff's voice came from somewhere to her left. "Your breathing changed."

Damn. She'd forgotten that particular tell—the way higher vampires instinctively mimicked human respiratory patterns even in sleep. A habit born of centuries living among mortals, betraying her now when she could least afford it.

Rhena opened her eyes to darkness. Not the comforting darkness of her cottage or the familiar shadows of the woods she'd come to know so well over the decades. This was older darkness, deeper. The kind that held secrets in its depths.

"Where am I?" Her voice came rough, throat raw from silver exposure.

"Safe." Dettlaff moved closer, his form more shadow than substance in the gloom. "Away from those who would harm you."

The words held an edge of possessive fury that made something cold settle in Rhena's chest. She tried to sit up, but pain lanced through her side where Eskel's blade had struck. The wounds weren't healing properly—too much exposure to silver, too deep, too precise. The witcher had known exactly where to strike.

"The village—" she started, but Dettlaff cut her off with a gesture.

"Is no longer your concern." His eyes gleamed in the darkness, storm-blue and terrible. "That life is finished now. You need not pretend anymore."

Rhena forced herself to breathe steadily, to think past the burning in her veins. "There are women who depend on me. Births I need to attend—"

"Let the mortals tend to their own kind." Bitterness crept into his voice. "You owe them nothing. Less than nothing, after how quickly they turned on you. How easily that witcher convinced them to—"

"What did you do?" Fear clawed at her throat. "Dettlaff, what did you do to Eskel?"

A sound escaped him—not quite a laugh, not quite a snarl. "The hunter lives, more's the pity. But he'll think twice before raising silver against what's mine again." His form rippled with barely contained fury, the temperature in the cave dropping several degrees. "And when next we meet..." He bared his teeth. "Silver works both ways, doesn't it?"

There it was again. That word. Mine. As if she were a possession to be claimed, a prize to be won through violence and blood. As if the life she'd built meant nothing compared to his obsession.

"I'm not yours." Rhena managed to push herself into a sitting position, a feat that her silver-poisoned body celebrated by sending waves of agony through her nervous system. Fascinating, really, how something as simple as metal could reduce an immortal being to this state. The humans had learned that trick early—if you couldn't kill the monster, at least make it wish you had. "I'm not Syanna. I'm not some ghost for you to chase across the centuries."

"No." He moved closer, and the first rays of dawn filtering through some unseen crack in the cave ceiling caught his features like a theatrical spotlight seeking its tragic hero. "You're something far more precious. A second chance. A sign that fate itself seeks to right what was wronged."

Ah yes, fate. That most convenient of excuses, beloved by kings and peasants alike when they needed justification for particularly questionable decisions. Though she had to admit, this was the first time she'd heard it used to rationalize kidnapping.

"I'm a midwife," she said, meeting his gaze with the steady patience she usually reserved for particularly difficult births. "Nothing more, nothing less. The life I built—"

"Was a lie." His voice held something almost gentle now, which was rather like noting that a wolf's teeth were almost soft just before it ripped out your throat. "A beautiful deception, but a deception nonetheless. You were meant for more than playing nursemaid to creatures who would turn on you in an instant."

Rhena thought of her cottage, with its carefully ordered chaos of medicinal herbs and birthing implements. Of Johnny's hidden caches of treasures, each item selected with the dubious taste of a magpie with aspirations to interior decoration. Of Skura's elaborate nest, built with scraps stolen from her mending basket with all the stealth of a drunk dwarf trying to sneak past a sleeping dragon. Small things, perhaps, but they were her small things, chosen and cherished over decades of what humans would call a lifetime.

"You're wrong." She forced steel into her voice, though the silver in her blood made it feel more like tin. "That life wasn't a lie. It was a choice. My choice."

"A choice made in ignorance." Dettlaff knelt beside her with the grace of a predator choosing its moment. His hand reached out to brush her hair back, a gesture that managed to be both tender and terrifying—rather like being caressed by a particularly affectionate mantrap. "You've been alone so long, little bird. Playing at mortality because you knew nothing else. But now—"

"Now nothing." Rhena jerked away from his touch, a move her wounds immediately informed her was rather poorly thought out. "I'm not your redemption, Dettlaff. I'm not your second chance. I'm just—"

"You move like her." His voice had gone distant, lost in memories that were probably best left buried. "The way you tilt your head when you're thinking. The grace in your hands when you work. Even your name—Rhena, Rhenawedd, so close it makes my heart ache."

Hearts, Rhena mused darkly, were troublesome things even when they weren't strictly necessary for survival. They had a way of convincing otherwise rational beings to do spectacularly stupid things. Like, for instance, kidnapping another vampire because she happened to share some mannerisms with a dead woman.

"Stop." The word came out sharper than she'd intended, though given the circumstances, perhaps sharp was exactly what was needed. "I'm not her. I'll never be her. And this obsession of yours—it's going to destroy us both if you don't let it go."

His expression darkened like storm clouds gathering over particularly unfortunate farmland. "You don't understand. Not yet. But you will." He stood, movements fluid as smoke and about as substantial. "Rest now. The silver will work its way out of your system soon enough."

"And then what?" Rhena watched him pace the cave like a caged beast, though in this case the beast had locked itself in with its prey, which rather defeated the purpose of cages in general. "You'll keep me here until I become what you want? Until I learn to play the part you've written for me?"

"Until you remember who you truly are." His voice held the absolute conviction of the truly mad, which was always so much more dangerous than simple insanity. "Until you stop hiding behind this facade of humanity and embrace what fate has given us both."

The scrape of claws on stone drew her attention to the darker reaches of the cave. Red eyes gleamed in the shadows—bruxae, called by their master's will. An audience for this particularly twisted performance, then. Though she had to wonder if they appreciated the dramatic irony of the situation as much as she did.

A cry echoed through the cave system, high and piercing. A raven's call, but not quite natural. Too deliberate, too focused. Like the ones that had watched her with Regis, studying them both like particularly well-trained spies.

Regis.

The thought of him sent a fresh wave of pain through her chest that had nothing to do with silver. Where was he now? Searching for her? Or had Dettlaff's feathered spies led him on a merry chase across the countryside, keeping him occupied while their master enacted this particularly elaborate piece of theatrical lunacy?

"He won't find us." Dettlaff's voice cut through her thoughts like a particularly dull knife through tough meat. "My ravens will make sure of that. And even if he did..." A sound escaped him that might have been a laugh, if laughter could curdle milk. "Well. Some bonds are stronger than friendship, aren't they?"

The implication hung in the air between them, heavy as a executioner's ax. Regis wouldn't risk confronting Dettlaff directly—not after what had happened in Beauclair. The debt between them was too great, the history too complex. Like most relationships that spanned centuries, it was complicated in ways that would make a royal court's intrigues seem straightforward by comparison.

"He'll come." Rhena forced conviction into her voice, though doubt gnawed at her heart with particularly sharp teeth. "He won't abandon me to your madness."

"Madness?" Dettlaff's laugh could have frozen hellfire. "Is it madness to recognize what fate has given us? To seize the chance at redemption when it's offered?"

"This isn't redemption." Rhena met his gaze steadily, the way she might face down a particularly difficult patient who insisted on doing exactly the opposite of what was good for them. "It's obsession. Possession. The same darkness that drove you to murder in Beauclair."

His expression twisted like a snake with indigestion. "You know nothing of Beauclair. Of what was taken from me. Of what—"

"I know enough." She cut him off, anger giving her strength where silver had taken it. "I know you murdered innocent people because one woman betrayed you. I know you let grief twist you into something monstrous. And now you're doing it again, seeing ghosts where there are none, trying to force the world to bend to your will."

The temperature in the cave dropped sharply, as if winter itself had decided to pay a particularly ill-timed visit. Frost crackled across the stone floor, spreading outward from where Dettlaff stood like nature's own commentary on his mental state. His form rippled, human features giving way to something darker, more primal—the kind of thing that made humans invent religion, if only to have someone to pray to when they encountered it.

"Careful, little bird." His voice had gone midnight-deep, resonating with power that made the air itself tremble like a nobleman faced with honest work. "Even my patience has limits."

Rhena forced herself to breathe steadily, a purely theatrical gesture given their mutual lack of need for oxygen. "Kill me then. Or keep me prisoner until I become what you want. But know this—I will never be her. I will never give you what you're looking for."

Silence stretched, broken only by the steady drip of water and the rustling of unseen wings in the darkness. Time, that most fickle of companions, seemed to hold its breath. Then Dettlaff's form settled, returning to its human aspect like an actor changing costumes between scenes.

"You will." He turned away, moving toward the deeper shadows where his bruxae waited like particularly unimaginative stage hands. "In time, you'll understand. You'll remember who you truly are, what you were meant to be." He paused at the edge of darkness. "Rest now, little bird. We have all the time in the world."

Then he was gone, melting into shadow like smoke on the wind. But Rhena could still feel him there, watching. Always watching. The weight of his presence pressed against her skin like a physical thing, heavy with expectation and possessive hunger.

She lay back against the cold stone, mind racing despite her exhaustion. The silver would work its way out of her system eventually, assuming her body didn't decide to be particularly dramatic about the whole process. She just had to wait, to heal, to plan. To survive. Though survival, she had to admit, was a rather more complex proposition when dealing with beings who couldn't actually die in any permanent sense.

Somewhere in the darkness, a raven called again—sharp and deliberate. Watching. Always watching. Rather like fate itself, she supposed, though fate generally had better things to do than spy on imprisoned vampires.

Rhena closed her eyes and thought of her cottage, of Johnny's worried face, of Regis's careful hands and gentle voice. Of all the small, precious things that made up a life worth fighting for. The kind of things that poets wrote about, though generally with more flowery metaphors and less actual blood.

Let Dettlaff watch. Let him wait. Let him dream his mad dreams of redemption and second chances.

She would find a way out. Or die trying. Though given their mutual immortality, "die trying" was perhaps not the most appropriate phrase. "Become increasingly inconvenienced trying" might be more accurate, if less dramatically satisfying.

In the shadows, unseen wings rustled. And somewhere in the depths of the cave system, water continued its endless journey through stone, carving paths through darkness one drop at a time.

Patient. Relentless. Free. Rather like hope itself, though hope generally preferred more comfortable surroundings.

TIME, Rhena had discovered over her centuries of existence, moved differently underground. Perhaps it was the absence of sun and stars, or perhaps caves simply operated under their own peculiar rules. Either way, she’d lost track of how long she’d lain there, watching water drip from the stalactites with all the excitement of a particularly bored gargoyle.

The silver was working its way out of her system—slowly, painfully, with all the grace of a drunk troll attempting dance.

Her wounds, thank the gods, had begun to close, though they still burned like someone had stuffed hot coals under her skin. A charming sensation, really. Almost made her miss the simple days of dealing with difficult births and villages politics. Almost.

A flutter of wings drew her attention to the cave’s entrance. Another of Dettlaff’s ravens, no doubt, come to ensure their master’s prize hadn’t somehow managed to wander off in the past hour. The bird landed on a nearby rock, tilting its head to study her with entirely too much intelligence for her comfort.

The air shifted suddenly—a change so subtle that only another higher vampire would have noticed it. A presence, familiar as her own shadow, wrapped around her like an embrace. Herbs and earth and something darker underneath.

Regis.

"I wondered when you'd arrive, Regis." Dettlaff's voice cut through the darkness like a blade. He materialized from the shadows, his form already beginning to shift into something more primal. "Come to claim what isn't yours to take?"

“My friend.”

Regis stepped into view, and the very air seemed to tighten around him.

Rhena’s breath caught. She had known him as the careful, measured creature who spoke softly and moved with deliberate grace—a man who wore his humanity like a well-tailored coat. But now…

Now, that coat had been discarded.

His presence hit like a wave of force, radiating something old and terrible beneath the surface. His eyes, once warm with patience, had gone utterly black—dark pools that swallowed all light. The careful lines of his face had sharpened, bones subtly pronounced beneath skin that now carried a faint, unnatural sheen. His fingers flexed at his sides, claws extending just enough to catch the dim light of the cave.

When he moved, it was too smooth, too precise—the calculated grace of a predator that had mastered the art of restraint.

Behind the folds of his doublet, Rhena glimpsed a familiar twitch of whiskers—Skura, small and steady, still nestled close despite the storm raging beneath Regis’s skin.

That, more than anything, sent a shiver down her spine. Even now, the little creature trusted him.

"This path leads nowhere good," Regis said, his voice smooth, rich—utterly unshaken, yet carrying something beneath it. Not a threat, not yet, but a warning laced with inevitability.

Dettlaff's laugh held no humor. "Nowhere good? Like your path of playing at humanity? Of pretending to be something we're not?" His gaze flickered to Rhena. "Of encouraging others to deny their true nature?"

"The only one denying their nature here is you." Regis moved closer, each step deliberate as a surgeon approaching a particularly delicate operation. "This obsession... this madness... it's not who you are."

"You know nothing of who I am!" Dettlaff's form rippled, bones cracking as he shed his human aspect entirely. "You, who hides behind herbs and medicinal practice, who pretends at mortality—you dare judge me?"

"Not judge." Regis's voice remained steady, though Rhena could see the tension in his stance. "Never judge. But I cannot stand by while you cage another being's will to serve your own broken dreams."

The temperature in the cave plummeted. Frost crackled across the stone floor, spreading outward from where Dettlaff stood like nature's own commentary on his mental state. "She is meant to be mine. Can't you see it? The way she moves, the grace in her gestures, even her name—"

"Stop." Regis's command cut through the air like a silver blade. "She is not Syanna. She will never be Syanna. And this path you're on... it ends in blood. Again."

For a moment, silence stretched between them—heavy with centuries of friendship and debt and complicated histories. Then Dettlaff moved, faster than human eyes could track. His claws extended, aiming for Regis's throat—

Only to meet empty air as Regis dissolved into mist. He reformed beside Rhena, one hand steadying her as she struggled to rise despite the silver still burning in her veins.

A sudden scurrying sound made her glance up just in time to see a small, frantic blur of fur darting across the cave floor.

"Skura," she breathed.

The rodent bolted from the shadows, his tiny claws scrabbling against stone as he raced toward her. He must have leapt from her when she'd collapsed, but now—now that the cave had erupted into chaos—he was determined to return to her side.

Rhena barely had time to react before Skura clambered up her arm, nestling against her neck with frantic little twitches of his whiskers.

Regis’s sharp gaze flickered to him, then back to her. “At least one of you knows when to retreat.”

Rhena managed a weak smirk, pressing her cheek lightly against Skura’s small, trembling body. “He just has good taste.”

Regis huffed softly. Then, his voice hardened, his attention shifting back to Dettlaff.

"You would fight me?" Dettlaff's voice held equal parts rage and disbelief. "After everything between us? After what you owe me?"

"I owe you my life." Regis's fingers tightened on Rhena's arm. "But I will not let you destroy another's in payment of that debt."

The sound that tore from Dettlaff's throat would have stopped a mortal heart. As it was, Rhena felt her own centuries-old heart skip a beat—a purely theatrical gesture, but telling nonetheless.

"Then you choose her?" Dettlaff's form continued to shift, becoming something that belonged in humanity's darkest nightmares. "Over our brotherhood? Over everything we've shared?"

"I choose free will." Regis's voice held centuries of patience, of understanding, of carefully measured words. "I choose to stop you from making the same mistakes that led to Beauclair. That led to this."

Dettlaff's roar shook the cave, sending stalactites crashing to the floor. The bruxae emerged from their shadows, red eyes gleaming with hungry anticipation. Above, wings rustled in the darkness—more damned ravens.

"You cannot stop me." Dettlaff's words echoed off the stone walls. "You cannot—"

"But I can." Regis moved with preternatural speed, placing himself between Rhena and Dettlaff. "And I will. Even if it costs us both everything."

The air itself seemed to hold its breath. Then Dettlaff launched himself forward, claws extended, raw power radiating off him in waves. Regis met him halfway, his own form shifting to match his friend's monstrous aspect.

What followed was like nothing Rhena had ever seen. Two higher vampires locked in combat, their forms shifting between mist and solid matter, claws and fangs flashing in the dim light. The very air crackled with power as they fought—not just with physical strength, but with centuries of shared history.

The bruxae lurched from the shadows, all fangs and talons, shrieking as they sprang to their master’s aid. Regis moved like a phantom, his form blurring through the chaos. Three savage strikes—claws raking through flesh, bone snapping like dry kindling—between effortless parries against Dettlaff.

The first bruxa barely had time to shriek before Regis’s talons tore through her throat, silencing her in a wet, gurgling choke. The second lunged, only to meet a fist driven clean through her ribcage, her body convulsing as he wrenched it free, crimson and glistening. The third tried to retreat—too slow. Regis ripped her head from her shoulders in a single, fluid motion, the wet pop of severed vertebrae lost beneath the cacophony of battle.

Their bodies collapsed in twitching heaps, black blood pooling across the stone in steaming rivulets. Their final, pitiful wails died in the dark, drowned out by the unrelenting carnage of two greater monsters locked in war.

"You forget, old friend," Regis's voice carried even through the chaos, "I've had centuries to perfect the art of fighting our kind. Even if I chose not to use it."

A laugh torn from Dettlaff's throat. "And you forget who saved you from the flames. Who pieced you back together, molecule by molecule."

"I remember everything." Regis's form blurred, avoiding a strike that would have taken his head. "Including who you were before grief twisted you into this."

Their battle raged through the cave system, shaking the very foundations of the earth. Rhena forced herself to her feet, fighting through the silver-burn in her veins. She had to help, had to do something—

"No! Stay back." Regis's command cut through the chaos. "The silver—you're not strong enough yet."

"Listen to him, little bird." Dettlaff's voice held that terrible gentleness again. "Wouldn't want you to damage yourself before—"

His words cut off in a howl of pain as Regis's claws found their mark, tearing through flesh and bone. Black blood spattered the cave walls, hissing where it touched stone.

"Enough!" Regis's voice held power that made the air itself tremble. "End this madness, my friend. Before it ends you."

For a moment, something flickered in Dettlaff's storm-blue eyes—recognition, perhaps, or the ghost of sanity. Then it was gone, replaced by that terrible, possessive hunger that had driven him to this point.

"Never." The word was barely more than a growl. "She is mine. Mine to—"

"She is her own." Regis struck again, faster than thought, his claws finding Dettlaff's throat. "As we all are. As you once were, before grief ate away your reason."

Blood flowed, black as sin and ancient as time itself. Dettlaff staggered, his form flickering between aspects like a candle in wind.

"You would kill me?" His voice held something almost like wonder. "After everything?"

"If I must." But Regis's grip loosened, just slightly. "Though I'd rather not add another debt to our lengthy account."

Something changed in Dettlaff's expression then—a shift so subtle that only someone who had known him for centuries would notice it. His form began to settle, returning to its human aspect.

"She moves like her." The words came out soft, almost broken. "Like a ghost made flesh. Like a second chance at—"

"At what?" Regis's voice held centuries of patience. "At forcing someone to be what they're not? At twisting love into possession?"

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken things. Then Dettlaff stepped back, his form fully human once more.

"Go then." His eyes found Rhena's, and there was something terrible in their depths. "Go play at mortality with your barber-surgeon. But remember this, little bird—some songs echo across centuries. Some dances never truly end." His gaze shifted to Regis, and something ancient and dangerous flickered in his expression. "And some debts... well. We'll discuss those properly next time, old friend."

He vanished into the deeper shadows where his bruxae waited, leaving behind only the weight of his presence, heavy against her skin with expectation and possessive hunger.

For a long moment, Regis remained still, the last echoes of his monstrous form clinging to him like a fading storm. Then, with a slow breath, his features softened, claws retreating, darkness draining from his eyes until they were their usual steady, contemplative hue. The raw, predatory energy that had radiated off him only moments ago dissolved into something gentler, something human once more.

For a moment, Rhena barely breathed, trying to convince herself that it was truly over. The tension of the battle still clung to the air, thick and suffocating. She shifted slightly, intending to straighten, but the movement sent a sharp burn of pain lancing through her side. The silver poisoning had spread further than she’d care to admit. Her legs trembled beneath her, unsteady as a newborn foal.

Regis was already at her side, his hands gentle as they examined her wounds. The familiar scent of herbs and earth surrounded her, grounding her in the present moment.

"Right then," Rhena muttered, exhaling slowly. She pushed herself away from the cave wall, willing herself to stand properly. She managed exactly two steps before her body betrayed her, the molten weight of the silver making every movement a struggle.

Her legs buckled.

Regis caught her before she could hit the ground, his grip firm but careful. At the same time, Skura stirred against her collar, his tiny claws flexing. The rodent hesitated, as if sensing her growing weakness—then, with a soft rustle, he hopped down and scampered toward Regis.

The tiny creature climbed up the folds of his coat, settling against his shoulder as if he, too, had fought his own battle and now sought familiar ground.

Regis shifted his hold on Rhena, adjusting her weight with ease. "Perhaps," he suggested with careful neutrality, "you might allow me to assist?"

"I'm perfectly capable of walking." She tried to take another step just to prove the point, and immediately regretted it as pain lanced through her side. "Eventually."

"Of course you are." His voice held that particular tone she was coming to recognize—the one that meant he was trying very hard not to show how worried he actually was. "Though I feel compelled to point out, as your attending physician, that silver poisoning tends to worsen with excessive movement."

"Attending physician?" Rhena arched an eyebrow at him, then had to lean more heavily against his support as another wave of pain hit. "Rather presumptuous of you, master barber-surgeon."

"Merely a professional observation." But his arms were already moving to lift her, his touch gentle despite the strength she could feel thrumming beneath his careful control. "Though if you prefer to stumble through the woods like a particularly stubborn drunkard, far be it from me to interfere."

"I don't need to be carried like some swooning maiden in a bard's tale."

"Certainly not." He gathered her against his chest anyway, adjusting his grip with methodical precision. "Consider it merely a colleague assisting another colleague who happens to be suffering from acute silver toxicity. Purely professional courtesy."

"Professional courtesy?" Despite the pain still burning through her veins, Rhena found herself fighting back a smile. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

His eyes met hers, and something shifted in their depths. "What would you prefer to call it?"

Before she could answer, a raven's cry split the air—sharp and deliberate.  "We should go," Rhena said softly, though her hand had somehow found its way to rest against Regis's chest. "Before your professional courtesy gets us both killed."

"Death would be rather inconvenient," he agreed, but his arms tightened around her fractionally. "Especially given all those conversations we've yet to finish."

Rhena lifted her head from where it rested against his shoulder, ignoring the protest of silver-burned muscles. "Thank you," she whispered, "for coming for me." Before he could deflect with another carefully measured response, she pressed her lips to his - brief, gentle, but holding the weight of everything they hadn't yet said.

He stilled for a moment, then drew her closer, his touch infinitely careful of her wounds. When they parted, something flickered in his dark eyes that had nothing to do with medical prudence.

They emerged from the cave into dawn, leaving behind the remnants of Dettlaff's obsession and the echoes of unspoken things.

Above them, wings rustled in the darkness—some belonging to Dettlaff's spies, others to Regis's own messengers. Let them watch, then. Let them see what happened when choice proved stronger than fate.

Dawn painted the sky in shades of steel and blood as Regis carried Rhena through the winter-laden forest. The silver still burned through her veins like molten agony, making every movement an exercise in endurance.

Rather undignified, really, being carried like some swooning maiden in a bard’s tale. Though she had to admit, there were far worse fates than being cradled against Regis’s chest, breathing in his familiar scent of herbs and earth and something darker underneath.

"The village," she managed, fighting past her silver-ravaged throat. "Dettlaff, he could—"

"Will not harm them." Regis's voice held quiet certainty, though his arms tightened around her protectively. "His obsession lies with you, not with mortals who mean nothing to him."

"You can't know that." Rhena's fingers curled into his doublet, anchoring herself against a wave of pain. "You saw what he did in Beauclair. What grief and rage drove him to—"

"That was different." Regis adjusted his grip as they crossed a frozen stream, his movements precise despite their burden. "In Beauclair, he sought revenge. Here... here he seeks redemption. Or what he believes is redemption."

Skura shifted within Regis's doublet at the movement, his whiskers brushing against fabric in a way that was oddly comforting - a small, familiar presence amid all the uncertainty.

A raven's cry split the dawn air—sharp, deliberate. One of Dettlaff's watchers, no doubt. Rhena felt Regis tense at the sound, though his pace never faltered.

“The miller’s daughter’s twins,” she said after a moment, focusing on more immediate concerns rather than looming threats. “They’re due any day now. If I’m not there—”

“Then the village will have to make do with more conventional medical care for a time. You are unwell and need to rest and recover fully.” His tone turned wry.

A hiss of pain escaped Rhena’s lips as the silver poison flared as Regis gingerly shifted her in his arms. Regis’s expression darkened, though his steps remained steady as they wound through the forest.

“The silver should work its way out of your system within a few days,” he said after a moment, his voice taking on that carefully neutral tone she recognized sometimes in her own voice when dealing with particularily difficult patients. “Though the process would be considerably expedited if you would consent to proper rest.”

“I don’t need—” Rhena began, then stopped as another wave of pain hit. Perhaps there was something to be said for professional courtesy, after all. “Very well. What do you propose?”

“Bed rest. Regular doses of white myrtle and celandine to help purge the silver. And,” his lips curved slightly, “absolutely no attempting to deliver twins until you’re fully recovered.”

Above them, wings rustled in the darkness. Another of Dettlaff's ravens, watching their progress through the winter-laden woods. Rhena felt Regis tense again, though his expression remained carefully neutral.

"He won't give up easily," she said softly. "You know that."

"No." Regis's voice held centuries of understanding. "But then, neither will we."

The words hung between them, heavy with implications neither was quite ready to voice. Rather like the bond that was forming between them itself—complicated, careful, built on centuries of shared understanding and unspoken things.

Dawn painted the sky in shades of promise as they made their way through the forest. Somewhere ahead lay her cottage, with its carefully ordered chaos of herbs and medical implements. Behind them, Dettlaff's ravens watched and waited. Rhena’s cottage emerged from the winter mists like a memory taking shape—first the weathered fence posts, then the herb garden sleeping beneath its blanket of frost, and finally the thatched roof with smoke curling defiantly from the chimney. Rhena felt something tight in her chest ease at the sight.

Home. Despite everything—the silver still burning through her veins, Dettlaff's ravens circling overhead, the weight of choices yet to come—she was home.

“It seems someone’s been keeping the fire burning,” Regis quietly observed, his voice carefully neutral though his arms tightened fractionally around her. “Our diminutive little friend Johnny takes his guardianship duties quite seriously, it seems.”

As if summoned by his name, a small figure appeared at the cottage window—a wild-haired shadow that vanished almost instantly, followed by the sound of something being knocked over inside and a muffled curse that would have made a Skellige sailor blush.

Before either of them could say more, the door burst open with enough force to startle Skura from his perch on Regis's shoulder.

They found Johnny pacing the cottage's main room like a caged wyvern, wearing what appeared to be a path in the ancient floorboards. At their entrance, he whirled with a speed that would have done a higher vampire proud, his wild yellow eyes widening at the sight of them.

"Took you long enough!" The godling's voice cracked with emotion he tried to hide beneath his usual bluster. "Been wearing holes in your floor, I have, wondering if you'd gotten yourself proper killed this time!" His gaze fixed on Rhena, still cradled in Regis's arms, and something fierce and protective flashed across his ancient little face. "What did he do to you? That stormy-eyed whoreson, I'll—"

"Language," Rhena managed, though the silver made her voice rough. "And Dettlaff didn't do this."

"No?" Johnny bounced closer, practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Then who—" His expression darkened as understanding hit. "The witcher. His cursed silver sword." He kicked a nearby chair with surprising force. "Should've bitten his ankles when I had the chance! Some protector I turned out to be, letting him—"

"You did exactly as I asked," Rhena cut in, her tone gentler than her silver-burned throat should have allowed. "You stayed hidden. Stayed safe."

"Safe!" Johnny spat the word like a curse. "Fat lot of good that did! While I was hiding like a proper coward, you were—"

"Being exactly as stubborn as usual," Regis interrupted smoothly, moving toward the bed with careful precision. "Now, perhaps we might focus on more immediate concerns? Such as treating these silver burns before they spread further?"

Skura emerged from his hiding place in Regis's doublet, whiskers quivering as he surveyed his familiar territory. The mouse's brave journey to the Elder's domain seemed to have given him an extra measure of dignity, even as he scampered down to investigate his old haunts.

Johnny let out a low whistle, his indignation momentarily giving way to amazed exasperation. "Would you look at that? Comes back like he owns the place—meanwhile, I stayed put like a proper coward."

"You did exactly what was needed," Regis said firmly, carefully settling Rhena onto the bed. "Now, perhaps you might make yourself useful? The white myrtle and celandine—"

"Yes, yes, fangs, I'm on it!" Johnny darted around the cottage, gathering supplies with surprising efficiency. "Been keeping them fresh, I have for when you got back. Though I might have rearranged things a bit. Had to keep busy somehow, didn't I?"

"Johnny." Rhena's voice held equal parts fondness and exhaustion. "Perhaps we could save the explanations of your organizational improvements for when I'm not actively being poisoned by silver?"

"Right! Right you are!" The godling bounced back to them, arms full of herbs and bandages. His expression turned uncharacteristically serious as he studied her. "You'll be alright though? Promise? Because I've got a proper list of complaints about your healing methods, I do, and it wouldn't be fair if you went and died before I could share them all."

"I'm not going to die. Only another vampire could manage that." Rhena exhaled slowly, forcing a smirk despite the fire still licking through her veins. "Though if you keep hovering like a particularly insufferable necrophage, I might start reconsidering my priorities."

"Hovering! Me?" Johnny's indignation almost covered his relief. "I'm not the one carrying you about like some swooning maiden in a bard's tale! Though I suppose that's what passes for 'professional courtesy' these days, eh?"

Regis, in the process of sorting through the herbs Johnny had brought, paused just long enough to arch an eyebrow at the godling. "I see someone's been practicing their talent for dramatic interpretation."

"Dramatic! As if I'd need to be! The way you two dance around each other, might as well be posting notices on every tree in the forest!" Johnny's grin turned decidedly wicked. "Though I suppose near-death experiences do tend to speed things along, don't they?"

"Johnny." Rhena's voice held a warning, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the silver still roughening her throat.

"What? Just making observations, I am! Professional ones, even!" The godling's ancient eyes sparkled with mischief. "Though I suppose if you're well enough to glare at me like that, you're probably not dying after all."

Skura, having completed his inspection of the cottage, returned to perch on Regis's shoulder with an air of satisfied dignity, as if to remind them all that he, at least, had maintained his composure throughout this ordeal.

It took the better part of an hour to convince Johnny that yes, Rhena would survive, and no, he didn't need to keep checking on her every few minutes like a mother hen with particularly vampiric chicks.

The godling finally retreated to his rafters only after extracting multiple promises that included, but were not limited to: no dying, no more fights with witchers, and absolutely no more getting kidnapped by stormy-eyed vampires with questionable interpretations of fate.

"And you!" Johnny jabbed a finger at Regis as he prepared to climb to his perch. "No more of this 'professional courtesy' nonsense! Had enough of that to last several lifetimes, I have!"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Regis replied with such perfect gravity that Rhena had to bite back a laugh, which her silver-burned throat appreciated not at all.

Finally, blessed quiet settled over the cottage. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the herb-hung walls. Skura had made himself a temporary nest in one of Rhena's empty herb baskets, his tiny form curled up with the dignified exhaustion of one who had faced ancient terrors and lived to tell the tale.

Regis moved about the cottage with efficient grace, preparing the next round of healing herbs. His fingers moved with surgical precision, measuring exact amounts with the focus she recognized in herself from her more complicated procedures. The familiar scent of white myrtle and celandine filled the air, grounding her in the present moment.

"Regis." Her voice came rough, more whisper than speech.

He turned immediately, dark eyes sharp with concern. "The pain is worse?"

"No." She managed a small smile. "Well, yes, but that's not—" She had to pause as another wave of silver-burn rippled through her. When she could speak again, the words came softer than intended. "Would you... stay?"

His hands stilled their careful work with the herbs. Something flickered behind his eyes—careful, controlled, but undeniably present. "The silver toxicity will take some time to process," he said after a moment, his voice holding that deliberately neutral tone she was coming to recognize. "It would be medically prudent to monitor your condition through the next few days."

"Medically prudent?" Despite the pain, she found herself fighting back another smile. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

He set the herbs aside and moved to sit in the chair beside her bed, his movements holding that precise grace that spoke of carefully leashed power. "What would you prefer to call it?"

Their eyes met in the firelight, and something shifted in the air between them—something that had nothing to do with silver toxicity or medical necessity. His hand found hers on the blanket, fingers intertwining with deliberate care.

"I suppose," she said softly, "we could call it what it is."

"And what," his voice dropped lower, intimate as a secret, "would that be?"

Before she could answer, a theatrical snore erupted from the rafters, followed by a very unconvincing, "I'm definitely sleeping up here, not listening at all, no sir!"

Regis exhaled slowly, turning his gaze toward the ceiling with the patience of a man who had long since resigned himself to the inevitability of nonsense. He folded his hands neatly in his lap, voice smooth but edged with unmistakable finality. "Johnny. Either learn the art of discretion, or find another roof to haunt."

"Eh?" A pause. "Oh, don't mind me, fangs! Just an old godling resting his weary bones! You two carry on with all your medically prudent business!"

Rhena, despite the rawness in her throat, managed a warning glare. “Johnny.”

Johnny sniffed. “Bit rude, that! Where am I supposed to sleep then, if not right here, listening—I mean, not listening—to you two whispering sweet nothings about herbal remedies?”

Regis’s tone remained impeccably dry. “If you’re incapable of basic discretion, I’ll be forced to revoke your access to the rafters entirely.”

A gasp of pure, theatrical horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

A long pause. Then a harrumph, followed by the distinct rustling of blankets being rearranged up above.

“Fine, fine! I know when I’m not wanted! Just saying, if I hear anything scandalous, I’m obligated to report it to the nearest village for storytelling purposes.”

"Johnny." Rhena and Regis spoke in perfect unison, their voices carrying just enough warning to make even an ancient godling think twice.

“Right! Right you are!” The patter of feet moved deeper into the rafters. “I’ll just be over here, minding my own business like the model houseguest I am!"

The cottage settled into blessed quiet once more.

"Now then," Regis said softly, his thumb tracing careful patterns on her palm. "Where were we?"

"I believe," Rhena managed despite the silver still burning in her veins, "we were discussing definitions."

"Ah, yes." His dark eyes held something warmer than mere medical concern. "Though perhaps such philosophical debates might wait until you're feeling somewhat more robust?"

"Stay anyway?" She didn't mean for it to come out quite so vulnerable, but silver had a way of stripping away pretense along with everything else.

His free hand came up to brush a strand of hair from her face, the gesture achingly gentle. "My dear," he said softly, "I'm not going anywhere."

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting copper shadows across the herb-hung walls. Outside, ravens called to each other in the darkness—some belonging to Dettlaff, others to Regis, their aerial war for territory continuing despite the late hour. But here, in this moment, none of that mattered. Not the silver poison slowly working its way out of her system, not the witcher's three-day ultimatum, not even the weight of centuries and choices yet to come.

Here, with Regis's hand warm in hers and the familiar scents of herbs and medicine surrounding them, Rhena let herself believe in something deeper than fate. Something chosen rather than destined, built on small moments and careful touches and the quiet understanding that some dances were worth the price they demanded.

Even if that price was measured in silver and blood and the weight of ravens' wings against the winter sky.

Chapter Text

THE next few days that followed passed in a haze of careful discovery. Regis would arrive each evening after his rounds through the village, bringing herbs for her stores and news from the outside world. They would sit by her fire, sharing meals he prepared with increasing confidence, talking of everything and nothing until the candles burned low.

It was during the second such visit that Rhena realized how thoroughly he had woven himself into the fabric of her daily existence. She found herself listening for his familiar step on her threshold, anticipating the gentle knock that had become as regular as the sunset itself.

"You're different when you're not performing humanity," she observed one night, watching him tend the fire with a thoughtful look in his eyes.

"As are you," he replied, settling beside her on the wolf pelt. "I begin to understand why solitude felt safer. This..." he gestured between them, "requires a different kind of courage."

Now, as evening settled around them once more, the scent of supper wound through Rhena's cottage—venison and winter root vegetables swimming in rust-colored broth, seasoned with herbs from Regis's private stores. Steam carried the earthy sweetness of parsnips and sharp bite of wild garlic, mingling with woodsmoke from the hearth. 

Rhena occupied the chair before the fire, wrapped in blankets despite the month that had passed since Dettlaff's attack. The silver's lingering effects should have faded three days ago, yet her skin still held that telltale ashen pallor. Her vampiric healing had stalled somewhere between recovery and relapse, leaving her in a frustrating limbo that worried Regis more than he cared to admit.

"The trembling is worse today," he observed quietly, watching her hands shake as she reached for her cup.

"It comes and goes," she replied, but they both knew it was getting worse, not better.

The moment was interrupted when Johnny dropped from the rafters with his usual graceless landing.

"Evening, all! Lovely night for—"

"No." Regis's voice cut through the godling's cheerful greeting like a blade. "Absolutely not."

Johnny blinked with faux innocence. "Whatever do you mean, old bones?"

"It's been a month, Johnny. A full month." Regis's patience, worn thin by days of the same routine, finally showed its frayed edges. "Widow Kowalski came to me yesterday asking about her grandmother's silver locket. The baker's wife is convinced someone broke into their home for her wedding ring. Half the village thinks there's a thief among them."

"Ah, well, you see—"

"No." Rhena's voice was quiet but carried an edge that made both males turn. "No more excuses. Do you have any idea what it's like listening to Regis come home each evening with stories of frightened villagers? People I'm supposed to protect?"

Johnny's theatrical demeanor cracked slightly. "It's not that simple, m'lady. The collection needs proper sorting, and some pieces require delicate handling—"

"You've had thirty days to sort." Regis moved to check Rhena's pulse, frowning at what he found. "Thirty days while she grows weaker instead of stronger, thirty days while innocent people suffer for your greed."

"It's not greed!" Johnny protested, scrambling onto his usual stool. "It's... appreciation for fine craftsmanship!"

"It's theft." Rhena's words carried the weight of absolute authority. "And it ends tonight."

The cottage fell silent except for the crackling fire. Even Skura seemed to sense the shift in mood, his usual exploration of Regis's shoulder reduced to nervous twitching.

Johnny looked between them, his mischievous grin fading as he realized his usual charm had finally met its limit. "You're serious."

"Deadly serious," Regis confirmed. "I've covered for your delays with the villagers, but my credibility won't stretch much further. And if Rhena's condition continues deteriorating because stress is preventing proper healing—"

"The silver poisoning should have cleared already," Rhena added, her voice barely above a whisper. "But every day I hear about another 'missing' item, every evening Regis returns looking more troubled... it's affecting my recovery, Johnny. Your games are literally making me sick."

The godling's face went through several expressions—surprise, guilt, defiance, and finally resignation. "The basket's... rather full."

"How full?" Regis asked with dangerous calm.

Johnny mumbled something unintelligible.

"How full, Johnny?"

"...might need two trips."

Rhena closed her eyes, exhaustion and frustration painting her features. "Two trips. Mother of mercy, what have you done?"

"Look, I can explain—"

"No explanations." Regis moved to support Rhena as another tremor shook her frame. "You return everything. Tonight. All of it. And then you disappear for a week while I try to repair the damage your 'collecting' has done to both the village and her health."

"But where will I—"

"Not our concern anymore." Rhena's words carried final judgment. "You made a deal. Honor it, or find somewhere else to play your games."

The weight of real consequences finally settled over Johnny's features. For the first time in a month, his theatrical mask dropped completely, revealing something almost like shame.

"Right then," he said quietly, moving toward the overstuffed basket near the door. "Two trips it is. But if I end up chased out with pitchforks and prayers, I'll haunt your doorstep till the world's end."

Regis didn't miss a beat. "Then I shall anticipate an eternity of your charming company."

Grumbling like a disturbed tomb, Johnny hopped down from his stool and seized the basket, hefting it onto his shoulder as if it contained lead rather than pilfered trinkets.

"Johnny," Rhena called softly, a glimmer of mischief warming her tired features, "why don't you take Skura with you? He's grown rather attached to our resident herb hoarder these days." Her eyes flickered to Regis, amusement dancing in their depths. "I dare say he likes you better than me now, Regis."

Regis arched an eyebrow at her teasing, his expression caught between dignity and fondness. "Perhaps he simply appreciates a steady perch that doesn't fidget quite so much during recovery."

"Oh aye, the mouse has good taste!" Johnny cackled, reaching up toward Regis's shoulder. "Though I'd wager it's more about the herbs you carry. Clever little whiskers knows where the interesting smells come from, right?"

Skura, as if understanding he was the topic of discussion, tightened his grip on Regis's shoulder and buried his nose deeper in the vampire's collar, clearly having no intention of going anywhere.

"Ah, but I know your weakness, my furry friend," Johnny declared, fishing around in his pocket with a theatrical flourish. He produced a carefully wrapped morsel of venison, clearly squirreled away from last night's supper. "What's a few herbs compared to proper meat, eh?"

Skura's whiskers twitched. His tiny nose worked overtime, clearly caught between his loyalty to Regis's herb-scented shoulder and the tempting aroma of the proffered meat.

"Come on then," Johnny coaxed, wiggling the morsel. "I've been saving the best bits just for you. Besides, someone needs to keep me company while I work, don't they? Can't trust these vampires to appreciate proper conversation."

With obvious reluctance, Skura finally released his grip on Regis's doublet. He scampered down the vampire's arm and made a graceful leap onto Johnny's outstretched hand, immediately claiming his prize.

"Ha! See? Even the mouse knows quality when he sees it," Johnny crowed triumphantly, settling Skura on his shoulder.

"Though I notice he had better table manners than some godlings I could name," Regis observed dryly.

Johnny shrugged, making his way to the door with all the dignity of an offended cat. "Can't blame him. Old bones here does make a fine mobile herb garden." He paused at the threshold, casting a knowing look over his shoulder. "Try not to do anything scandalous while I'm gone," he quipped, his eyebrows dancing like drunken caterpillars. "Though that leaves plenty of room for mischief, mind you!"

Regis pressed fingers to his temples. "Johnny. Go. Now."

The godling's cackling laugh echoed as he kicked the door wide and vanished into the winter dark, the basket of purloined treasures bouncing against his side like a wandering merchant's pack, Skura perched contentedly on his shoulder with his hard-won feast. In his wake, the cottage settled into a different kind of silence—delicate as spun glass, demanding careful handling.

When Regis turned back to Rhena, he found not the expected smirk but something more dangerous: curiosity, sharp as a blade's edge, firelight dancing in her dark eyes.

“I can’t help but wonder, Regis,” she mused, her head tilting with careful consideration, “were you always this stern? Or is it the little magpie who draws out the disciplinarian in you?”

A quiet laugh escaped him, dry as old parchment. “That creature is an exercise in patience I had not realized I required.”

“Mmm.” Rhena tapped one finger against her lip, the gesture drawing his attention despite himself. “And yet…you don’t mind that he stays here with me now.”

“He amuses you,” Regis said simply.

“He vexes you.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded with a shrug of his shoulders, meeting her gaze with careful honesty. “Though I suspect his absence would leave us both notably poorer for it.”

Rhena's lips curved, subtle as a secret. Then, shifting in her chair with deliberate grace, she murmured, "We're alone now."

Regis went still as a statue. Three words. Simple words. Dangerous words.

Her voice carried no overt suggestion, no playful invitation. But the weight behind it, the unspoken possibilities—that was something else entirely. Something that made centuries of careful restraint feel suddenly fragile as frost. She watched him with that same measuring gaze, like an alchemist calculating precise measurements.

And Regis, for all his accumulated wisdom, found himself unable to predict her next motion.

When she lifted her hand, slow as honey in winter, he did not withdraw. When her fingertips traced the line of his jaw, light as a moth’s wing, he did not stop her. Her fingers were warm from sitting near the fire for so long, impossibly warm, and when her palm settled against his cheek, his exhale carried years of resistance.

“You’re cold,” she whispered.

“I always am,” he replied, but the words felt hollow, meaningless against the press of her skin.

Rhena’s thumb ghosted across his cheekbone, her breath mingling with his. She was close now, dangerously close, and he knew he should step away—

But he didn’t.

Her touch lingered, warm against his cold skin, but Regis gently caught her hand in his. The gesture held all the delicate expertise of an anatomist, though his eyes betrayed something far less clinical. Strange, he thought, how such a simple touch could undo years of careful restraint as fragile as spun sugar.

“You’ve yet to eat,” he said after a moment, his voice carrying the particular timbre of one who had spent centuries perfecting the art of gentle persistence.

Rhena sighed, her fingers lingering against his for a moment before she let him guide her hand back down. "I told you, I'm fine."

"And I've told you," Regis replied with the particular patience of someone who had spent centuries perfecting it, "that I enhanced the stew with herbs chosen specifically to help your body purge the remaining silver. Give it another hour or so, and the poison should be nothing but an unpleasant memory."

Her brows lifted with amused skepticism. "Oh? And just what did you slip into this mysterious concoction of yours, Master Surgeon? Something nefarious, perhaps?"

A quiet laugh escaped him, though he kept hold of her hand. "Shall I list the ingredients? White myrtle, celandine, wolf's aloe, burdock root, crushed drowner's tongue—"

"Drowner's tongue?" Her nose wrinkled in a way that made something in his chest tighten peculiarly.

"Only a pinch," he assured her, the corner of his mouth lifting. "It helps the blood clear impurities. When properly prepared, it's perfectly safe—"

"I know how alchemy works, Regis."

"Then you also know," he said, giving her hand a meaningful squeeze, "that it works best if you actually eat it."

Rhena fixed him with that look he'd come to know well—the one that said she was contemplating being difficult purely for the pleasure of it. He met her gaze steadily, wearing the expression of a man who had outlasted mountains.

Finally, she let out a theatrical sigh. "You are insufferable."

"I prefer 'thorough.'" His smile had a distinctly smug edge as he reached for a bowl. "And in this case, correct." He ladled the stew carefully, steam curling up like alchemical vapors.

She accepted the bowl with a grumble that might have contained several creative curses, though she made no real protest. The spoon lifted to her lips, a gentle breath cooling the surface before she tasted it.

Regis found himself watching more intently than he'd intended. There was something unexpectedly fascinating about such a simple act—the way her fingers curled around the bowl's heat, how the firelight played across her features, softening them. The way her lips parted just slightly before each spoonful. Heat coiled in his stomach that had nothing to do with the hearth. He busied himself with his cuffs, suddenly finding the fabric riveting. The quiet clink of spoon against bowl filled the silence between them until:

"Happy now?" Her voice carried dry amusement.

He looked back, noting with satisfaction the healthier color in her cheeks. "Getting there."

She rolled her eyes, but the tension had eased from her shoulders, replaced by something more relaxed. More present.

Regis felt his anxiety settling, like dust after a storm. She would heal. And after that...

Well. That was a problem for another evening.

The bowl scraped against worn wood as Rhena finally pushed it away after taking a few bites to supplicate him, the remnants of her meal growing cold. “There,” she said, her words carrying a hint of gentle teasing. “I’ve eaten. Are you happy?”

Regis studied Rhena with the careful attention of a surgeon examining a wound. The silver poison still lingered in her blood—he could smell it, fainter now but persistent, like the last wisps of incense in an empty temple. Her complexion had improved, true enough, some color returning to her cheeks, and the tremors that had wracked her body earlier had mostly subsided. Mostly, but not entirely.

“Satisfied is a strong word,” he said dryly. “But it will suffice.”

“You truly do fuss.”

“I assess. There’s a difference.” He rose from his chair, the movement deliberately careful and slow. “And my professional assessment suggests you should return to your chair before your stubbornness outweighs your strength. Again.”

Rhena scoffed—and predictably attempted to stand as if to prove him wrong. The silver in her blood betrayed her; her legs wavered like a sapling in strong wind.

Regis moved without thought, instinct older than memory. His hands found her waist as hers gripped his shoulders, steadying herself. A curse died unspoken on her lips, but he felt it in the way her fingernails dug into his flesh, angry at her weakness. The silence stretched between them like a drawn bow.

Finally, she released a slow breath. "...Fine."

He gestured toward the chair by the fire, resisting the urge to point out the obvious. "Come." She was warm against him—too warm, perhaps, though not with fever. No, this was a different kind of heat entirely, one far more dangerous than silver could ever be. He guided her with unnecessary care, both of them aware of the pretense, neither acknowledging it.

She stopped. Her grip tightened on his arm like a snare closing. When he turned to her, the look in her eyes made him forget words entirely, forget reason, forget centuries of careful restraint.

The firelight painted her in amber and shadow, transforming her into something ancient and inevitable. She wasn't thinking of rest now. Neither was he.

"Rhena—"

Her touch silenced him, palm pressed against his chest. She drew him back, not toward the chair but to the furs before the hearth. He resisted, habit warring with desire.

"You should rest," he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority that had long since lost its power over her. "You are still not fully healed. This is... not wise."

Her smile was slow, deliberate as a knife being drawn. "I feel fine," she murmured, fingers working at his doublet with ease. "Better than fine."

"You'll heal faster if you rest."

"I'll heal faster if I stop thinking about it," she countered, pressing closer until her skin brushed his jaw like a promise. "And I want this, Regis. I want you. Have since that night you came here for dinner.”

Regis froze, processing her words. Reason dictated resistance. Johnny could come back at any moment, his particular brand of chaos shattering whatever spell hung in the air between them.

But reason, like authority, held no sway here. Her hands had already divested him of his coat, letting it fall forgotten to the floor. He braced himself against the wall beside her head, hovering at the edge of surrender.

"Johnny might return," he said, a final, token protest.

"Then he can learn to knock," she replied and kissed him—not a question, but an answer.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It couldn't be, not with centuries of restraint crumbling like old mortar. Her scent—silver, woodsmoke, and something uniquely hers that he'd known since their first meeting in these woods—filled his senses. He had memorized it then, filed it away with other dangerous knowledge never meant to be used. She pressed against him, and the world narrowed to points of contact—the curve of her waist beneath his hands, the press of her body against his. The woolen blanket slipped from her shoulders, forgotten as easily as a pretense.

He should step back. But he did not. Instead, he found himself drawn to her like a moth to a flame, even knowing the inevitable burn.

Rhena made a sound low in her throat—something between satisfaction and challenge—and it sent an unexpected tremor through him. She was not delicate; she did not yield. If anything, she pressed forward with the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with their natures and everything to do with something far more dangerous.

Her hands traced the sharp angles of his face, the hollow of his throat, mapping territories long since abandoned to solitude. Her lips followed, the sharp points of her fangs as they elongated grazing his skin—not enough to break it, only enough to remind him of what they were. Of what this meant.

Regis exhaled, memories rising unbidden. Katerina, with her dark eyes and even darker laughter, now ruled the brothel she supposedly owned like a queen of the night. Natanis, the succubus of Beauclair who had offered pleasure wrapped in silk and teasing words.

Both had been moments, nothing more—fireflies caught in a jar, admired briefly before being released back into the night.

But Rhena—

His pause must have been longer than he thought because her lips had drifted from his throat to his jaw, her breath warm against his skin.

“Regis,” she murmured against his jaw, her voice carrying a faint edge of amusement. “If you’re going to think of other women while we lay together, I’d prefer you at least be honest about it.”

His laugh was quiet, barely more than a breath. “You mistake me. I was thinking of how I have never had this before.”

“This?” Her eyebrow arched, fingers tracing his cheekbone.

“Something that does not feel fleeting.”

She considered that for a moment, then smiled—not teasing, not sharp-edged, but something that felt dangerously close to truth.

“Then stop thinking,” she murmured, “and let me make it real.”

The kiss that followed was slow, deep, and inescapable—the kind of pull that had nothing to do with gravity and everything to do with inevitability.

For the first time in centuries, Regis let himself fall.

Her fingers found the clasps of his doublet and shirt as he helped her slip free of her simple tunic dress, their movements unhurried yet purposeful. Soon enough, their clothes lay forgotten beside the hearth, as unnecessary as pretense. He lifted her then, one arm around her waist, the other beneath her thighs, carrying her the few steps to the wolf pelt rug before the fire. The fur was soft beneath them as he lowered them both down, Rhena's legs wrapping around his hips, drawing him closer. Her body arched into his with quiet intent, and he felt the deliberate press of her hips against his arousal.

They moved together like shifting mist meeting the night air, their shared warmth building between them in ways that defied restraint. There was no need for careful control here—they were equals in strength, in nature, in desire. Only the press of bodies, the quiet clash of fangs, the slow unmaking of centuries of careful distance. Her head tipped back, baring the smooth line of her throat as pleasure built within her. The invitation was silent, primal, undeniable. Even between their kind, such an offering carried weight—the ultimate gesture of trust and surrender.

"You know what I am," he murmured against her skin, his movements growing more urgent as she tightened around him, centuries of careful restraint warring with desire.

Rhena's eyes gleamed in the firelight, dark and knowing, her breath coming in short gasps. "I trust you, Regis. And I know what we are."

The words undid him more surely than any physical touch.

His fangs pressed against her throat - a claiming without breaking, a connection deeper than blood. Among their kind, such intimacy needed no crimson seal. Her nails raked down his back as the pleasure crested between them, her body arching beneath his as she cried out his name. The sound pushed him over the edge, and he followed her into that sweet oblivion, something that shook them both apart and remade them anew.

When it was done, when the fire had burned down to embers and their breathing had steadied, he pressed a gentle kiss to her throat—tender where his fangs had pressed moments before. Rhena's fingers slipped into his hair as he rested his forehead against her shoulder, both of them still joined, neither willing to break the connection just yet.

"Well," she murmured, voice rough but satisfied. "That was certainly... thorough."

His quiet laugh ghosted across her skin. "My dear," he pressed a final kiss to the mark he'd left, "I am nothing if not thorough."

They lay tangled together on the wolf pelt, her warmth pressed against his cold flesh, the fire casting its last flickering light against the walls. The silence that settled between them was not the familiar quiet of his centuries of solitude, but something altogether different. Something that made even his vampiric heart quicken its pace ever so slightly.

Rhena traced idle patterns against his chest, her touch light but deliberate. Each movement sent a curious sensation through his ancient flesh as if her fingertips could read the stories written in his scars like a blind woman reading braille.

"You're thinking again," she murmured, her voice carrying that particular timbre that humans acquire when hovering between wakefulness and dreams.

Regis exhaled, amused. "You're quite the observer."

She hummed in response, the sound low and content. "Not really. I just know what this feels like."

He tilted his head slightly, catching the flicker of her eyes in the dim light. "And what is that?"

A small smile curved her lips, unreadable but certain. "Something real."

She pressed closer as if daring him to question it, but he found he had no protest to give. He, who had spent centuries perfecting the art of diplomatic argument, found himself curiously bereft of counterpoints.

The fire crackled, casting their shadows against the wall - two figures merged into one, indistinguishable from each other in the dancing light.

They settled comfortably before the hearth, Rhena's head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, their bodies draped in the wolf pelt that had witnessed their intimacy. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across their entwined forms, the occasional pop, and crack of burning wood punctuating their comfortable silence.

Such peace felt almost foreign—a gift neither had expected to find in these woods. For the first time in centuries, he allowed himself to linger in the quiet—where the warmth of another body was not a fleeting indulgence, but something that might remain.

She shifted, reaching up to brush an errant strand of silver hair from his face. As she moved her hand, something caught the firelight—the thin, silvered lines across her wrist that seemed to shimmer in the dancing light.

Regis’s keen eyes fixed on the marks. They were too precise to be random, too permanent to be mortal-made. Silver scars on immortal flesh—a contradiction that spoke of calculated cruelty.

He caught her hand with gentle fingers before she could withdraw, thumb tracing the scars that refused to fade.

"These weren't from a witcher," he said quietly. Not a question.

Rhena's expression shuttered for a moment, something ancient and painful flickering behind her brown eyes. She didn't pull away from his touch, but her gaze instead fixed on the dancing flames.

"No," she said finally. "They weren't."

Regis waited, patient as the mountains. His thumb continued its gentle path across her scars, not pressing, not demanding - merely acknowledging. He knew well how some wounds needed time to speak their truth.

When she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of centuries.

"It was in Nazair," she said, the words falling soft as ash between them. "Nearly two centuries ago now. I had a mate then - Silas. We'd been together for decades." A bitter smile touched her lips. "He was charming when he wanted to be. Possessive, though I didn't see it that way at first."

Her fingers curled slightly in his grasp, but still, she didn't pull away.

"We'd gone to visit friends that night. Other higher vampires - you know how rare it is to find a gathering of our kind. There was blood wine, music, and conversation that lasted until the small hours. But Silas..." She shook her head. "He'd had too much to drink. Started seeing things that weren't there. Convinced himself that Markus - one of our hosts - had been watching me too closely."

Regis's thumb stilled on her wrist, but his touch remained gentle. "What happened?"

"He waited until we were home. Accused me of encouraging it. Of betraying him." The bitter smile returned. "When I told him he was being ridiculous, he..." She gestured to her wrist with her free hand. "Silver-lined manacles. He'd been planning it, you see. Had them made specially."

A muscle tightened in Regis's jaw, but he said nothing.

"Yes." The word carried centuries of pain. "The silver burned, but rage burned hotter. I tore free of those manacles and—" She drew a shuddering breath. "Well. Let's just say Silas learned exactly how much damage his 'mate' could do, even with silver poison in her veins."

Understanding dawned in Regis's eyes. "You killed him."

"I did." No remorse colored her voice. "Though not before he learned exactly how much damage silver can do when you force someone to wear it for days." She met his gaze finally. "I'm not proud of what I did to him before the end. But I'm not ashamed of it either."

Regis was quiet for a long moment, still holding her wrist with the same gentle touch. Then, with deliberate care, he raised it to his lips and pressed a kiss to the silvered scars.

"Good," he said simply.

Rhena's breath caught, surprise flickering across her features before softening into something warmer. She shifted closer, tucking herself against him as the fire burned low.

"Most would call it monstrous," she murmured.

"Most," Regis replied, drawing the furs around them both, "have never had to learn the difference between monstrosity and justice."

Rhena shifted against him, her fingers ghosting across his forearm in the fire's dying light. The silence that had settled between them was comfortable, her features masked by shadow, though Regis could detect the subtle change in her breathing—that telltale pause before a thought sought voice.

When she spoke, however, it was not the words he had expected.

“Johnny’s been gone a long time.”

Regis exhaled slowly through his nose, inclining his head toward the window. Indeed, she spoke true. The ornery godling’s absence had stretched beyond what it should have taken him to return the pilfered trinkets. Something primal stirred in his gut, an ancient instinct he’d learned never to ignore.

“He has.”

Rhena pushed herself upright, a fleeting grimace crossing her face as fatigue-worn muscles protested. Her eyes darted between the door and his face. “Should we—”

“Yes,” Regis said, drawing a hand across his face in resignation. “We should go look for him.”

She was moving before he finished speaking, untangling herself from the furs with the liquid grace of a predator, her fingers finding the nearest garment. Regis followed with swift, precise movements as he secured his clothes. The silence hung between them like a blade, their shared unease growing sharper with each moment unmarked by Johnny's chatter.

Then—

A child's scream pierced the night.

Regis and Rhena froze, bodies tensing in perfect synchronization. Their eyes met in the firelight, decades of careful restraint warring with primal instinct. Another scream followed, then another, a chorus of terror rising from the village below.

"Johnny," Rhena breathed, already moving. Her fingers fumbled with her dress, movements sharp with urgency. Regis reached for his doublet, every muscle coiled with predatory tension.

The screams multiplied, transforming into a cacophony of human voices—fear and rage mingling into something ancient and dangerous. They both knew such sounds, knew what mobs of frightened humans were capable of when darkness pressed close.

Rhena reached the window first, moving with preternatural speed. "No!" she breathed, the word barely a whisper. The impact of her hands against the sill produced a sharp crack, wood splintering beneath fingers that could bend steel, as she gazed upon the scene unfolding in the village square.

Regis moved to join her, and what he beheld sent a tendril of ice coiling through his chest.

The village square had transformed into a theatre of torchlight and shadow, flames painting grotesque shapes across the gathered crowd. They stood like specters—men and women torn from sleep's embrace, some already clutching stones, others bent to gather more from the frozen ground.

At the heart of this macabre spectacle, bound and struggling, was Johnny.

The godling's usual vitality was dimmed, his wild hair matted with dirt, his small form bearing evidence of rough handling as several men dragged him forward. His feet scarcely brushed the ground, his arms bound with thick rope tied by hands more well-versed in securing hay bales than prisoners. Beside him lay the wicker basket, its contents scattered across the snow-covered ground like broken dreams.

Of Skura, there was no sign, though Regis caught sight of tiny paw prints in the snow leading away from the scene—at least the clever little mouse had managed to escape when they'd caught Johnny. The godling's face bore scratches that suggested he'd fought to protect his small friend during the capture.

Before him, the villagers had formed a rough circle, stones already gathered in anxious hands. The torchlight caught the pale faces of those who hesitated, and the fever-bright eyes of those who did not. There, set apart from the mob like a statue carved from winter's heart—Eskel.

Rhena's breath caught, her nails biting into the fractured windowsill. Below, one of the villagers stepped forward, a stone raised high. The torchlight cast diabolic shadows across Eskel's scarred visage, his expression hewn from stone as he watched Johnny's approach.

Rhena's grip on the sill tightened, and the wood snapped beneath her fingers.

Chapter Text

THE rotting wood gave way beneath her grip, sending splinters deep into her palm. Rhena paid the pain no mind. Her attention was fixed on the scene unfolding in the village square below, where torchlight painted everything in shades of blood and shadow. The mob had gathered, their faces twisted by fear and hatred until they seemed more bestial than the creature they hunted.

Johnny lay at their feet, ropes cutting into his flesh, crimson streaking his face and matting his hair. They dragged him toward the crude altar of stones that grew ever higher in the square's center.

Something inside Rhena's chest contracted painfully, as though a cold hand had seized her heart. Her vision narrowed, and sharpened, the world taking on the crystalline clarity that came before a hunt. Her fangs descended unbidden, and she felt the familiar stirring of the other self—the thing of tooth and claw she'd buried beneath years of careful restraint.

Slaughter them all, it whispered. Paint the snow with their entrails.

Not yet, she thought. Though her muscles trembled with the effort of holding back.

A touch on her shoulder, light as a raven's feather—Regis.

The gesture was gentle, but it carried the weight of centuries, his message clear enough.

Move.

She didn't need telling twice.

Turning from the window, she yanked on her boots, barely feeling the splinters that had lodged themselves beneath her skin. The cottage door burst open before her, letting in a gust of winter air that carried with it the growing frenzy of the mob.

Then she ran.

The forest beckoned ahead, dark and deep, promising shelter beneath its ancient boughs. The forest became a dark blur around her. Blood pounded in her ears like war drums. Branches tore at her clothes, her flesh, but such trivial pains were lost beneath the roaring of the beast within. Her nails lengthened to points, pressing against her palms. Not yet, she thought. Not yet. Not yet.

Beside her, Regis moved with the practiced grace of ages, each step precise, his breathing as measured as a monastery's clock. His iron control, earned through centuries of discipline, never wavered.

Rhena felt herself fracturing. The images wouldn't leave her—the stones in their hands, the copper-sweet scent of Johnny's blood and terror. A growl built in her throat, ancient and feral. The beast thrashed against its cage, that primal thing that remembered what she truly was, what devastation she could wreak.

Make them scream.

Her fangs extended fully. A child's shriek pierced the night. Red washed across her vision. She surged forward, abandoning any pretense of human speed. They burst from the treeline, and the village square sprawled before them in all its terrible clarity. The world seemed to crystallize.

Dozens of faces turned toward them in unison, faces she knew—the baker, the cooper, the blacksmith's wife. But their eyes held something darker than mere hatred now. It was that primordial fear, the kind that needed no justification, only a target. Rhena had witnessed it before, in other places, other times. She knew well what followed.

The villagers clutched their weapons tighter—crude implements of wood and iron, stones glossed with frost. A woman pressed a silver medallion to her lips, whispering prayers that stung Rhena's ears like acid.

"Keep close," Regis murmured, his voice still carrying that impossible serenity. He walked with deliberate slowness, each movement calculated to appear unthreatening. A masterclass in restraint.

Rhena struggled to mirror his composure, to cage the savage thing that howled inside her. Then she saw him.

Johnny lay sprawled in the mud, hemp rope cutting into his wrists. Blood had dried in his wild hair, and a fresh gash split his cheek. His lip was torn and swollen. Yet his yellow eyes remained defiant, catching hers with fierce intensity. The fury that swept through her nearly drove her to her knees.

She lunged forward—and found Regis's hand locked around her wrist, gentle but immovable. "Wait," he whispered, the word barely a breath.

Rhena froze, trembling with the effort of restraint. The crowd shifted restlessly, a nervous murmur rippling through their ranks.

Johnny's lips parted to speak, and the words tumbled out in a mad rush before the godling could stop himself.

"Oi! Lee-I-I mean, Rhena! Oh thank all the gods—not that I was worried, mind you, had it all under control and such—but these fellows aren't exactly the friendliest sort, are they? Bit rough with the ropes too, if I'm being honest, and someone really ought to teach them about proper guest treatment—" His frantic babbling pitched higher, more desperate. "Not fond of all these rocks they've been gathering neither—" Another boot caught him in the side, turning his words into a yelp.

"Stop," Rhena whispered, the word barely audible even to her ears, though she wasn't sure if she was pleading with the villagers or with the thing inside her that yearned to tear them apart.

A man in a gore-stained butcher's apron stepped forward through the haze of torch smoke, his eyes narrowing as he studied them.

Chapter Text

THEY had been together nearly a month now—though time seemed to move differently since the night they'd fled Draycott and found refuge with a rock troll of all creatures. The urgency of those first days had settled into something steadier, more deliberate.

Rhena had begun to notice small things: how Regis unconsciously adjusted his pace to match hers on their walks, the way his eyes sought her face when Johnny told his more outrageous tales, how his hand had begun to find hers without conscious thought.

It was these small intimacies that frightened her more than Dettlaff's obsession or the Elder's judgment. They spoke of permanence, of futures she had long ago stopped allowing herself to imagine.

Regis remained awake through the dawn, maintaining vigilant watch as dim light filtered through the cave’s narrow entrance. He surveyed their unlikely sanctuary with the clinical detachment of a surgeon assessing a particularly stubborn wound.

The cave was spacious enough, its high ceilings vanishing into shadow, its mineral-streaked walls glistening faintly. It served well enough as an adequate shelter, though the stench left much to be desired. The lingering reek of Borko’s nightly nekker soup clung to every surface—a miasma so potent that even Regis, despite centuries of familiarity with decay and putrefaction, found himself unprepared.

In the far corner, the rock troll himself snored with the rhythmic persistence of a blacksmith’s bellows, each exhalation stirring the particulate matter that hung in the air.

Beside him lay Johnny, the godling’s diminutive form curled into a surprisingly small ball, wild black hair askew, one hand still clutching a dented spoon he’d claimed from Rhena’s cottage. The little creature had proven remarkably resilient, considering the night’s ordeal. His theatrical complaints about their new accommodations notwithstanding, Johnny had settled into sleep with the enviable ease of one untroubled by existential dread.

Regis’s gaze finally settled on Rhena. She sat apart from the others, back pressed against the cave wall, eyes closed though he knew she wasn’t truly sleeping—their kind had very little physiological need for such mortal respite. She had maintained her distance these last several hours—a habit he recognized in himself all too well. It was their kind’s first instinct, after all. Isolation as protection, for oneself and others.

He moved toward her without a sound, boots gliding over the uneven ground with the effortless grace of a shadow. Not a pebble shifted, and not a whisper of movement betrayed his approach. Old instincts died hard—especially those sharpened by centuries of necessity.

The fire had burned low during the night, little more than embers now. Regis fed it carefully, adding more kindling with deliberate slowness. The ritual was necessary, if only for Johnny’s sake, as cold did not affect higher vampires as it did humans, or this in case, godlings—but it provided a rhythm, a purpose, a momentary distraction from weightier concerns.

Rhena stirred at the fire’s renewed crackling, dark eyes opening, her focus shifting from internal healing to external awareness with the instantaneous alertness of a predator. There was no gradual transition for their kind; attention was simply redirected, sharp, sudden, and complete.

“Good morning,” Regis said quietly, his tone carefully neutral despite their circumstances. Centuries of field surgeries and triages had taught him that panic and worry, however justified, served no practical purpose. “How do you feel?”

A smile tugged at his lips despite himself. Her sardonic humor, even in extremis, was a quality he found himself increasingly drawn to. Most higher vampires cultivated an insufferable solemnity as if immortality demanded perpetual gravity. Her willingness to find irony in their predicament was refreshing—and telling.

"You seem much stronger this morning," he observed softly, professional assessment momentarily supplanting personal concern. "These weeks of rest have done you good—not just physically, but in other ways as well. I can see it in how you move, how you speak with Johnny and Borko."

"Your diagnostic acumen is unparalleled, Master Barber-Surgeon," she replied, though the hint of a smile softened the sharpness of her retort. She glanced toward their sleeping companions. "A month of Borko's questionable cuisine and Johnny's endless chatter does have a certain... restorative quality, I'll admit. Though I never thought I'd find peace in a troll's cave." She paused, her expression growing more thoughtful. "Our host seems untroubled by last night's excitement, at least."

"Indeed. It would seem our godling friend has developed a remarkable tolerance for chaos, while our troll companion possesses the enviable ability to sleep through practically anything." He gestured toward the still-bubbling cauldron at the cave's center. "I believe Borko's culinary masterpiece might require attention soon, lest it achieve sentience and declare itself ruler of the mountain."

This earned him a genuine laugh, albeit one quickly stifled by Rhena's hand. The sound sent an unexpected warmth through his chest, a sensation he filed away for later. For now, there were more pressing matters at hand.

"After all this time together—nearly six weeks now—I'd hoped we could finally discuss our…situation properly, Rhena, my dear," he said, forcing himself to return to practicalities. "The villagers will likely not abandon their hunt so easily. Fear has a way of festering if left unchecked."

Rhena’s expression sobered. She drew her knees to her chest, an unexpectedly vulnerable gesture from one usually so composed. “I know,” she said quietly. “Five years of my life I spent in that village, Regis. Five years of deliveries and treatments and midnight house calls. And for what? The moment they learned what I was, a monster to them, none of it mattered.”

Regis did not offer empty platitudes. He had witnessed and experienced this pattern often enough himself to know its inevitability. Instead, he stoked the fire, watching as sparks spiraled upward like ephemeral stars.

“Humans fear what they do not understand,” he said carefully after a measured silence. “And we are, by our very nature, incomprehensible to them. Not merely in our differences, but in our similarities as well. The uncanny valley, I believe, modern scholars call it—that disquieting space where recognition and alienation collide.”

“How very philosophical of you, Regis,” Rhena muttered, though without any real venom in her tone. “I’m sure that would have been a great comfort as they prepared to stone me for defending Johnny.”

“Philosophy rarely provides comfort in the moment,” Regis acknowledged with a tilt of his head. “It is more like a wound that must be cleaned before it can heal—painful, yes, but necessary.”

She looked at him then, truly looked, with the penetrating gaze that seemed to evaluate not just his words but the centuries of experience that had shaped them both. “And what of you, Regis? How many times have you been driven from your home? How many lives have you built and abandoned?”

The question hung between them, more intimate than any physical touch. Regis considered his response carefully, aware that this was a threshold of sorts. What he shared now would define something between them, though he wasn’t entirely certain what that something might be.

“More than I care to count,” he admitted finally. “Though fewer since I learned the art of inconspicuous existence. The trick, you see, is to be useful but rather unremarkable. To heal without seeming miraculous. To observe without being observed.”

“Yet last night you threw yourself between me and that mob without hesitation.” Her voice held no accusation, merely curiosity. “Not particularly inconspicuous, Regis.”

“No,” he agreed, lips curving in a self-deprecating smile. “It seems my calculated approach to self-preservation has developed certain… inconsistencies as of late.”

Rhena parted her lips to speak, an odd flush coming over her cheeks, but before she could respond, a commotion erupted from the far side of the cave. Johnny had awakened, and with consciousness came his seemingly inexhaustible capacity for theatrical lamentation.

“Oh, by my grandmother’s warty backside!” Johnny exclaimed, leaping to his feet with startling energy. “I need my morning constitutional, and right quick!” He hopped from one foot to another in an elaborate dance of energy. “It’s my favorite part of the morn, after all, defecatin’ to the sunrise. Downright glorious, it is!”

Borko, awakened by the godling’s loud proclamation, rubbed his stony eyes and regarded Johnny with placid confusion. “Tiny loud one makes strange talk. What is…dee-fee-kay-shun?”

“Ah, it’s a…rather private ceremony,” Regis interjected smoothly, sparing them all an unnecessarily detailed explanation. “Perhaps we might direct Johnny to a suitable location for his, er…ritual?”

"Borko has special place," the troll announced, lumbering to his feet with surprising grace for one so massive. "Behind big rock. Good smells collect there."

"Marvelous," Johnny declared, already scampering toward the cave entrance. "I shall contribute magnificently to your collection!"

As the godling disappeared outside, Rhena caught Regis's eye, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips despite her melancholy. "An unlikely family we've assembled, haven't we?"

"Eclectic, to be certain," Regis agreed, matching her wry tone. "Though I find myself increasingly appreciative of the arrangement, peculiar as it may be."

When Johnny returned a short while later, he was carrying an assortment of objects that appeared to have been collected during his brief excursion—a handful of pebbles, several dried leaves, and something that may once have been a bird's egg. "Look what I found!" he announced, depositing his treasures in the center of the cave. "Materials for proper organization!"

He proceeded to dart about the cave, rearranging Borko's collection of dubious treasures—moldy boots, rocks of unusual shapes, fragments of metal, and assorted bones—with frantic energy. The rock troll watched with bemused tolerance as Johnny established new territories for each category of items.

"Little one moves Borko's pretties," the troll observed without apparent concern. "Makes new pretty places."

"Not 'pretty places,'" Johnny corrected with the exasperation of a scholar addressing a particularly dim pupil. "Taxonomic classifications! This corner is for organic materials! That one for minerals! And this area—" he pointed dramatically to a small alcove "—is exclusively for shiny things. Basic principles of organization!"

Regis caught Rhena's eye, a silent understanding passing between them amidst the chaos. This odd assemblage—two higher vampires, a rock troll, and a godling—formed an unlikely community of outcasts, each finding something of value in the others' companionship.

As Johnny continued his chaotic reorganization of the cave’s "treasures," Borko let out a great, rumbling yawn and heaved himself upright. The troll stretched, scratching at his craggy hide before lumbering toward the large cauldron still settled over the embers of last night’s fire. He peered inside, gave an approving grunt, and then reached for a hefty sack that had been resting near his makeshift bed.

"Time for Borko special breakfast!" he announced, upending the sack’s contents into the cauldron with an unceremonious plop. Thick, lumpy porridge oozed into the pot, followed by what might have been dried mushrooms, a suspiciously dark liquid, and something that made a faint squelch upon impact. He grabbed his oversized ladle—fashioned from what appeared to be a repurposed breastplate—and began stirring with enthusiasm. The motion sent a thick glob slopping against the rim, releasing a fresh wave of its sour, burnt aroma.

Rhena pressed a hand discreetly against her nose, then flicked a single, meaningful glance at Regis—silent, urgent. He understood immediately. Neither of them would be touching a bite of whatever monstrosity the troll had "cooked."

"Borko make breakfast!" the troll announced proudly. "Special recipe. Very good for friends."

Regis approached with diplomatic caution. "Your generosity is most appreciated, my friend. Perhaps I might suggest a few... alternative ingredients? I happened to gather some honey and dried berries on our journey that might complement your existing flavors."

Borko paused, ladle suspended over the bubbling mass, his craggy face scrunching in consideration. "Sweet bits? Borko uses rotten apples for sweet bits."

"Indeed, a creative choice," Regis nodded solemnly. "However, these particular ingredients possess certain medicinal properties that would benefit our companion Rhena as she recovers."

At the mention of Rhena’s health, Borko’s expression shifted from skepticism to solemn determination. "Borko helps lady friend get better. Where find?"

With careful precision, Regis extracted the honey and dried berries from his satchel, explaining each with scholarly enthusiasm that seemed to both confuse and impress the troll.

Johnny, not to be outdone, darted outside and returned with an armful of questionable additions—a handful of pebbles, some withered roots, and what appeared to be a dead beetle.

"These make it extra special," the godling declared, dropping them unceremoniously into Borko's outstretched palm.

"Johnny..." Regis began, then sighed in resignation. Progress, he reminded himself, often came in small increments. At least the beetle would be less offensive than nekker eyeballs.

While the culinary negotiations continued, Rhena had retreated to the cave's entrance, her slender figure silhouetted against the morning light. Regis observed her with the attentiveness that had become second nature to him over the centuries. She stood motionless as a statue, her gaze fixed on the distant village barely visible through the skeletal winter trees below.

He recognized that look all too well—the thousand-yard stare of someone seeing not what lay before them, but ghosts of what was lost. He had worn that expression himself, more times than he cared to remember.

He approached after allowing her appropriate solitude, deliberately making his footfalls audible—a courtesy that would have been unnecessary among humans, but which vampires, with their preternatural senses, appreciated. A small kindness: announcing his presence rather than appearing without warning. Small kindnesses, he had found, were what separated monsters from those who merely possessed monstrous capabilities.

"Your thoughts are far from here," he observed quietly, standing just far enough away to respect her space while making conversation possible.

The wind carried the scent of pine and snow to them, mingling with the more dubious aromas emanating from Borko's cauldron. From inside the cave, Johnny's theatrical complaints provided a peculiar backdrop to their conversation.

"I still think about them. The villagers. If Anja's had her twins that were breech. If they...if they survived," she said without turning, her voice distant, hollow. "The tanner's cough hasn't improved. Bartik's joints pain him terribly in winter weather like this." A pause. "Who will help the villagers now, Regis?"

He understood the weight of her question. The burden of accumulated knowledge—centuries of medical expertise that could ease suffering—rendered useless by fear and prejudice. It was a peculiar agony unique to their kind: outliving one's usefulness, repeatedly.

"Someone will," Regis said simply, without platitude or false reassurance. The truth was simple enough. "Villages adapt. They survive. As must we, Rhena, dear." Humans, he had observed, possessed remarkable resilience and resourcefulness, traits that far outweighed their physical fragility.

"Is that supposed to comfort me?" There was a brittle edge to her voice, sharp as a newly-honed dagger. Her shoulders tensed, a minute movement no human would have noticed.

"No," Regis replied honestly, folding his hands behind his back in a habitual gesture. "Comfort would be dishonest at this juncture. What I offer instead is perspective—the long view that our kind is uniquely positioned to take." He watched a hawk circle lazily in the distance, patient and precise in its hunt. "Perspective is rarely comforting, but often necessary."

She turned to face him then, her dark eyes studying him with an intensity that would have unnerved a mortal. The silver poisoning had left faint, spidery traces beneath her skin, visible only to one with vampire sight. They would fade with time. Most things did.

"Tell me then, Regis," she challenged, crossing her arms against the cold that she did not truly feel. "Tell me about your long view."

He considered his words carefully. What he would share was not a tale he recounted freely. But circumstances—and perhaps his growing regard for her—warranted unusual candor.

"In Metinna, a century or two ago," he began, his voice measured, "I had established myself as a physician of some renown. Not ostentatious enough to draw undue attention, but respected enough to secure a position of modest influence. My practice flourished; I had colleagues, acquaintances I might even have called friends, had I permitted myself such luxuries. For seventeen years, I existed in near-perfect integration."

He paused, remembering the small surgery at the corner of Linden and Marsh Streets, the herb garden he had cultivated with painstaking attention, the patients who had come to trust him implicitly. Small pleasures, carefully curated, easily lost.

"There was a fever that summer," he continued, "virulent and merciless. I worked day and night, pushing the boundaries of caution in my efforts to save those in my care. Exhaustion made me careless. During a particularly difficult surgery—a young woman, hemorrhaging after a difficult birth—I moved too quickly, demonstrated strength no human should possess. The patient lived." His lips twisted in a rueful smile. "My secret did not."

"What happened?" she asked softly, her earlier sharpness mellowed by genuine interest.

"The usual," Regis replied with a small shrug that belied the pain of the memory. "Whispers in the marketplace. Averted gazes from those who had once greeted me warmly. Patients with miraculous recoveries suddenly remembered urgent appointments elsewhere. A broken window. A dead cat on my doorstep." He recounted these indignities without bitterness. "I recognized the signs and departed before pitchforks became involved. Left behind my books, my instruments, the garden I had cultivated with such care."

The recollection was still unexpectedly vivid—the smell of rain-soaked earth as he'd taken a final cutting from his favorite rosemary plant, the weight of the few possessions he'd deemed essential enough to carry, the hollow sound of the door closing for the final time.

"So your advice is to accept this cycle of loss as inevitable?" There was a challenge in her question, but curiosity too. "To care less, attach less?"

"Quite the contrary," Regis countered gently, taking a step closer. "My suggestion is to acknowledge the legitimate grief of what is lost, while recognizing that loss itself is not the end. Merely a transition." He gestured toward the village below. "In fifty years, in a hundred, what will remain of their grievances? Of their fears? Nothing. But we shall endure, Rhena. And perhaps that is our burden and our gift—to remember what others are permitted to forget."

A comfortable silence settled between them as they watched the morning mist curl around the trees below. A raven croaked harshly from a nearby pine, its black form stark against the snow. When Rhena spoke again, her voice carried a hint of her earlier sardonic humor.

"You've developed quite the philosophical bent for one who claims to be a simple barber-surgeon." The corner of her mouth lifted in a manner he found unexpectedly distracting.

"A side effect of excessive reading and insufficient social engagement," Regis admitted with a self-deprecating smile, pleased to see her mood lighten. "When one spends more time with books than with people, one develops certain... contemplative tendencies."

He watched as she brushed a strand of dark hair from her face, a casually elegant movement that betrayed nothing of her true age or nature. Like most higher vampires, Rhena had perfected the art of blending among humans—the minute adjustments in movement, in breathing patterns, in expressions that created the illusion of mortality. But here, in this moment of privacy, those pretenses had fallen away. There was something unexpectedly intimate about it, this mutual abandonment of carefully constructed facades.

"The place I told you about," he said suddenly, the idea forming even as he spoke, "not far from here, as it turns out—the other side of this mountain, where it opens to reveal a secret garden. The locals avoid it, believing it cursed or haunted by woodland sprites." He smiled faintly. "In truth, it's simply secluded, sacred to our kind for generations."

Rhena's interest visibly piqued. Her posture shifted, the melancholy that had shrouded her temporarily lifting. "A garden? Inside the mountain?"

"A cave system that opens to a sheltered valley," Regis elaborated, warming to his subject. "Somehow, the configuration of the rock creates a microclimate—warmer, protected from harsh elements. Rare plants grow there, including the moonflower."

"Moonflower?" Her eyebrows arched delicately. "I've never heard of such a plant."

"Few have. It blooms only at night, its petals luminous as if capturing moonlight itself. The scent..." he paused, searching for an adequate description. "Imagine the most profound moment of your existence distilled into fragrance. That barely approximates it." He met her gaze directly, his voice dropping slightly. "Beyond the chamber where the moonflowers grow lies a secluded grotto with a hot spring. The water is perfectly heated by the mountain's inner fire—ideal for... a proper bath."

His meaning was unmistakable, and Rhena held his gaze for a long moment before her lips curved into a barely perceptible smile that sent an unexpected warmth through his chest. There was something in her expression—a mixture of intrigue and amusement—that suggested she found his usually formal demeanor endearing rather than off-putting. An unusual response, in his experience.

Before she could respond, a small sound at the cave entrance caused both vampires to tense. Centuries of survival had conditioned them to treat unexpected noises as potential threats until proven otherwise. Regis's muscles coiled imperceptibly, ready to position himself between Rhena and any danger. The source of the disturbance appeared—a tiny figure navigating carefully through the light dusting of snow that had fallen overnight. Skura scurried awkwardly toward them, the little brown mouse exhausted from his long journey.

Regis found himself impressed by the creature's remarkable navigation skills and evident loyalty to Rhena. Such bonds between vampires and smaller creatures were uncommon—most of their kind viewed animals as either potential prey or irrelevant background features of the landscape. Rhena's attachment to the mouse spoke of a compassion that transcended typical vampiric detachment.

But before Rhena could properly greet her tiny companion, Borko's massive head swiveled toward the movement with the predatory instinct of a creature far more primitive than his jovial demeanor suggested. The rock troll's hunting reflexes engaged instantly, triggering a reaction as automatic as it was potentially devastating.

"Small meat!" the rock troll exclaimed gleefully, moving with surprising agility for one of his bulk. He scooped Skura up in one massive palm before Regis could intervene, thick stone fingers curling around the hapless rodent. "Perfect meat for soup later!"

Regis saw Rhena's expression transform from surprise to alarm with vampire-quick reflexes. Her posture shifted slightly—a subtle tell that others might miss, but which he recognized as the precursor to aggression. The situation could escalate rapidly; trolls, for all their childlike simplicity, possessed formidable strength and territorial instincts. A higher vampire, even one weakened by silver poisoning, could inflict considerable damage if provoked. The confined space of the cave would only amplify the potential for destructive confrontation.

"Put him down!" Rhena demanded, her voice carrying an edge that Regis recognized—the subtle emergence of the predator that resided within all of their kind. Blood and spittle could flow if this continued on its current trajectory.

Borko scowled. "Fang lady angry. But Fang lady not start fight in Borko cave! Borko won't allow it!" The rock troll’s voice rumbled as he hoisted Skura to eye level for a closer look.

Regis winced as the little mouse let out a panicked squeak. He tensed, calculating the best way to defuse the situation before anyone got hurt—only for Johnny to step in first, radiating the reckless confidence of someone who understood neither fear nor social decorum.

"Nobody's fighting, you great lumpy boulder," the godling declared, patting Borko's arm with familiar ease. "She's just saying her tiny friend isn't for eating. Like how I'm not for eating, and you're not for eating, and these two pale ones aren't for eating." He paused thoughtfully, cocking his wild-haired head to one side. "Although they do the eating sometimes, don't they? The drinking at least. Nasty business, that."

Regis suppressed a smile at the godling's unflinching assessment. Something was refreshing about Johnny's directness, his complete lack of artifice or pretense. The little creature never dissembled, never feigned emotions he didn't feel, never pretended to be anything other than precisely what he was. A rare quality in any world.

Borko's expression brightened with sudden understanding, his craggy features rearranging themselves into a pattern that suggested profound revelation had occurred within his rocky cranium. "Oh! Like Johnny not soup! And Borko not soup!"

"Exactly!" the godling agreed enthusiastically, gesturing with animated precision. "Some friends are soup-friends, and some are not-soup-friends. The little squeaky one is a not-soup-friend."

"Not-soup-friend," Borko repeated solemnly, nodding his massive head with the gravitas of one who has grasped an essential philosophical truth. "Borko understand now."

Regis marveled inwardly at the simplicity and effectiveness of Johnny's explanation. The godling had managed to convey a complex ethical concept in terms the troll could immediately grasp. It was, in its way, a more elegant solution than any Regis might have devised with his centuries of accumulated knowledge.

With surprising gentleness, the troll extended his hand toward Rhena, Skura still clutched in his palm. The mouse, though visibly shaken, remained remarkably composed as if understanding the precariousness of his situation.

"Lady friend take not-soup-friend," Borko offered, his expression earnest, almost apologetic.

Regis observed the subtle shift in Rhena's demeanor as she carefully retrieved Skura, her tension easing fractionally. The immediacy of potential conflict dissipated like morning mist before the sun. Her fingers gently stroked the mouse's tiny head, a gesture of such tenderness that it seemed incongruous with the predatory nature their kind possessed. The mouse curled comfortably in her palm, seeming to understand he had narrowly escaped becoming an ingredient in Borko's dubious culinary creation.

"Thank you, Borko," she said, her voice softening as the crisis passed. "And thank you, Johnny, for your... explanation."

"My particular genius often goes unappreciated," Johnny replied airily, already distracted by some new organizational scheme for Borko's treasures, his diminutive form darting about the cave with inexhaustible energy.

Regis watched as Rhena cradled the mouse in her palm, her expression softening at the sight of her exhausted companion. The tenderness in her manner as she stroked Skura's tiny head with a gentle finger revealed yet another facet of her character—one that further intrigued him. Such attachments to smaller creatures were rare among their kind; vampires generally maintained a cool detachment from other beings. Yet here was evidence that Rhena, like himself, had developed connections that defied their species' typical solitude.

The complexity of her character continued to reveal itself in layers: the healer who had risked exposure to help human villagers; the predator whose eyes had flashed with dangerous power when Skura was threatened; the woman who now cradled a tiny mouse with maternal gentleness. Each revelation added nuance to his understanding of her, like a master painter adding depth to a portrait with subtle brushstrokes.

Crisis averted, Regis returned to the more immediate concern of breakfast, carefully maneuvering the conversation away from potential animal ingredients to plants and fungi. Diplomacy had always been among his stronger skills—a necessity when one lived for centuries among beings whose lifespans were but brief candles compared to the long darkness of immortality.

Rhena had been silent for a while, her fingers idly stroking Skura’s fur, but her gaze had grown distant. Regis noticed the slight tension in her jaw, the way her free hand curled into a fist against her knee. Whatever was on her mind was pressing harder by the second.

"I don't want to wait," she said suddenly, her voice cutting through Borko’s enthusiastic explanation about beetle-crushing techniques.

Regis turned to her, caught off guard by the sharpness in her tone.

Rhena met his gaze, her dark eyes burning with intent. "This cave you spoke of—the moonflower grotto," she continued. "Take me there now. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Now." Her voice carried an urgency that caught him off guard, accustomed as he was to her usual measured demeanor.

Regis studied her carefully, and his barber-surgeon's instincts automatically assessed her condition. The silver poisoning remained in her system, though significantly diminished; her strength was returning, but far from fully restored. Medical prudence dictated rest, recuperation, caution. And yet, there was something in her manner—a restlessness, a hunger for something beyond physical safety—resonated with his carefully suppressed desires.

"Are you certain?" he asked, his voice pitched low enough that their companions couldn't overhear. "The journey, while not arduous for our kind under normal circumstances, might prove taxing in your current condition."

"I've spent five years being cautious, Regis," she replied, something flashing in her eyes—not the predator this time, but something equally primal. Desire, perhaps. Or defiance. "Measuring each word, each gesture, maintaining the perfect illusion of humanity. And where did it lead me? Here, a refugee in a troll's cave, with nothing but the clothes on my back and a mouse I couldn't protect from becoming food."

Her logic was impeccable, if somewhat reckless. Regis found himself both concerned and, if he were honest, intrigued by this sudden impetuosity. It revealed yet another facet of her—the capacity for spontaneity despite centuries of learned caution. A quality he had gradually relinquished over the years in favor of predictability and safety.

"Very well," he conceded, surprised by his acquiescence and his eagerness to share the sacred place with her. "Though I must insist we travel in mist form for at least part of the journey. It will conserve your strength."

Relief and something else—anticipation, perhaps—crossed her features. She turned abruptly toward Johnny, who was explaining to Borko why shiny rocks and dull rocks required separate categorical designations with the solemnity of a university professor addressing particularly dim students.

"Johnny," she interrupted, extending her hands toward the godling. "I need a favor. Would you look after Skura for a while? Regis and I must... investigate something."

The godling's wild eyebrows shot upward, his expression instantly suspicious in a way that suggested he understood perfectly well what kind of "investigation" might be occurring. "Investigate what? And why can't the squeaky one go with you? I'm very busy with important organizational matters, you know." Despite his protests, his hands were already reaching for the mouse, his natural affinity for small creatures evident.

"A potential refuge," Regis supplied smoothly, impressed by his capacity for half-truths after centuries of practice. "Through passages too narrow for Skura's comfort. We'll return before long."

Johnny cupped his hands, creating a small hollow into which Rhena carefully transferred Skura. The mouse turned twice in a circle before settling comfortably into the godling's palm, apparently untroubled by the change in guardianship.

"Well, at least someone appreciates my talents," Johnny muttered, though Regis noted the gentle way his thumb stroked the mouse's back. "Fine, fine. Go on your secret adventure. We'll be perfectly fine without you, won't we, Borko?"

As Johnny continued his elaborate explanation of mouse-rearing credentials, Borko wandered away, attention captured by a new arrangement of his collection that the godling had established. The troll carefully picked up a particularly shiny piece of metal, examining it with childlike fascination before placing it precisely in the "shiny things" corner, then nodded with satisfaction at his contribution to Johnny's organizational system.

"Borko make pretty place more pretty," he announced proudly. "Little loud one teach Borko good things."

"That's 'taxonomic expertise,' you boulder-brained lummox," Johnny corrected, though his tone carried no real irritation. "But yes, I suppose my genius is finally being recognized, even if by a creature whose idea of interior design is 'pile bones here, pile not-bones there.'"

The unlikely friendship developing between the godling and the troll provided a strange comfort to Regis. Perhaps their eclectic group might survive this ordeal intact after all.

Regis gathered a few essentials—herbs that might ease any resurgence of Rhena's pain, a waterskin, a small knife that might prove useful—and secured them in the inner pockets of his garments with practiced efficiency. Traveling as mist would require minimizing physical possessions, but some precautions were too ingrained to abandon, even for a brief excursion.

They slipped out of the cave without fanfare, the sounds of Johnny's enthusiastic organizational directives and Borko's confused but willing participation fading behind them. The morning air greeted them with crystalline clarity, sharp enough to make human lungs ache. The rising sun cast long shadows across the snow-covered landscape, the pristine white dazzling in its intensity after the dim confines of the cave.

Regis surveyed their surroundings with the habitual caution of one who had survived many centuries through vigilance. From this vantage point, the villages below were beginning to stir, thin columns of smoke rising from chimneys as residents stoked morning fires. No hunting parties visible yet, but the day was young.

"The most direct route lies east, along the ridgeline," he indicated with a gesture, "though the terrain is somewhat treacherous for conventional travel."

Rhena met his gaze, a challenging glint in her eye. "Conventional travel is hardly our only option."

Without further conversation, she dissolved into mist—a rippling cascade of particles too fine to be seen individually, cohesive enough to maintain identity without form. Regis followed suit, the transformation as natural to him as breathing was to humans. In this state, physical limitations held less sway; pain diminished, fatigue became abstract. The silver in Rhena's system would remain a toxic presence, but its effects would be diffused, manageable.

They flowed across the mountainside like twin streams of consciousness, navigating the terrain with preternatural awareness. In this form, perception altered—they did not see so much as sense, did not hear so much as resonate with the vibrations around them. The experience was one few mortals could comprehend: existing as something between matter and energy, substance and thought.

Regis led the way, memory guiding him through the labyrinthine landscape toward a destination he had not visited in decades. Below them, a herd of deer paused in their foraging to track their passage with wary eyes, sensing the presence of something neither prey nor predator, but alien nonetheless. The journey that would have taken hours by foot passed in mere minutes, distance rendered nearly meaningless in their transformed state.

They arrived at what appeared to be an unremarkable fissure in the rock face, barely wide enough for a human to squeeze through—a deliberate choice by those who had first discovered this sanctuary. Regis reformed first, his particles coalescing into solid mass with practiced ease, the transition from formlessness to form momentarily disorienting despite centuries of experience.

Rhena followed, materializing beside him with a small sound that might have been discomfort. He noted the momentary unsteadiness in her stance, the way her hand briefly pressed against her side where the silver had entered her system. The transformation, while conserving overall energy, demanded a certain expenditure of power that her weakened condition made more taxing.

"Are you—"

"I'm perfectly fine," she interrupted, straightening. The morning light caught in her dark hair, illuminating strands of deep auburn that would have been invisible to human eyes. "Just the transformation back. It always feels... strange, after being formless."

Regis understood the sensation perfectly—the momentary disorientation as individual consciousness reintegrated with physical form, the subtle shock of boundaries after limitlessness. He did not press the matter, though he made a mental note to monitor her condition carefully. The silver would continue to work its way out of her system gradually, but overexertion could slow the process.

"The entrance is rather unassuming," he said instead, gesturing toward the narrow crack in the stone. "Deliberately so. Our kind has always valued discretion in our special places."

"As I recall, 'unassuming' was your specialty as well," Rhena observed wryly, approaching the fissure. "Let me guess—it widens once you're inside?"

"Indeed. Nature's illusion," Regis confirmed, pleased by her quick understanding and the subtle compliment embedded in her observation. "After you."

She slipped sideways into the narrow opening, moving with the fluid grace that even silver poisoning couldn't entirely suppress. Regis followed, his slender form navigating the tight passage with practiced ease. The entry corridor extended for perhaps twenty feet, the walls pressing close on either side, before abruptly opening into a chamber of breathtaking proportions.

Rhena halted, her sharp intake of breath the only sound in the vast space. Regis paused behind her, allowing her the moment of discovery without interruption. The cavern soared upward, its ceiling lost in shadow despite the ethereal illumination that filled the space. Natural shafts in the rock above admitted slender beams of morning sunlight, which struck crystalline formations embedded in the walls, fragmenting into thousands of rainbow prisms that danced across the stone. A small underground stream wound its way across the smooth floor, its gentle burbling creating a soothing acoustic backdrop.

But most remarkable were the plants. Defying the absence of conventional growing conditions, vegetation flourished in this hidden ecosystem—delicate ferns unfurled from crevices, luminescent fungi clustered in colonies along the walls, and pale, tendril-like vines cascaded from above, their filaments seeming to capture and redirect the light. At the far end of the cavern, a cluster of tightly closed buds grew in a perfect circle around a small pool of still water—the moonflowers, awaiting night to reveal their splendor.

"This is..." Rhena began, then shook her head, words insufficient in the face of such unexpected beauty.

"Yes," Regis agreed simply, understanding perfectly what she couldn't articulate. He moved to stand beside her, allowing himself to experience the wonder of the place anew through her eyes. The sanctuary had existed for centuries, perhaps millennia, but somehow never lost its capacity to inspire awe, even in beings who had witnessed empires rise and fall.

"The hot spring lies through that passage," he added after allowing her an appropriate interval for contemplation, indicating a smaller opening on the far side of the chamber. "It opens into a separate grotto."

She nodded, still absorbing the unexpected beauty of their surroundings. "How long has this place existed?"

"The cave itself? Millennia, I would imagine. As a sanctuary for our kind..." Regis shrugged lightly. "Centuries, at least. I discovered it myself nearly two hundred years ago, guided by an older vampire who has since moved on to other territories. We've always kept such places secret, even from each other. Shared only with those we... trust implicitly."

The implication of his words hung between them, acknowledged but unexamined for the moment. Rhena stepped further into the chamber, drawn to the still-closed moonflowers with the curiosity that had likely served her well through the centuries.

"They're waiting for darkness," Regis explained, following her gaze. "When night falls, they'll open. The effect is... quite remarkable."

"And we'll be here to witness it," she said, a statement rather than a question, her decision made. "Along with a proper bath. You did promise me."

"And I am a vampire of my word, my dear. We will return to see them bloom," he confirmed, suddenly acutely aware of the privacy they'd achieved, and the deliberate nature of their journey. The moment stretched between them, weighted with possibility and unsaid intentions.

Rhena broke it first, turning toward the passage he'd indicated. "Show me this hot spring of yours, then. After Borko's cave, the prospect of true cleanliness is almost overwhelming."

Regis smiled, appreciating her pragmatic approach to what had become an increasingly charged situation. In his experience, vampires tended toward either theatrical melodrama or cold detachment in matters of attraction; Rhena's straightforwardness was refreshing.

"This way," he said, leading her toward the smaller passage. "Mind your step—the rock can be slippery near the water's edge."

The passage curved gently downward, the air growing noticeably warmer and more humid as they descended. The sound of gently lapping water reached them before the spring itself came into view. Then the hot spring grotto opened before them like a revelation—a perfect natural chamber, intimate in scale after the vastness of the main cavern.

Here, the cave ceiling hung lower, adorned with delicate crystalline formations that caught and refracted what little light filtered through a narrow fissure above. The spring itself occupied most of the chamber, a pool of startlingly clear water that steamed gently in the cool air. The water's mineral composition tinted it a subtle, luminous blue that seemed to generate its soft illumination, casting mysterious shadows and light patterns across the stone walls.

"The heat comes from deep within the mountain," Regis explained, his voice automatically lowering in response to the chamber's hushed atmosphere. "Natural thermal vents. The temperature remains constant regardless of the season—warm enough to soothe, not so hot as to discomfort."

Rhena stood at the pool's edge, her expression unreadable as she gazed at the gently rippling surface. Without turning to him, she spoke, her voice carrying easily in the enclosed space. "You've brought others here before?"

The question caught him off-guard—not the inquiry itself, but the subtle undertone he detected beneath the seemingly casual words. Was it uncertainty? Jealousy, perhaps? The possibility intrigued him more than he cared to admit.

"No," he answered truthfully. "I've visited alone, over the years. But I've never shared this particular sanctuary with another."

She nodded once, accepting his answer without comment. Then, with a decisiveness that seemed characteristic of her actions this day, she began to unbutton her coat.

Regis immediately turned away, focusing his attention on a particularly interesting mineral formation on the far wall. Old habits died hard—especially those cultivated during extended periods of integration with human society.

"I'll allow you privacy," he said, already moving toward the passage. "Call if you require—"

"Stay."

The single word stopped him as effectively as a physical barrier. He remained where he stood, back still turned, acutely aware of the soft rustle of fabric behind him. For a creature who had survived centuries through control and restraint, the simple act of remaining still now required unexpected discipline.

"Regis," her voice was closer now, carrying a hint of amusement. "We've both lived centuries. Surely false modesty is something we've long ago abandoned."

He smiled despite himself, acknowledging the truth in her words. Still, old habits died hard—especially those cultivated during extended periods of integration with human society. "A fair point," he conceded. "Though I find that certain courtesies transcend time."

The soft splash of water indicated her entry into the pool. Only then did he turn, to find her already submerged to her shoulders, dark hair spreading like ink across the turquoise surface. Steam rose around her, lending the scene an otherworldly quality that seemed appropriate. In this moment, she appeared entirely vampire—a creature of mystery and ancient bloodlines, the careful human facade temporarily shed along with her clothing.

"The water is perfect," she said, her eyes closing briefly in evident pleasure. "Join me, Regis."

It wasn't a question, not quite a command. An invitation, then, with implications that hung between them as tangible as the steam that rose from the water's surface.

For a moment, he hesitated—the habitual caution of centuries giving him pause. But something had shifted between them in the chaotic events of recent weeks, something that perhaps had been inevitable from their first meeting. Recognition, of a sort different from what he had witnessed in others of their kind, but no less profound for its quieter nature.

Rhena watched him, her expression a mixture of patience and challenge. "After all your talk of appreciating the present moment," she said softly, "here one is, being offered to you."

The gentle prod dissolved his hesitation. With methodical precision that betrayed nothing of his internal state, Regis removed his outer garments, folding each with his customary neatness before setting them aside. He was aware of her gaze, unwavering and appreciative, as he stepped to the pool's edge and slipped into the water with barely a ripple.

The warmth enveloped him immediately, a pleasant shock against skin long accustomed to cooler temperatures. He remained at a careful distance, allowing the water to work its soothing magic on muscles he hadn't realized were tense until this moment.

"You were right," Rhena said after a comfortable silence. "This place... it has significance. I can feel it."

"The combination of natural elements," Regis agreed, settling against a smooth stone ledge that seemed designed for the purpose. "Water, stone, the living plants. There's a harmony here that speaks to something fundamental in our nature."

She moved closer, her movements creating gentle ripples across the pool's surface. "Is that what drew you to this place? Philosophical contemplation of elemental harmony?"

Her tone held a teasing quality that he found increasingly appealing. "Initially, perhaps," he admitted. "Though I confess the practical benefits of hot water and absolute privacy played no small part in my continued visits."

"Practical benefits," she echoed, closing the remaining distance between them with deliberate slowness. "Yes, I can see the appeal."

Rhena's proximity shifted something in the atmosphere—the air seemed suddenly charged, electric with potential. Water beaded on her bare shoulders, tracing paths downward that Regis found himself following with his gaze before forcing his attention back to her face.

"Rhena," he began, uncertain of what he intended to say.

She silenced him not with words but with action—a simple touch, her hand coming to rest against his chest, directly over where a human heart would beat. The contact, skin against skin without the barrier of clothing or propriety, sent an almost forgotten sensation coursing through him.

"I've spent five years pretending to be something I'm not," she said, her voice pitched low. "Careful. Restrained. Human. Today, I don't want to pretend anymore. Do you understand?"

He understood perfectly—the weariness of constant performance, the exhaustion of perpetual restraint, the profound relief when such masks could be set aside. He reached up, covering her hand with his own, feeling the strength in her fingers despite her recent injuries.

"Yes," he said simply. "I understand."

She moved closer still, until the space between them was measured in mere inches. Her other hand rose to his face, fingertips tracing the contours of his cheekbone with wondering precision.

"Show me, then," she whispered. "Show me what it means to set aside pretense. To be what we truly are, together."

The invitation—honest, direct, unambiguous—swept away the last vestiges of his reserve. Regis closed the final distance between them, one hand rising to cradle the back of her neck as their lips met.

The kiss deepened, centuries of restraint giving way to something primal and honest. Her arms encircled him, drawing him closer until no space remained between them, skin against skin in the warm embrace of the water. He felt her shiver against him—not from cold, but from a hunger that mirrored his own.

As their embrace intensified, Regis sensed a change in Rhena's breathing, the quickening rhythm that signaled not human passion but vampiric arousal. Her eyes, when they met his, had darkened to obsidian, the pupils expanding until only a thin ring of iris remained. He knew his own had responded in kind—the instinctive manifestation of their true nature emerging in this moment of unguarded intimacy.

"Beautiful," she whispered, tracing the faint darkening of the veins beneath his pale skin, a phenomenon unique to their kind in moments of heightened emotion. Her touch followed the delicate patterns from his chest to his throat, lingering at the pulse point where, in humans, life flowed closest to the surface.

Regis responded by drawing her closer, his movements deliberately slow, savoring each point of contact between them. The water buoyed them, creating a weightlessness that enhanced every sensation. His hands traced the curve of her spine, discovering the subtle differences in texture where centuries-old scars marked her otherwise flawless skin. Each represented a story, a memory, a piece of her long existence that he found himself wanting to know.

"Let me see you," he murmured against her throat. "Truly see you."

She understood his meaning without explanation. The careful illusion of humanity that they both maintained—even alone, even with each other—slipped away, revealing subtle changes that no casual observer would notice but that spoke volumes to one of their kind. The slight elongation of incisors, the otherworldly pallor that no amount of sunlight could warm, the strange luminescence in the depths of their eyes.

Their lips met again, this time with a new intensity that carried the edge of danger inherent in their nature—the predator recognizing its equal. Her nails traced patterns across his shoulders, just sharp enough to leave temporary marks that healed almost as quickly as they formed. He responded by lifting her effortlessly in the water, her legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed her against the smooth stone edge of the pool.

What followed transcended merely physical union. When immortals joined, the experience carried echoes of shared memories, fragments of sensation accumulated over centuries of existence. He tasted in her kiss the metallic hint of ancient blood rituals long abandoned, she in his the herbal infusions of his medicinal practices. Their breathing synchronized, unnecessary for survival but essential in this moment for the rhythm of their increasingly urgent movements.

The water around them began to move in sympathetic patterns, small waves lapping against the stone edges of the pool. The blue luminescence of the mineral-rich spring seemed to intensify, responding to their energy as they moved together toward a culmination that had nothing to do with human limitations and everything to do with immortal connection.

When release came, it manifested in ways unique to their kind—a momentary dissolution of boundaries, where their consciousness briefly merged as completely as their physical forms. Regis felt Rhena's centuries of experiences wash through him—flashes of medieval cities now crumbled to dust, the scent of forests long since cleared for farmland, the faces of companions dead for generations. A childhood in a mountain stronghold where the air was so thin humans could scarcely breathe. The first tentative steps into a human settlement, disguised as a traveling healer's apprentice. The mixture of terror and exhilaration when a wounded soldier had first recognized her true nature—and chosen to keep her secret, taking it to his grave decades later.

He knew she experienced the same glimpses of his existence—the decades of blood-soaked excess in his youth, the slow and painful climb toward control, the friendships forged with creatures most vampires would consider beneath notice. His painful first death and rediscovered purpose as a healer, some fifty years later after his first regeneration. His encounter with Geralt and the unlikely fellowship that had followed. His destruction at Stygga Castle and painful reconstitution. All carried on waves of pleasure that transcended ordinary sensation.

Gradually, the intensity subsided, leaving them entwined in the gently steaming water, foreheads touching as they readjusted to the separateness of individual existence. No words were necessary; what they had shared went beyond what language could adequately express.

Regis remained still, savoring the moment. The weight of centuries seemed temporarily lifted, replaced by something lighter, unfamiliar—a sensation he eventually recognized as contentment. The realization was jarring in its simplicity. How long had it been since he'd experienced such uncomplicated peace?

After some time, Rhena stirred against him, her fingertips tracing idle patterns across his shoulders. "We should return soon," she murmured, though her tone suggested little urgency. "Before our godling friend presumes we've been devoured by some mountain beast."

"A reasonable concern, given our recent fortunes," Regis agreed, his lips curving in amusement. "Though I suspect Johnny would organize a remarkably theatrical rescue expedition, complete with improvised weaponry and elaborate battle cries."

"A catastrophe of the highest order," Rhena laughed softly, the sound echoing pleasantly in the grotto. She disentangled herself with obvious reluctance, moving through the water with sinuous grace.

They dressed in companionable silence, exchanging glances that held the weight of their shared experience. Regis noted with medical precision that the silver had completely left Rhena's system—whether purged by the passage of time or expedited by the peculiar properties of the hot spring, he could not say with certainty. The spidery traces beneath her skin had vanished entirely, and her movements had regained their full natural fluidity and grace.

"Mist form would return us quickly," he suggested as they prepared to depart, the barber-surgeon's instinct for caution reasserting itself. "The journey back is not insignificant."

Rhena paused at the grotto's entrance, her expression thoughtful as she gazed back at the now-still waters of the pool. "Actually," she said, a new quality entering her voice, "I find myself... disinclined to rush back to Johnny's incessant chatter and Borko's culinary experiments." She turned to him, dark eyes holding his. "Perhaps we might walk instead. Not back to the cave immediately, but through the forest? I'd like to see more of this mountain you know so well."

Something in her tone caught his attention—a vulnerability rarely displayed in one of their kind. Regis studied her, noting the minute tells that would have been imperceptible to human eyes: the slight tension at the corner of her mouth, the deliberate casualness of her posture.

"You wish to extend our time away," he observed, not a question but an understanding.

"Is that selfish of me?" She met his gaze directly, a hint of challenge in her dark eyes. "After five years of tending to every human ailment from chilblains to complicated births, might I not deserve a few hours of peace? A few hours of being... precisely what I am?"

"Selfish?" Regis considered the word, testing it against his desires. "I would call it necessary. For both of us, perhaps."

He offered his arm in a gesture that bridged centuries, as natural now as it had been when he'd first learned the custom in some long-forgotten royal court. Rhena's eyebrow arched in momentary surprise, but she accepted, her fingers resting lightly against his sleeve.

They made their way through the crystalline chamber, past the still-closed moonflowers that would begin their nightly display come nightfall. The main cavern seemed changed somehow, though Regis knew it was perception rather than reality that had altered. The prisms of refracted light danced across the stone in patterns that seemed deliberately celebratory, as if the ancient place itself approved of what had transpired.

"I should like to return later tonight if we're able," Rhena said as they passed through the narrow exit fissure, emerging into the morning sunlight. "To see the moonflowers open."

"We shall," Regis promised, squinting slightly against the sudden brightness. The surrounding forest sparkled in the clear morning light, dew and frost catching the sunlight like scattered diamonds across the snow-covered ground. "The display is truly remarkable. The entire chamber becomes illuminated with their glow—not unlike certain deep-sea creatures I once observed off the coast of Skellige."

Rather than turning toward the path that would lead them back to Borko's cave, Regis gestured toward a narrow deer trail that wound deeper into the forest. "This way, if you've an interest in botany. There's a clearing ahead where snow-capped hellebore grows—exceedingly rare this far north, and possessing remarkable analgesic properties."

"Is there anything you haven't studied with scholarly intensity, Regis?" Rhena asked, falling into step beside him as they ventured into the woods.

"Interpretive dance," he replied without hesitation, earning a startled laugh from his companion. "I find my physical coordination woefully inadequate for the more expressive forms of movement-based art."

The forest enveloped them in its ancient stillness, the morning sunlight filtering through bare branches to create dappled patterns on the snow-covered ground. Their footsteps made soft crunching sounds as they walked, neither feeling the cold that would have numbed mortal extremities. Birds called occasionally from the skeletal canopy above, and once, a fox darted across their path, pausing briefly to assess these strange intruders before disappearing into the underbrush.

"These woods are uncommonly peaceful," Rhena observed, her hand still resting lightly upon his arm. "One almost forgets the chaos of the world beyond."

"Nature possesses an admirable indifference to the complexities that plague sentient beings," Regis agreed, pausing to examine a particular configuration of mushrooms growing upon a fallen log. "These forests will remain long after the current troubles have been forgotten—a somewhat comforting thought, I find."

They continued their leisurely exploration, Regis occasionally pausing to identify particular plants of medicinal interest, Rhena adding her observations from her years of healer's practice. The conversation flowed easily between them, bridging centuries of separate experiences now shared through mutual understanding.

As they walked, the bright light of morning filled the forest with clarity, illuminating every crystal of frost that clung to the branches. The air remained crisp and cool, though neither of them registered it as discomfort. Their path meandered without particular destination, each content in the simple pleasure of the other's company without need for destination or purpose.

"What a curious experience," Rhena mused as they crossed a small frozen stream, the ice crackling softly beneath their boots. "To walk without urgency, without destination. To simply... be."

"An uncommon luxury for our kind," Regis acknowledged, understanding perfectly what she meant. Immortality, paradoxically, often created a peculiar relationship with time—either an abundance of it stretching endlessly before them, or the constant pressure to remain unnoticed, to move on before suspicions arose. Rarely did they experience the simple present moment with such clarity.

They continued deeper into the forest, the silence between them comfortable rather than oppressive. Regis found himself noting details with heightened awareness: the particular quality of light filtering through the bare branches, the varied textures of bark and stone beneath his fingertips, the subtle changes in Rhena's expression as she absorbed the forest's quiet beauty. Small pleasures, carefully observed—perhaps this was the true luxury of their long existence, the capacity to appreciate what mortals in their haste might overlook.

"Thank you," Rhena said suddenly, her voice soft in the forest's hush.

"For what, precisely?" Regis asked, genuinely curious.

"For this," she gestured to encompass the forest, their walk, the day's experiences—everything. "For reminding me that there is more to our existence than mere survival. That after centuries, one can still discover... unexpected joys."

Regis considered her words, feeling their truth resonate within him. "Perhaps," he suggested quietly, "that is the true challenge of immortality—not simply to endure, but to continually rediscover wonder in a world that can so easily grow familiar."

She nodded, her expression thoughtful. "A worthy philosophical pursuit, Master Barber-Surgeon. Though I suspect it may require extensive research to properly explore."

"Indeed," he agreed, recognizing the unspoken invitation in her words. "A most rigorous and lengthy investigation will be necessary."

They continued their walk as the morning brightened around them, neither hurrying toward the cave nor concerned with what awaited them there. For this moment, at least, they had found something rare and precious—a perfect balance between their immortal nature and the simple, mortal pleasure of a walk through winter woods with a companion who truly understood.

Chapter Text

TIME had lost all meaning in the grotto's otherworldly embrace. Rhena had existed for nearly three hundred years, yet few moments had imprinted themselves upon her memory with such clarity as those shared with Regis in the luminous waters. Not merely the physical connection, but the deeper communication that had transcended ordinary boundaries, allowing her glimpses of his existence that mere words could never convey.

As they continued their walk along the mountain path, Rhena felt strangely unburdened. Strangely enough, she felt…at peace. She breathed deeply, savoring the crisp winter air, the scent of pine and distant woodsmoke.

"I think we need to talk, Regis, about….about what happened in the cave," she began, her voice softer than intended as she broke the comfortable silence that had settled between them as they continued their walk through the mountain's forest at its lower slope.

She thought for a moment about her next words, fingers unconsciously twisting at the edge of her coat. Years of careful restraint had given way to something raw and undeniable that was forming between them, just as it had when they'd lain together in her cottage on the wolf pelt rug in front of the fire, before her world had gone to shit, something she could no longer deny.

With her life in Draycott now lost to her forever, the future stretched before her—uncertain and suddenly terrifying. The realization struck her with unexpected force – how quickly and completely her feelings had transformed.

Higher vampires experienced emotions with an intensity humans could scarcely comprehend, but even by those standards, the depth of what she felt for Regis after mere weeks together was overwhelming. The suddenness of it left her mentally stammering, searching for equilibrium.

Regis's eyes met hers, his expression gentle yet guarded. "Do you regret it? Was it merely a response to danger, Rhena? To the proximity of death and uncertainty?"

She stopped walking at his words, turning to face him directly. Her hand half-reached for his before falling back to her side.

"No." The single word carried years of certainty. "I've faced death countless times across the ages. What we shared was…something else entirely. Different than anything I've ever had with…when I was with Silas."

"And now that you cannot return to your village?" His question hung between them, delicate and weighted with implication.

"Now I have nowhere," Rhena admitted, "and everywhere." She drew closer, her centuries of carefully maintained solitude crumbling like autumn leaves. She averted her eyes momentarily, gathering courage that had never been needed in battle but now seemed desperately required.

For all her years, she suddenly felt young and inexperienced. Her kind didn't often speak of it, but the emotional intensity of higher vampires was both blessing and curse – they felt deeply, completely, sometimes frighteningly fast.

What might take humans years could crystallize for them in days. The knowledge that she had fallen in love with Regis so quickly made her feel vulnerable in ways she hadn't prepared for.

"I..." she started, then cleared her throat, uncharacteristically fumbling with her words. "This is... ridiculous. Three centuries old and I'm tripping over my own tongue." A nervous laugh escaped her. "After lifetimes spent alone, this isn't easy for me." Her voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper. "I never thought I'd want this again after Silas, never thought I'd trust anyone enough, but..." She paused, gathering herself. "Is it always this way for our kind? This... intensity? This quickly?" The question seemed to surprise even herself. "Because I've known you just over a month, and yet..." Her eyes met his finally, vulnerable yet determined. "I...I think I could love you. I want you as my mate, Regis. If you'll have me. And I know how that must sound, how sudden, but–"

She held her breath after the words left her lips, suddenly feeling exposed in a way no physical danger had ever made her feel. She'd faced witchers, mobs, silver blades—yet this moment of emotional honesty terrified her more than any of them. The shock that registered on Regis's face was unmistakable—a rare moment when his careful composure faltered completely. For an immortal who had seen countless human lifetimes, he seemed momentarily at a loss.

"Rhena, I—" he began, but whatever response he intended was interrupted.

Rhena sensed it first—a disruption in the forest's rhythm, a presence that didn't belong. Her body tensed instinctively, centuries of survival instincts overriding their intimate moment.

"Someone's here," she whispered, barely moving her lips and looking suddenly tense. She scented the air—human, but carrying unusual notes of herbs, metal, and something distinctive that made her tense.

"Witcher," Regis murmured, placing a protective hand on her arm. "The one called Eskel, I believe. The same scent from Draycott."

They stopped, assessing potential escape routes. Before they could decide, hoofbeats reached her ears. A figure emerged from the trees—a massive chestnut stallion carrying a broad-shouldered rider with twin swords strapped to his back.

The witcher reined his horse to a halt several yards away—close enough for conversation, far enough to maneuver if needed. His amber, cat-like eyes shifted between them with professional assessment, lingering on her slightly longer.

"Vampires," the witcher said, voice rough with weary recognition. His hand rested near his silver sword—a precaution, not yet a threat. "Should've figured you two would still be lurking in these mountains. Most would've moved on by now."

"An unfortunate coincidence, I assure you," Regis replied mildly, his tone conversational despite the tension between them. Rhena marveled at his composure—where her instinct was to prepare for combat, his was to defuse through diplomacy.

The witcher's scarred face twisted slightly, the deep scars pulling at his expression. "Month's gone by since that mess in Draycott. Figured you'd be halfway to Nilfgaard by now, not taking scenic strolls through hunting grounds."

Rhena stiffened. "Still hunting grounds, then?"

"Depends how you look at it," Eskel replied matter-of-factly. "The organized parties gave up after two weeks—too much ground to cover, too many other problems to worry about. Winter's hard enough without chasing ghosts through the mountains." He eyed their traveling clothes with a knowing look. "But the bounty's still posted in three villages. Had a few people approach me about taking the contract, actually."

The news was both relief and continued threat. The immediate danger had passed, but they remained quarry for anyone desperate or foolish enough to try collecting. "For us specifically?"

"For 'bloodsucking fiends,'" Eskel said with a shrug. "Your descriptions, more or less. Told them their vampires had probably moved on or never existed in the first place." A hint of dark amusement crossed his scarred features. "Amazing how many monster sightings turn out to be shadows and spooked livestock when you actually investigate."

"Why tell us this?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at Eskel, her voice carefully neutral despite her inner tumult.

Eskel sighed, the sound weathered by decades on the Path. "Because I've been tracking the aftermath for weeks now. Three dead farmers, two missing livestock, and a godling's mischief all blamed on renewed vampire activity." He fixed them with a stern look. "Your little friend's pranks aren't helping your case. Villagers see missing trinkets and think 'supernatural.' Gets blamed on you two."

The implication was clear—Johnny's habits were drawing unwanted attention back to them.

"Look, most things are simple," Eskel continued, adjusting his gloves. "Monster threatens people, I kill monster, collect coin. This?" He gestured between them. "Not so simple. And I've seen what happens when humans try to hunt higher vampires. Doesn't end well. For anyone." He adjusted in his saddle, clearly ready to be elsewhere. "I'm heading south to find better winter quarters. Suggest you do the same, and take your troublemaking companions with you." He whistled low, calming his horse. "There's a pass three miles east. Guards avoid it. Bad reputation, old massacre site. Superstitious types." A hint of a smirk crossed his scarred face. "Convenient, if someone wanted to leave unnoticed."

The witcher turned his horse and made to go. "Make yourselves scarce. Next time someone comes asking about vampire contracts, I might not be the one they find." With that, he clicked his tongue, urging his mount forward, and disappeared into the trees as swiftly as he had emerged.

Rhena stood motionless, watching Eskel vanish among the trees, the sound of his horse’s hoofbeats fading into the forest’s ambient murmur. Gradually, the woods reclaimed their natural rhythm. When she finally turned to Regis, she found him studying her with an intensity that stirred memories of their interrupted conversation—of words spoken and unspoken, of futures suddenly both more uncertain and more possible than before. Her senses remained sharp, scanning the treeline for any lingering threat—an instinct honed across centuries, one that had kept her alive when so many others had not.

Only when she was certain they were truly alone did she turn back to Regis. He stood unnaturally still, the way only their kind could, his obsidian eyes focused intently upon her face. Their interrupted conversation hung between them like a blade suspended by the thinnest thread.

"That pass he mentioned," she said finally, slowly, her voice deliberate and measured. "It seems our best option, given our circumstances."

Regis nodded slightly. "It does." A pause, weighted with the vampire's unspoken thoughts. "But there is the matter of what you said to me before we were…interrupted."

"I meant them." She held his gaze, refusing to retreat from vulnerability now. Centuries of living alone since killing Silas and making a new life for herself had taught her that courage in battle was common; courage of the heart, far rarer. "I've existed alone for far too long, Regis. The recent…events…everything that's happened to me since you came to Draycott…have merely crystallized what I've felt since first encountering you."

The silence between them hung heavily with significance. Rhena knew the weight of what she was asking. Among their kind, mating bonds were not formed lightly, nor broken easily. What humans romanticized in their fleetingly short lives, higher vampires approached with the gravity of centuries.

"But…taking a mate is no small matter for our kind. You don't need me to tell you this," he said quietly, moving closer. "Once bonded, such connections endure far beyond what humans can comprehend."

"I'm aware. It's a good thing neither of us are human then, isn't it?" The wind lifted her hair slightly, carrying the scent of pine and approaching snow. "I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't sure, Regis. I want this. I want…you. Just you."

To her surprise and secret delight, a flush of color appeared high on Regis's cheeks—an almost human reaction that required actual effort for higher vampires, suggesting his emotional state had overwhelmed his usual careful control.

"I—" he started, then stopped, then started again, the usually articulate vampire now seemingly at a loss for words. "That is to say—I find myself…" He let out a frustrated exhale, visibly collecting himself. "Forgive me. It seems over four hundred and twenty-eight years of existence have not exactly prepared me for this particular conversation."

The silence between them hung heavy with significance. Rhena knew the weight of what she was asking of Regis. Among their kind, such intimate bonds were not formed lightly, nor broken easily. What humans romanticized in their fleetingly brief lives, higher vampires approached with the gravity of centuries.

Regis's expression transformed, vulnerability and elation replacing his usual scholarly reserve. He reached for her hand, then hesitated, then committed to the gesture of holding her hand with an endearing awkwardness Rhena found charming. "Your certainty is…unexpected. And…" He swallowed visibly, "profoundly welcome, Rhena, dear." His fingers entwined with hers, trembling slightly. "But I feel compelled to ask—is this—me—what you truly desire, or merely what circumstances have forced upon you? The loss of your home, the hunters, Dettlaff, the threat of—"

But Regis stopped mid-sentence, sensing a disruption in the air, cutting him off whatever he'd been about to say next. Rhena sensed it too—imperceptible to human senses but unmistakable to their kind. She tensed. This was no human, no witcher. Something else approached, something ancient and powerful. Rhena's body responded before her mind fully registered the threat, muscles coiling with predatory readiness.

"Regis... Rhena...." The voice came from above them, hard as stone yet carrying an undercurrent of something raw and wounded.

They looked up in unison to see Dettlaff balanced on a boulder overlooking the path, his black coat billowing slightly in the mountain wind. His storm-blue eyes fixed on Rhena specifically with an intensity that blended predatory focus with unmistakable pain.

For just a moment, before the mask of cold fury settled over his features, Rhena caught something else in his expression—a flash of genuine hurt, of betrayal so profound it seemed to physically pain him. It was gone in an instant, but its brief appearance made his next words all the more unsettling.

Rhena felt Regis immediately straighten beside her, his posture a complex mix of respect, wariness, and something akin to familial obligation. The comfortable vulnerability he'd shown Rhena moments ago vanished beneath layers of careful control.

"Dettlaff," Regis acknowledged stiffly, his clipped voice carefully neutral. "I didn't expect you to follow us into the mountains."

Dettlaff's gaze shifted between them, his nostrils flaring slightly as he breathed in their scent. His fingers curled and uncurled at his sides, a gesture that betrayed inner turmoil despite his outward composure.

"Clearly." The accusation hung between them with the weight of broken oaths. "You reek of her, Regis."

The temperature around them seemed to plummet several degrees more as Dettlaff landed silently on the path before them, his movement too swift for human eyes to track. Rhena felt her fangs lengthen involuntarily, centuries of survival instinct responding to the barely concealed threat in his presence. Yet now, standing closer, she could see the shadows beneath his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands—signs that his pursuit of them had cost him something, that the anguish driving him was as real as his rage.

"I wasn't aware that Regis required your permission for his personal affairs," Rhena said softly, holding her ground. She had not survived nearly three centuries by cowering before power, no matter how much older Dettlaff was than her. "I hope," she continued, meeting Dettlaff's storm-blue eyes directly, "you didn't follow us merely to convince me to come away with you. I won't leave Regis. I've made my choice, Dettlaff. I've asked Regis to be my mate. And I meant it."

Something shifted beneath Dettlaff's expression—not just anger, but a profound grief that momentarily transformed his face into a mask of pure longing.

"You remind me so much of her," he whispered, the words seemingly escaping without his intent. "The same strength, the same defiance..." Then, as if catching himself in a moment of weakness, his features hardened once more. "You know nothing of what you ask, little bird. Nothing of the bond that already exists between us."

"Call me that name again," Rhena hissed, the sound an unmistakable, inhuman snarl. "And I'll rip your tongue out, blood debt be damned." Her eyes burned as she continued, voice unwavering. "I am not your lover. I am not your Syanna, your Rhenawedd, and I never will be. I know enough about the bond between you and Regis. He told me what happened—how you saved his life. But debt does not mean ownership. Regis has repaid you a thousand times over in loyalty and friendship. And my choice is mine alone, not yours to dictate."

She stepped closer. "You should leave. Now. I want nothing more to do with you from now on, forever. Have I made myself clear?"

Dettlaff's eyes darkened, the air around him seeming to crackle with barely contained fury. "You dare—"

"I do dare." Rhena felt her nature rising to meet his challenge, her centuries of survival instinct responding to the threat before her and Regis. "I've lived three hundred years since freeing myself from my previous mate, making my own path. I won't surrender that freedom now, not even to one like you."

The transformation began without warning—Dettlaff's handsome, aristocratic features twisting, skin changing, limbs elongating into something more bat than man. His roar shook the forest, sending birds scattering from distant trees and a nearby deer running for its life.

Dettlaff's snarl deepened, his monstrous form coiling like a spring about to release. The frigid cold mountain air crackled with the pressure of his rage, the dark storm of his fury promising to break upon them at any moment. His storm-blue eyes locked onto Rhena, flickering between pain, grief, possessiveness, and something far more dangerous—determination.

"I have given you every opportunity," Dettlaff growled, his talons flexing. "You refuse to see reason, but that does not mean I will abandon what is mine."

A deep, dangerous chuckle escaped Dettlaff's throat. "You would really stand against me? I, who have saved you not once, but twice? I, who could teach you what you were meant to be?"

Something inside Rhena broke like ice on a thawing river. Years of restraint—of hiding her nature, of forced patience—all vanished in an instant. The carefully constructed façade crumbled before Dettlaff's possessive fury. For the first time in centuries, she stopped fighting her true self.

The transformation came swift and violent. Her face stretched and sharpened, skin turning the color of fresh snow. Her canines elongated into razor fangs while her fingers extended into slender, deadly claws—not crude weapons, but precise instruments designed for killing.

"I am not yours to claim," she hissed, her voice carrying unnatural harmonics. "I never was."

She attacked without warning. Even Regis failed to anticipate her speed. The accumulated instincts of centuries propelled her forward with lethal intent. Her claws found Dettlaff's throat, tearing through flesh. Dark blood splattered the snow, steam rising from each droplet.

Dettlaff roared and struck back with his heavier claws, but missed as Rhena ducked beneath his reach, her talons raking his ribs. Deep furrows welled with black blood.

"I underestimated you," Dettlaff growled, circling her with newfound caution.

"Everyone does," she replied. "Usually only once."

They clashed again—a blur of movement, terrible and beautiful. Their battle sent tremors through the forest, dislodging snow from silent branches. Rhena fought with cold calculation, each movement meant to weaken, to wound, to end.

But Dettlaff's strength proved greater. His attacks grew more precise, more vicious. He learned her patterns, anticipated her movements. His strikes came faster until a near-miss at her throat made her stumble. His other hand caught her side, sending her sliding across the hard-packed snow. She rose quickly, but not quickly enough. Dettlaff descended upon her, his claws aimed for her heart.

In that moment, she knew—she wouldn't be fast enough.

A distant rumbling vibrated through the frozen ground beneath them. At first, Rhena thought it might be an avalanche triggered by their violent clash—until she caught a familiar scent carried on the wind. Rock dust, moss, and... godling.

The mountain itself seemed to shake with approaching footsteps, growing louder by the second. Dettlaff, focused entirely on his killing strike, failed to notice, but Regis's head snapped toward the sound, his expression shifting from horror to bewildered hope.

A thunderous bellow split the winter silence.

"FANG FRIENDS! BORKO COMING!"

Before Dettlaff could strike, a massive gray shape barreled down from the mountain path. Perched precariously on the rock troll's broad shoulder sat Johnny, his small form bouncing with each of the giant's thunderous steps.

"Oh, bleeding hell—" Johnny's voice cut through the chaos as he clung desperately to Borko's ear. "Borko, you great big lummox, NO—"

Too late.

Borko's colossal club whistled through the air with the force of a battering ram. The impact against Dettlaff's midsection echoed like a smith's hammer on an anvil.

A sickening crack split the air. Dettlaff's body flew backward, crashing through underbrush before slamming into two ancient oaks. The trees shuddered, their trunks splintering under the impact before collapsing inward, burying him beneath a tangle of wood and snow.

Silence fell, broken only by settling debris. Even Johnny, never at a loss for words, stood slack-jawed.

Borko planted his massive feet and roared with satisfaction. "BORKO SMASH BAD FANG! BAD FANG GO BOOM!"

Johnny, still gripping the troll's ear from his perch on the massive shoulder, exhaled shakily. "Oh... oh, that was... yeah, that was a lot." He blinked at the destruction, then his face split into a mischievous grin. "What's wrong, fang-face? Too high and mighty to handle a simple troll? Some higher vampire you are."

A guttural snarl rumbled from beneath the wreckage. The splintered wood shifted violently. Dettlaff emerged from the ruins of the oaks, his form trembling with barely contained rage. His coat hung in tatters, his face streaked with viscous blood. When his eyes landed on Johnny, they blazed with murderous intent.

"The godling dies first," he hissed, and lunged.

Regis materialized between them, faster than the eye could track. "Enough, Dettlaff."

Simultaneously, Rhena moved to flank him, her claws extended. "You'll not touch him."

Borko raised his club again, positioning his massive body to shield Johnny. "NO HURT SMALL FRIEND!"

Surrounded and outmatched, Dettlaff staggered back, his imposing presence reduced to something desperate and wild. His chest heaved—a cornered predator calculating its next move. Then his storm-blue eyes fixed on Rhena. Something in his gaze changed.

"You would choose THEM?" The words emerged as something barely human, torn from a throat made for bestial sounds.

Rhena parted her lips to answer, but the air suddenly shifted—cold and profound. Even Dettlaff froze, his head turning sharply toward the forest. Reality itself seemed to bend, time growing thick and viscous around them. A figure emerged from between towering oak trees.

Tall and elegant, he approached with an aura that made the mountain air heavy with potential. Rhena recognized him instantly—the Elder of Kovir. His ageless crimson eyes swept over them with clear frustration. The power emanating from him hit her like a physical wave.

Rhena felt her knees buckle. Around her, Regis and Dettlaff also fell. Her transformation reversed involuntarily—claws retracting, fangs receding, her features melting back to human form. Not by choice, but submission. The Elder's mere presence demanded it, stripping away her defenses as easily as brushing dust from old furniture.

"How... disappointing," the Elder murmured, his voice as dry as crumbling parchment yet thrumming with undeniable power. "I had thought our kind beyond such... primitive indulgences. And yet, here you are."

He advanced, slow and deliberate, his steps leaving no mark upon the snow. The air itself seemed to shrink away from him. None could rise. None could speak. The weight of his presence bore down like the abyssal depths, ancient and inexorable.

"Dettlaff van der Eretein," he intoned, the name itself a shackle, locking its owner in place. "You disrupt the equilibrium. Again."

Dettlaff's form wavered, caught between monstrous aspect and human appearance, as if even his transformation was uncertain in the Elder's presence. "Elder, I merely sought—"

"You will be quiet." The words struck like a physical blow, forcing Dettlaff to look away. "Your justifications are meaningless. Your obsessions threaten our secrecy. Our survival in this realm." The Elder circled him with the measured pace of a judge examining a condemned prisoner. His movements carried the ritualistic precision of one who had performed such judgments since before the Conjunction of Spheres. "Fifty years," he pronounced, raising one skeletal hand toward Dettlaff's forehead, "you shall remain bound to these very mountains. You shall walk as a human walks. Feed as a human feeds." Where his claw-like finger touched Dettlaff's brow, a symbol briefly flared with blue-white light. "Your transformation denied to you, your mist form forbidden, your connection to your kin severed."

Dettlaff convulsed, a scream tearing from his throat as something fundamental seemed to be ripped from him. His features locked into human form, the bestial aspects receding not through choice but forced submission.

"Your ravens shall abandon you. Your bruxae shall forget you." The Elder's voice carried neither cruelty nor mercy—only the implacable certainty of natural law being enforced. "Perhaps solitude will teach you what experience could not."

"This... this is worse than death, Ancient One," Dettlaff gasped, clutching at his chest as if something had been torn from within.

"Had I wished to grant you death," the Elder replied with terrible simplicity, "your corpse would already be fallen at my feet." He turned from the kneeling vampire to face Rhena and Regis. His ancient eyes assessed them with detached curiosity, as if they were specimens in a forgotten collection suddenly rediscovered. "The midwife who embraces mortality and the barber-surgeon who denies his nature." He studied them both, head tilting slightly in a gesture unnervingly birdlike. "Unusual. These northern mountains have always cultivated…peculiarities among our kind."

When his gaze fell directly on Rhena, she felt as though her very soul was being examined. Her throat closed, words dying before they could even form. Nearly three centuries of existence had not prepared her for this—the absolute, crushing weight of the Kovir Elder's attention. It took everything she had not to avert her gaze, not to collapse completely under that ancient, penetrating stare.

"Three centuries is nothing, child of the night," the Elder said, as if reading her thoughts. "A mere moment in our existence. Yet you challenge one older, confront one ancient." His head tilted to the other side. "Interesting."

Rhena managed the barest nod, unable to find her voice. Years of learned confidence, of self-reliance, of standing her ground against all manner of threats—all of it crumbled beneath the Elder's gaze and she felt as meek and small as she had in her teething years.

This was no ordinary higher vampire, not even as one as old as Dettlaff and Regis. The Elder was something else entirely, something that made her feel like a mere infant despite her centuries.

The Elder turned to Regis. "And you. The blood-oath breaker. The one who seeks redemption through restraint." His voice made the concept sound like a curious aberration. "Your debt remains, regardless of your…attachment. Remember that when the time comes."

Regis inclined his head, his usually eloquent voice reduced to a hoarse whisper. "Yes, Elder."

"So humans believe." The Elder's thin lips formed into something approximating a smile, revealing teeth unnaturally sharp despite his otherwise scholarly appearance. "We shall see which proves stronger." He raised his skeletal hand, fingers tracing complex patterns in the air. "The humans of Draycott will forget what they learned of your nature. Not as mercy, but as necessity. Their memories shall fade like morning mist, leaving only vague unease where certainty once stood." The Elder stepped back, his robes stirring though no wind currently blew. "Do not summon my attention again, children. This age grows increasingly…tedious."

With those words, his form began to dissolve—not into mist as lesser vampires might, but into thousands of minute particles that scattered like dust motes in sunlight, until nothing remained but a lingering cold that penetrated to the bone.

Dettlaff remained kneeling long after the Elder had vanished, his head bowed, fingers digging into the frozen ground. When he finally looked up, Rhena saw his face transformed—a mask of raw emotion. Pride shattered, arrogance stripped away, leaving only stark vulnerability. She had never seen him look so human.

"Fifty years," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Bound to human form. Bound to these mountains." His eyes found Regis, and Rhena watched centuries of shared history pass unspoken between them. "Was she worth it, blood brother? Worth betraying everything we are?"

Regis stepped forward, and Rhena noticed his movements were still unsteady from the Elder's visitation. She felt the same lingering weakness, as if the ancient being's presence had drained something vital from them both.

"This was not my doing, Dettlaff," Regis said quietly.

"No?" Dettlaff struggled to his feet, his movements clumsy and unfamiliar. Rhena couldn't help but observe how disoriented he seemed by his newly constrained form. "You chose her over our bond. You knew what would come of it."

"I could not have predicted the Elder's intervention," Regis replied.

"Yet you welcome his judgment." Dettlaff's gaze shifted to Rhena, and she met it steadily despite the lingering fear the Elder had left in her bones. Something complicated flickered in Dettlaff's eyes – not quite hatred, not quite resignation. "Both of you do."

"I welcome none of this," Regis said, and Rhena heard genuine distress in his voice. It pained her to see him torn between loyalty to his blood brother and his choice to stand with her.

Dettlaff laughed, a hollow sound that echoed against the mountainside. "Everything has changed." He flexed his hands, and Rhena recognized the gesture – expecting claws that would no longer emerge. "Look at what I've become. A higher vampire trapped in human weakness. Unable to transform, unable to live as our kind does."

"You'll adapt," Rhena said, finding her voice at last. "As we all have had to adapt throughout our existence." She knew what it meant to rebuild a life from nothing – she'd done it more than once across her centuries.

Dettlaff's eyes narrowed. "Easy words from one who still possesses her nature."

"She's right," Regis said. "This punishment is not eternal, Dettlaff. Fifty years is—"

"A blink for our kind. I know." Dettlaff turned away, staring into the forest depths. "Easy to say when you're not the one experiencing each moment of it." He took a step toward the trees, then paused. "When my punishment ends, Regis... when I am myself again..." He looked back, his eyes finding Rhena's again. She felt the weight of his stare like a physical thing. "We will see which proves stronger: your newfound bond, or the oath written in blood."

"Until then," Regis said, inclining his head slightly, "I wish you peace, my friend."

Something that might have been pain crossed Dettlaff's face. "Friend," he repeated, the word hollow. "We shall see." He swallowed hard and cast one final glance over his shoulder, his storm-blue eyes locking onto Rhena’s with a quiet, knowing certainty. "Fifty years is a blink for our kind, Rhena. When my time is served, I will find you again. And we will see if you still stand by your choice."

He turned and walked away, each step laborious. Rhena saw his movements betraying what had been taken from him. No dissolution into mist, no transformation to ease his passage—just the plodding, mortal gait of a creature bound to limitations he had never known. She watched him go in silence, his figure growing smaller among the trees until he vanished.

Beside her, Regis remained unmoving. She studied his profile, noting the conflict etched into every line of his face. She had rarely seen him so troubled, so openly torn.

"He won't survive this easily," he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. "To be so constrained, after centuries of freedom... I fear what this will do to him."

Rhena moved closer, feeling her own transformation fully recede now. "He's stronger than you realize. And perhaps this time of reflection will bring him perspective." She spoke with more certainty than she felt, but Regis needed to hear it – needed something to ease the guilt she saw weighing on him.

He turned to her, and she saw something like guilt shadowing his features. "You don't understand what I owe him, Rhena. What he sacrificed to restore me after Vilgefortz—"

"I understand enough," she interrupted gently. "But guilt is a poor foundation for eternity." She studied his troubled face, wanting to erase the worry she saw there but knowing she couldn't. "Where do we go from here? I cannot return to Draycott, and these mountains hold too many memories now."

Before Regis could answer, the silence was shattered by a familiar, gravelly voice.

"Sweet merciful Melitele's sagging tits," Johnny whispered from his perch on Borko's shoulder as he broke the tension the silence had created. "And I thought the Crones were scary."

"Skinny Fang Man go?" Borko asked, his massive face scrunched in concentration.

"Aye, big fella," Johnny replied, patting the rock troll's ear. "The scary skinny cold one's gone. And the dark stormy one too. Let's hope they stay that way, eh?" He shuddered visibly. "Felt like staring at death itself, I did. And I've met plenty of ghosts!"

Rhena glanced around as the forest around them gradually came back to life—birds cautiously resuming their calls, the wind returning to whisper through the pines. Yet something had changed, something fundamental in the very atmosphere of the place.

"OI! Are you two just going to stand there like a pair of lovestruck gargoyles all day?" Johnny scrambled down from his perch on Borko's shoulder, landing in the snow with a soft thump. Rhena couldn't help but admire the godling's resilience—moments ago he'd been terrified into silence by the Elder, and now his usual irreverence had already returned. "Some of us aren't built for standing about in the cold looking dramatic, you know."

"Fang friends come back to Borko cave!" the rock troll rumbled enthusiastically. Rhena noticed the simple creature had recovered much faster than any of them from the Elder's great and terrible presence. Perhaps there was wisdom in simplicity. "Borko make good soup for lunch. Water hag soup with fresh moss!"

Johnny rolled his eyes expressively. "What the great big lummox means is you both look like you could use a proper sit-down and something strong to drink. And while I'm sure, uh, water hag soup isn't exactly the Toussaint wine herb man here goes on about, it'll warm your insides well enough." He glanced around nervously, tugging on a lock of his wild hair in agitation. "Besides, standing about where that…that thing just seems like tempting fate, don't it?"

Despite everything, Rhena felt her lips curve in a slight smile. The godling's practical fear was oddly comforting after the cosmic terror of Kovir's Elder. "The godling has a point, Regis, love."

"He often does," Regis reluctantly agreed, and Rhena sensed some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Though he rarely expresses it with anything approaching tact."

"Heard that!" Johnny called, already halfway back to Borko. "Tact's for humans and elves. Us old folk tell it straight, doctor doom!" He motioned impatiently. "Now come on before something else bloody shows up that's all ancient and terrifying. Had enough excitement for one century, I have."

Rhena slipped her hand into Regis's, feeling his fingers close around hers with a careful certainty. The wind stirred, carrying the scent of pine and melting snow, the world settling once more after gods and monsters had walked upon it.

She had lived three centuries in search of something she could never name—freedom, peace, perhaps even love. For centuries, she had wandered through human villages, playing at their lives but never truly belonging. Even when she carved out a home, it was always borrowed, always temporary.

But this? This was different. This wasn’t borrowed, wasn’t fleeting. She had chosen this—chosen Regis, chosen a future. And for the first time in three hundred years, she didn’t feel like she was running from something or waiting for the past to catch up with her. She was exactly where she was meant to be.

Regis studied her face, his obsidian eyes searching. "What is it?"

Rhena smiled, something warm and certain curling in her chest. "Nothing," she murmured. "Everything."

His lips quirked in that small, knowing way of his. "And where do we go from here?"

"We'll figure it out, Regis," she said quietly, in a voice so low that only he could hear. "Where to go, what to do next. We have time."

He studied her face for a long moment, and she watched resolution settle in his expression despite the worry that still lingered in his eyes.

"Yes," he agreed. "Whatever comes next, we'll face it together."

Above them, a raven cawed, its black wings slicing through the cold mountain air. Not one of Dettlaff's servants, just an ordinary bird marking its territory with harsh, indifferent precision. Rhena tilted her head, listening as the sound ricocheted off the stone faces—crisp and cutting like truth in the brittle winter silence.

The world endured. It always had. Before sorcerers wove their chaotic arts, before witchers stalked the shadows, before vampires thirsted in the night. And it would continue long after they were all dust and forgotten tales.

For the first time since she could remember, Rhena didn't feel like an observer of that world, or its victim.

She felt like its pulse.

Chapter Text

THERE was no finer hour in the mountains than that earliest breath of dawn, when night's grip loosened its hold just enough to permit a hazy, blue-tinged visibility. Regis stood at the mouth of Borko's cave, watching as the darkness retreated in measured increments.

Behind him, the unlikely companions of his present circumstance still slept—Rhena curled beneath his coat, Johnny sprawled inelegantly near the dying embers of their fire, and Borko's thunderous snores reverberating against the stone walls.

Five days had passed since the Elder of Kovir's judgment upon Dettlaff. Five days of recovery, of whispered conversations with Rhena about what it meant to be mated among their kind, of Johnny's incessant questions, and of preparations for departure.

"You're brooding again." Rhena's voice came softly from behind him. "I can practically hear your thoughts churning from across the cave."

"Merely contemplating our options, Rhena, dear," he replied, a smile forming despite his reflective mood. "And admiring the view. The mountains have their own stark beauty before the sun properly rises."

Rhena stood beside him now, close enough that their shoulders touched. Her hair was loose, falling in waves around her face, still bearing the impression of sleep. Perched upon her shoulder sat Skura, the small mouse's whiskers twitching as it surveyed the vast world beyond the cave with apparent interest.

"Have you decided where we might go?" she asked, her voice holding both curiosity and trust.

"Kovir is no longer safe for you. Nor are the surrounding territories where your identity might be known." He paused. "I was thinking perhaps Temeria. Different politics, different concerns. The people there have endured wars and monsters aplenty—they've developed a certain pragmatism about unusual newcomers."

"Temeria," she said, testing the word as if measuring its weight. "I've heard tales, but never ventured there myself."

Behind them, the sound of Johnny's dramatic yawning announced the godling's awakening. "Are you two plotting escape routes at this ungodly hour?" came his sleep-roughened voice. "Kor, some of us are trying to get our beauty rest, thank you very much."

Rhena turned, her dark eyes twinkling with amusement. "Beauty rest, little magpie? Is that what you call those ungodly snores?"

"Oi! Godlings don't snore! That's slander, that is."

"I believe the technical term is defamation when spoken aloud," Regis corrected mildly.

As if summoned by the mere suggestion that he might be left behind, Borko stirred, one massive craggy eyelid cracking open.

"Borko go with friends," the rock troll announced with surprising clarity for one newly awakened. He lumbered to a sitting position, rubble cascading from his stony hide. "Borko help. Carry things. Crush bad peoples on way."

Regis exchanged a cautious glance with Rhena. Traveling with a rock troll—especially one as large, conspicuous, and destructive as Borko—was no easy task.

"My friend," Regis began diplomatically, "while your assistance would undoubtedly prove valuable in certain circumstances, our journey requires a degree of…discretion."

"What fancy herb man means," Johnny interjected, shooting Regis a look, hands planted firmly on his diminutive hips, "is that you're about as inconspicuous as a troll at a baroness's tea party." The godling's expression suddenly shifted to one of fierce determination. "But we're not leaving you behind, Borko, mate, and that's final!"

Skura chose this moment to scamper down from Rhena's shoulder and across the stone floor toward Borko. The mouse paused before the rock troll's massive hand, whiskers twitching inquisitively, before climbing boldly onto one stony finger. Borko remained perfectly still, his craggy features softening into something approximating gentleness.

"Mouse friend not scared," Borko observed quietly. "Borko gentle. Borko be careful on journey."

"It seems," Regis noted with carefully measured amusement, "that the matter has been decided for us."

"So, it would appear," Rhena conceded, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Though how precisely we're to travel inconspicuously with a rock troll in our company remains to be determined."

"Borko wear cloak!" The rock troll's suggestion echoed against the cave walls with enthusiasm that belied its impracticality. "Big cloak. Hide rocks."

Johnny burst into laughter. "Oh, aye, brilliant disguise that would be. Just an ordinary traveler, twice the size of a normal man, with a face that looks like a drunk stonesman carved it. No one would look twice!"

"Perhaps," Regis interjected softly before Borko's feelings could be wounded, "we might consider alternate routes. Less traveled paths where encounters with other travelers would be minimized."

"The old forest roads," Rhena suggested, her strategic mind already mapping possibilities. "They've fallen out of use since the wars, but I recall hearing stories of their existence. The ancient elven tracts that predate any human settlements."

"Precisely," Regis agreed. "Though finding such paths might require a certain... specialized knowledge of the land."

Johnny puffed out his chest. "Well, you're in luck then! Godlings have ways of knowing things about places. Ancient things. Secret things." He deflated slightly. "Course, I've never actually been to Temeria, so I can't say for certain. But principle stands!"

Rhena's gaze met Regis's, a silent communication passing between them—equal parts amusement and genuine consideration. The bond between them, still new and forming, nonetheless allowed for such unspoken exchanges.

"It seems our journey shall be even more unconventional than anticipated," Regis observed.

"When has anything involving us ever been conventional?" Rhena countered. She stretched, her movements lithe and precise, before reaching to collect her few belongings. "If we're to leave today, we should pack our belongings. The path to Temeria is long, and winter makes for slow travel."

As the others busied themselves with gathering their meager possessions, Regis turned once more to the mountain vista beyond the cave. Somewhere among those peaks, Dettlaff wandered—bound to human form, separated from his nature. The thought brought a familiar ache, a complex tangle of guilt and loyalty that not even his newfound happiness with Rhena could entirely unravel.

Fifty years was nothing to their kind—a mere moment in the vast stretch of immortal existence. Yet for Dettlaff, each moment experienced in diminished form would stretch into torturous eternity. When his sentence concluded, what would remain of the vampire Regis had once called blood brother? The question haunted him like a specter, even as he turned to face the future that awaited with Rhena.

The preparations continued with surprising efficiency, given the disparate natures of their strange company. Johnny directed Borko in gathering the heaviest supplies, while Rhena secured her herbs and healing implements with practiced precision. Skura had returned to a small pouch at Rhena's hip, occasionally poking his head out to observe the activity before retreating to the warmth within.

By midday, they stood at the forest's edge, the mountain path stretching before them. The world beyond seemed simultaneously vast with possibility and fraught with potential danger. Regis adjusted the strap of his satchel, feeling the comforting weight of his alchemical instruments against his back.

"To Temeria, then," he said, offering Rhena his hand.

Her fingers interlaced with his, cool and familiar. "To Temeria," she agreed, "and whatever awaits us there."

Neither could have guessed just how remarkable those awaiting discoveries would be.

THE forests of northern Temeria embraced them with ancient, watchful silence. Weeks of careful travel had brought them across the border without incident—a feat Regis attributed partially to fortune and partially to Johnny's uncanny ability to sense human presence long before they drew near.

Regis paused at the crest of a wooded hill, inhaling deeply. The air here carried different notes than the Koviri mountains—richer soil, older growth forest, and somewhere distant, the unmistakable scent of civilization.

"There's a settlement ahead," he informed the others as they joined him. "Sizeable, from the scents carried on the wind."

Rhena appeared at his side, her expression cautious yet curious. "How far?"

"Perhaps half a day's journey. We should reach it by nightfall, though I suggest we approach with caution." Regis turned to Borko, who had managed to uproot a small tree while waiting for them. "My stone friend, I believe it's time we found you suitable accommodations at a distance from human eyes."

By late afternoon, they had found Borko a suitable cave system in the rocky foothills and established that Johnny would divide his time between staying with the rock troll and joining Regis and Rhena in whatever settlement they chose.

"Someone's got to make sure this great big lummox doesn't decide to redecorate the countryside," Johnny had declared, perching on Borko's shoulder. "Besides, I'd rather not deal with any more humans right away. Don't need no more pitchforks pointed at me or ruddy stones lobbed at my head!"

Rhena hesitated before carefully retrieving Skura from the pouch at her hip. The small mouse looked up at her with bright, inquisitive eyes.

"Would you mind keeping him with you as well?" she asked Johnny, holding Skura in her palm. "A tavern is no place for him, and I'd rather not risk him getting into trouble or being spotted."

"We'll return in three days," Regis promised as they prepared to continue on without their larger companion, the godling, and the mouse. "Once we've assessed the village and determined whether it might serve as a more permanent location."

Leaving their unusual friends behind, Regis and Rhena continued toward the settlement alone. The village ahead had grown clearer—a collection of structures larger than Regis had initially estimated, with a substantial inn at its center.

"The Golden Pike," Regis read from the weathered sign hanging above the inn's entrance. He frowned slightly. "A familiar name, though I cannot recall where I might have encountered it before."

They approached cautiously, entering the inn's common room with the practiced inconspicuousness of those accustomed to avoiding notice. A serving girl approached almost immediately, her expression professionally pleasant.

"Kitchen's always open," the girl said with a laugh. "Innkeeper says hungry customers drink more. Cook makes a decent venison stew that's popular with travelers."

Regis nodded his thanks, and as the serving girl turned to leave, a booming voice cut through the tavern's ambient noise.

"BLESS ME BALLS! It can't be!"

The crowd parted as a stout dwarf pushed through, his fiery beard braided elaborately beneath a face flushed with drink and disbelief. Zoltan Chivay, looking hardly different than when Regis had last seen him, cards forgotten in his hand from the gwent game he'd apparently abandoned, stumbled toward their table.

"Regis?!" The dwarf managed, his voice hoarse with disbelief, eyes squinting as if doubting his own sight. His tankard nearly slipped from his grasp before he steadied it. "Regis, ye crafty fuckin' bloodsucker! I thought ye were gone, melted into a column of that castle! Is that really ye, ye undead son of a whore?"

The tavern fell silent, all eyes turning toward their corner. Regis felt Rhena tense beside him, poised for trouble, but he placed a calming hand on her arm.

"Zoltan Chivay," Regis greeted at last, rising from his seat, his own shock giving way to genuine pleasure. "I must confess, finding you here is the last thing I expected."

"Hah! Says the vampire who's supposed to be dead as a doornail!" Zoltan barked, then lunged forward, gripping Regis's forearm in a warrior's clasp before yanking him into a back-slapping embrace that reeked of vodka and pipe smoke. "Fuck me sideways, man! Here I am playin' cards with these ploughin' amateurs, and in walks a bloody ghost!"

"I assure you, old friend, I am quite myself," Regis replied with characteristic dryness, smoothing his coat. "Though I understand your disbelief, given the circumstances of our last, er… parting."

"Last parting?" Zoltan snorted, pulling back to get another look at him. "Ye mean when ye were supposedly melted into nothin' by that sorcerer bastard? Geralt told me what happened at Stygga Castle." He shook his head in wonder. "Yet here ye sit, lookin' no worse for wear. How in the blazes…?"

"It is a rather long tale," Regis offered, a knowing glint in his eye.

"Aye, and I've got nothin' but time and thirst," Zoltan declared, signaling to a passing barmaid. "To old friends and unexpected resurrections," he toasted, raising his drink high before taking a deep pull.

Regis allowed himself a small, amused shake of his head, but before he could comment, Zoltan was already barreling forward. "And speakin' of reunions, ye couldn't have picked a better time to show up. The whole bloody gang's here, or will be soon enough."

Regis felt a jolt of surprise. "The... gang?"

"Aye! Geralt's off on a contract, back by morning. Dandelion's here too, off visitin' his lady friend Priscilla at the moment. Even Yarpen was through last week, though the old goat couldn't stay long."

Regis blinked. Of all places, of all moments—"This is… quite the coincidence."

"Coincidence, fate, or just bloody good luck—who cares?" Zoltan laughed, then his eyes flicked to Rhena. "And now we've got another vampire in the company!" His voice held no accusation, but there was an edge of wariness, a lifetime of prejudice hard to shake. "No offense meant, m'lady. Any friend of Regis is welcome at our table."

Rhena studied him for a moment before dipping her head in quiet acknowledgment. Regis inclined his head toward her. "Zoltan, may I present Rhena," he said formally. "My… mate."

"Yer MATE?" Zoltan's shout drew renewed attention from the tavern's patrons. "Melitele's perfect tits! Never thought I'd see the day!" He turned to Rhena with a gentlemanly bow that belied his rough exterior. "Honored, truly. This old barber's been nothin' but solitary as long as we've known him."

"You'll need a place to stay," he declared, the statement brooking no argument. "The room next to mine is empty. Innkeeper owes me a favor after I straightened out some trouble with a group of deserters last week."

The prospect of seeing Geralt again so soon after parting ways with him in Toussaint sent an unexpected wave of emotion through Regis—anticipation mixed with a curious apprehension. He had changed since then, in ways even he was still coming to understand. What would the witcher think of his presence here in Temeria? Of Rhena?

As if sensing his thoughts, Rhena placed a hand lightly on his arm. "We should accept," she said quietly. "It seems… right."

Zoltan, already halfway to the innkeeper's counter, took their acceptance for granted. By the time he returned, arrangements had been made, a key produced, and further rounds of drinks ordered despite Regis's protestations that they'd had quite enough.

"One for the road," Zoltan insisted, raising his tankard once more. "To tomorrow—and the look on that white-haired wolf's face when he sees ye!"

The night progressed with more tales and reminiscences, until finally even Zoltan's seemingly bottomless capacity for alcohol reached its limit. They parted ways in the inn's upper corridor, the dwarf extracting solemn promises that they wouldn't vanish before morning.

Alone in their room at last, Regis stood by the window, moonlight casting his features in silver relief. The sounds of the village gradually faded as the hour grew late—a distant laugh, the creak of wagon wheels, then silence broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl.

Rhena moved beside him, her fingers finding his. "Your friend is quite the character," she said softly, amusement warming her tone.

"Zoltan has always possessed a certain... vibrancy," Regis agreed, turning to face her. In the dim light, her eyes held an otherworldly gleam, the subtle sign of their shared nature that humans so rarely noticed. "I hope his exuberance wasn't overwhelming."

"Not at all." She studied his face with that penetrating gaze that seemed to strip away centuries of carefully constructed defenses. "It was... enlightening to see you with old friends. A side of you I hadn't yet witnessed."

Regis felt an unexpected vulnerability beneath her scrutiny. In their short time together, she had come to know him in ways few ever had. "And what did you witness, precisely?"

"Joy," she answered simply. "Belonging. Parts of yourself you've kept carefully folded away." Her hand rose to his face, cool fingers tracing the line of his jaw with gentleness that belied their strength. "You've been alone too long, Regis. As have I."

He caught her hand, pressed his lips to her palm in a gesture of tender reverence. "Does it trouble you? The prospect of these unexpected discoveries to our plans?"

"Discoveries?" A smile played at the corners of her mouth. "Is that what you call finding your friends? Finding a potential home?"

"I had envisioned something quieter for us," he admitted. "More removed from the world of humans and witchers and boisterous dwarves."

"And yet you came alive in their presence." Her voice held no judgment, only observation. "I saw it happen. Like watching a book long closed finally being opened again."

Regis considered her words, their truth undeniable. "We need not decide anything tonight," he said finally. "The world will still be there in the morning, with all its choices and possibilities."

"Indeed it will." Rhena moved closer, her body fitting against his with the still-new familiarity of their bond. "But tonight is ours alone."

The kiss began gently—an affirmation, a question, answered by the deepening pressure of her lips against his. Centuries of practiced restraint gave way to something ancient and primal yet tempered by genuine tenderness.

Their bond, still forming since that fateful night in front of Rhena's hearth, hummed between them like a plucked string, resonating with shared emotion. Words became unnecessary as clothing was set aside with deliberate care. In the silver moonlight, Rhena's skin held an alabaster luminescence, the lines of her body both strong and graceful. Regis traced those lines with reverent hands, mapping territories both familiar and wonderfully new.

They moved to the bed, the ordinary creaking of human craftsmanship beneath immortal weight bringing a shared smile of amusement. Time stretched and contracted around them as they explored each other with unhurried appreciation. Unlike human lovers with their desperate race against mortality, they had the luxury of patience, of savoring each sensation without fear of time's passage.

Later—minutes or hours, it hardly mattered—they lay entwined, her head resting against his chest. Regis ran his fingers through her dark hair, spreading it across the pillow like silk.

"Do you ever wonder," Rhena murmured against his skin, "about the strange workings of fate? How many coincidences must align for two beings to find each other across centuries of existence?"

"I've never been a great believer in predestination," Regis admitted, his hand continuing its gentle path through her hair. "Though I confess recent events have tested that skepticism."

"First Dettlaff finding us, then the Elder's judgment, now your witcher and companions." She propped herself up on one elbow to look at him properly. "The world seems determined to push us in certain directions."

"And what direction would you prefer, Rhena?" he asked softly, studying the play of shadows across her features. "If the choice were entirely yours?"

She considered this, her gaze turning inward. "I've spent three centuries hiding what I am, Regis. Moving when humans grew suspicious, never forming lasting connections." Her eyes refocused on his face. "Perhaps it's time for something different. Your friends know what we are, yet accept us nonetheless. There's... freedom in that. A freedom I've rarely known."

He cupped her face gently. "Then we shall consider it. A life less hidden, among those who see us as we truly are."

Her smile—one of those rare, unguarded expressions that transformed her features—warmed him more deeply than any physical touch. She settled against him once more, her body fitting perfectly against his.

They spoke intermittently through the night, quiet conversations interspersed with comfortable silence and renewed explorations of each other. Plans and possibilities, memories and hopes, weaving together into the shared tapestry of their future.

Outside, the village slept on, unaware of the immortal lovers contemplating a place among its mortal inhabitants. Gradually, the quality of darkness shifted, the first hint of approaching dawn seeping beneath the curtains.

DAWN arrived with persistent fingers of light slipping through the modest curtains of their room. Regis had indeed found rest elusive, spending much of the night in quiet conversation with Rhena, discussing possibilities and contingencies for their new future. A sharp rapping at their door interrupted their contemplation.

"Rise and shine, ye nocturnal bastards!" Zoltan's voice, robust despite what must have been a significant hangover, boomed through the wooden planks. "Breakfast waits for no man, dwarf, or vampire! Besides, Dandelion's back and fit to burst with curiosity after the tale I told him!"

Exchanging a glance with Rhena, Regis moved to open the door. Zoltan stood in the corridor, impressively alert given the quantity of alcohol he had consumed the previous evening. Beside him stood a slender man dressed in an outfit of impeccable cut and distinctly flamboyant color, a jaunty feather adorning his cap.

"Regis!" Dandelion exclaimed, blue eyes widening in a manner that might have been comical under different circumstances. "By all the gods, Zoltan wasn't exaggerating for once! You're actually—" The bard seemed momentarily lost for words, a rare occurrence indeed. "Well, you're not dead! Or un-dead. Or... however exactly one describes a higher vampire's state of being."

"Julian Alfred Pankratz," Regis greeted with genuine warmth. "Still composing verses to bedazzle the masses, I see."

"And better than ever," Dandelion preened, recovering his composure with characteristic swiftness. His gaze shifted to Rhena, who had risen and moved to stand beside Regis. "Ah! And this must be the mysterious lady companion Zoltan mentioned." He swept into an elaborate bow. "Dandelion, Viscount de Lettenhove, master poet and troubadour, at your service."

"Tone it down, ye peacock," Zoltan grumbled good-naturedly. "Ye'll scare the lady off before she's had a chance to eat."

"Rhena," she introduced herself simply, with a nod that acknowledged Dandelion's theatrics without indulging them. "A pleasure."

The common room of the inn was less crowded than the previous evening, populated primarily by travelers breaking their fast before continuing their journeys. As their meal concluded, the inn's door swung open, admitting a blast of cool morning air and a solitary figure silhouetted against the sunlight.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with distinctive white hair pulled back from a face marked by experience and the distinctive cat-like eyes of his profession, Geralt of Rivia stood framed in the doorway. The witcher paused, scanning the common room with the habitual wariness of one accustomed to danger. His gaze passed over their table, continued onward, then snapped back with almost comical suddenness.

For a long moment, no one moved. Regis felt an unexpected constriction in his chest—an echo of the human heart he had once possessed.

Then Geralt was moving toward them, his expression transforming from shock to something Regis had rarely seen on the witcher's typically stoic features: unbridled joy.

"Didn't expect to see you this far north so soon," the witcher said simply.

Regis rose to greet his friend, clasping his forearm in the traditional warrior's grip. "Geralt. I must say, finding you here is quite the coincidence, my friend. I thought you'd still be enjoying the comforts of Toussaint after our... adventure."

"Got restless," Geralt replied with characteristic economy of words. "Vineyard's still there when I want it." His golden eyes flickered past Regis to where Rhena sat. "Though it seems you've been busy since we parted in Beauclair."

"Indeed," Regis acknowledged, feeling an unexpected warmth at being able to introduce Rhena to his oldest friend. "Geralt of Rivia, may I present Rhena. My mate and companion."

Something flickered in the witcher's eyes—genuine surprise followed by understanding. For someone who had known Regis for decades, the significance of this development wouldn't be lost on him.

"That was quick," Geralt observed with the blunt honesty Regis had always appreciated. "Last we spoke, you were contemplating a solitary existence for the foreseeable future."

"Life has a way of disrupting even the most carefully considered plans," Regis replied.

Geralt nodded to Rhena with simple respect. "Any friend of Regis has a place at my table." He took a seat beside Zoltan, signaling for another round of drinks. "I take it there's a story here worth hearing," the witcher said quietly.

"Indeed there is, old friend," Regis agreed. "One I suspect even your considerable experience might find... interesting."

"Involving Dettlaff?" Geralt asked perceptively, keeping his voice low.

"Among others," Regis confirmed, equally discreet. "Though that particular tale might be best shared in more private settings."

"So after everything in Toussaint, you headed north?"

"Initially for solitude," Regis confirmed. "Though as you can see, fate had other plans."

"Not just my company," Rhena interjected with unexpected humor. "Perhaps you should tell him about our other traveling companions, Regis."

Geralt raised an eyebrow. "Others?"

"A rock troll named Borko," Rhena supplied when Regis hesitated. "And a godling called Johnny."

The reaction was immediate. Geralt's usually impassive face registered genuine shock, his eyes widening slightly. "Johnny? Little fellow, blue-skinned, voice like he's gargled gravel, talks more than Dandelion after three bottles of wine?"

"You know him?" Regis asked, surprised.

"Met him in Velen, near Crookback Bog," Geralt replied, shaking his head in disbelief. "Helped him get his voice back. Chatty little bastard." He exhaled, almost amused. "Small world." Geralt's lips curled slightly in something like a smile. "So you're telling me that you—the scholarly vampire who lectures on propriety and discretion—are traveling with a loudmouthed godling who couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it?"

"He's been... surprisingly loyal," Regis defended, though his usual composure seemed slightly rattled. "And quite helpful in sensing humans before they detect our presence."

"And he's teaching Skura how to speak, as if Skura is some sort of familiar," Rhena added with a hint of mischief.

"Skura?" Geralt questioned.

"Rhena's mouse," Regis explained, then caught himself as Geralt's eyebrows climbed even higher. "It's... rather a long story."

"A vampire with a pet mouse," Geralt mused, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Johnny the godling. A rock troll. And the two of you." He shook his head slowly. "And here I thought I'd seen everything."

Dandelion, who had been listening with increasing fascination, burst into delighted laughter. "Oh, this is magnificent! The material practically writes itself! 'The Vampire's Unusual Companions' or perhaps 'Of Godlings and Vampires' – I can already hear the applause!"

"Dandelion," Regis said with sudden seriousness, "I must insist on your discretion regarding certain aspects—"

"Professional discretion, my friend!" the bard assured him with a theatrical gesture. "I shall change all names and pertinent details! Art requires certain liberties, after all!"

"That's what we're afraid of," Zoltan muttered into his ale.

Geralt watched this exchange with evident amusement before returning his attention to Regis. "Your... companions are nearby, I take it?"

"In a cave not far from the village," Regis confirmed. "We thought it best not to arrive with a rock troll and godling in tow. Tends to make an impression."

"I'd like to see Johnny again," Geralt said, surprising them all. "Kid's got spirit. And I'm curious about this troll of yours."

"We planned to return to them in three days," Rhena said. "But I suppose we could make the journey sooner."

"Tomorrow, perhaps," Regis suggested, recovering his typical composure. "After we've had time to... explain our situation more fully."

Geralt nodded, then fixed Regis with a penetrating look. "Speaking of explanations, I think you owe me one about what happened after Toussaint. Particularly regarding Dettlaff."

The tavern's ambient noise seemed to fade as Regis met his friend's gaze. "Yes," he agreed quietly. "I believe I do."

In that moment, surrounded by friends both old and new, Regis felt something he had not experienced in centuries: a sense of belonging, of rightness. The path ahead remained uncertain, fraught with potential complications—Dettlaff's eventual return, the Elder's watchful presence, the challenge of building a life with Rhena after so long alone. Yet here, now, those concerns seemed distant, manageable.

They had found unexpected sanctuary in this village, and while Regis knew well enough that no sanctuary lasted forever, perhaps this one would endure long enough to heal old wounds and forge new beginnings. For a creature with potentially endless years ahead, such moments of perfect contentment were rare enough to be treasured.

He glanced at Rhena, finding her watching him with that perceptive gaze that seemed to see through his carefully constructed facade to the truth beneath. She inclined her head slightly, an acknowledgment of his thoughts as clear as if she had spoken them aloud. Their bond, still new and forming, nonetheless allowed for such silent communication.

Tomorrow would bring decisions about their future—whether to remain near these unexpected friends or continue their original plan of finding a remote village where their nature might remain unnoticed. But today was for reunion, for celebration, for the simple joy of connections thought lost and now miraculously restored.

For today, at least, they were home.

THE following days in the village passed with surprising ease. Word of the new healer and midwife spread quickly through the community, and both Regis and Rhena found themselves cautiously optimistic about their prospects here. Unlike Draycott, this settlement seemed more concerned with practical matters than supernatural suspicions.

The reunion with Geralt's companions had shaken something loose in Regis—a reminder of what friendship could offer after so many years of careful solitude. Rhena watched him during their conversations at the inn, noting how his usual formality softened into something more genuine, more alive.

"You're different around them," she observed as they prepared for bed one night.

"As are you," he replied, settling beside her. "I see you considering possibilities you hadn't allowed yourself before."

She was. The prospect of staying, of building something lasting with these people who knew what they were and accepted them nonetheless—it was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

The days that passed in a whirlwind of introductions and explanations. After a night of lengthy discussion at the inn—during which Regis had shared the essentials of their encounter with the Elder and Dettlaff's punishment—they had agreed to visit Borko's cave.

Geralt, ever curious about the creatures that populated his world, had been particularly interested in meeting Johnny again and seeing the rock troll who had become such an unlikely ally. They had departed at first light, following the forest path that Rhena and Regis had carefully memorized, arriving at the clearing just as the winter sun reached its zenith.

Upon their approach, Johnny had burst from the cave entrance, his small blue form practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of meeting a witcher he already knew from his Velen adventures. Borko had emerged more cautiously, but relaxed visibly when Regis introduced Geralt as a trusted friend.

Rhena stood at the edge of a small clearing, her breath forming delicate clouds of vapor that dissipated in the crisp winter air. Her heightened vampiric senses registered every subtle shift in the forest around them—the distant heartbeat of a hare seeking shelter, the whisper of wind through leafless branches, the pleasant cacophony of voices from their unusual gathering.

In the center of the clearing, Johnny was regaling Geralt with an increasingly embellished account of their encounter with the Elder of Kovir. The godling's small blue hands gesticulated wildly, his gravelly voice rising and falling with dramatic emphasis that echoed against the surrounding pines. Beside him, Borko nodded enthusiastically at inappropriate moments, clearly following little of the tale but eager to participate, nonetheless.

What struck Rhena most was Geralt's demeanor. The witcher—whose reputation had reached even Draycott through whispered tales of the Butcher of Blaviken—sat on a fallen log with surprising patience. His amber cat-eyes occasionally flickered to Regis with what might have been amusement, the vertical pupils contracting slightly in the winter sunlight.

His twin swords remained strapped to his back, but his posture held no tension, no readiness to draw them against the monsters surrounding him. For a man whose profession typically placed him in opposition to creatures like herself, his acceptance of their unusual company was…remarkable.

"And then the Elder went all misty," Johnny declared, dissolving his fingers in imitation. "Not like when doctor doom here does it—this was scarier, like watching death itself dissolve! Like if a wraith and a miasma had a baby and it grew up all evil and ancient!"

"Scary dust man," Borko agreed solemnly, pounding one massive stony fist against the snowy ground for emphasis, causing a nearby snowdrift to collapse. "Make Bad Fang Man small. Take away fang and claw. Elder very, very old."

Rhena shifted her weight, still uncomfortable when Dettlaff's name arose in conversation, and she suspected she would be for quite some time. The wounds from her encounters with the vampire remained fresh, both literally and figuratively. The physical injuries had healed within moments, of course—one of the benefits of her nature as a higher vampire—but the memory of Dettlaff's possessive rage, his refusal to accept her choice, lingered like silver in her veins.

Regis had explained everything to Geralt during a private conversation their first night back at Borko's cave, a lengthy exchange conducted in voices too low for even her keen hearing to discern. Whatever had passed between the witcher and her mate had resulted in an understanding that seemed to satisfy them both.

"Your mouse is getting restless," a feminine voice observed from beside her.

She turned to find Geralt's lover, Yennefer, approaching, the sorceress's raven hair a stark contrast against the pristine snow. She wore a fur-trimmed cloak of black and white, cut to accentuate her figure despite the bitter cold. Unlike the humans around them whose faces were reddened by the chill, Yennefer moved with an otherworldly grace, the faint scent of lilac and gooseberries announcing her presence before she even spoke. Rhena glanced down at the pouch at her hip where Skura's head poked out, whiskers twitching curiously at the commotion.

"He's not used to so many people at once," she replied, absently stroking the mouse's tiny head with one finger. "Neither am I, in truth, if I'm being completely honest."

Yennefer's violet eyes studied Rhena with measured assessment, a reserved politeness in her expression. Though they had only been introduced the previous night when Yennefer had arrived through her portal, the sorceress carried herself with the confidence of someone accustomed to dangerous company.

"I imagine it's overwhelming—centuries of solitude will do that," she said, her tone neutral yet not unkind. "When I arrived through that portal last night and Geralt mentioned his regenerated higher vampire friend was here with a companion, I was... surprised. Our kind of company tends to attract complications."

Rhena raised an eyebrow. "Complications?"

"The interesting variety, usually," Yennefer replied with a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She was clearly still taking Rhena's measure, as one would with any potentially dangerous new element in their circle. "Geralt speaks highly of Regis, which says much. I find myself curious about the one who managed to forge a bond with him after all these years."

Before Rhena could respond, Priscilla approached, her golden hair catching the afternoon sunlight. The troubadour's fingers bore the calluses of a dedicated musician, and her eyes sparkled with observant intelligence.

"I see you've met our most recent arrival," Priscilla said to Rhena, nodding respectfully toward Yennefer. "The village hasn't stopped buzzing since that portal tore open in the inn's courtyard last night. I'm composing a verse about it already—'The Midnight Arrival.' Though I'm still working on a rhyme for 'terrified chickens.'"

"Indeed," Yennefer replied dryly. "Nothing quite announces one's presence like terrifying the local chickens into a week's worth of lost eggs. Geralt could have mentioned the village's peculiar layout before I set the coordinates."

Rhena observed the subtle tension between the two women—Priscilla's carefully maintained politeness against Yennefer's casual dismissiveness—before turning her attention to where the others had gathered. Zoltan was attempting to teach Borko the rules of gwent, the dwarf's patience visibly waning as the troll crushed another card between his stony fingers.

"They're an acquired taste, this group," Priscilla offered, following Rhena's gaze. "Loud, intrusive at times, and utterly incapable of minding their own business."

"That's putting it rather charitably," Yennefer added with cool amusement in her voice. "Though one eventually grows fond of them, despite better judgment. Like developing a taste for a particularly strong Temerian rye—initially overwhelming, then oddly comforting."

"You speak as if you're not one of them," Rhena observed, noting the mixture of detachment and affection in the sorceress's tone.

"Perhaps not by choice," Yennefer replied with a wry smile, her eyes lingering on Geralt with undisguised affection. "But I've learned that life without their particular brand of chaos is... unexpectedly hollow."

"What Yennefer means," Priscilla interjected with a knowing smile, "is that she's as hopeless as the rest of us when it comes to this strange family we've formed."

Yennefer gave Priscilla a look that might have withered a less confident woman, but offered no contradiction.

"Dandelion mentioned how Regis joined their company years ago," Priscilla continued. "Reserved, proper, carefully keeping his nature hidden behind herbal scents and scholarly discourse. Now look at him."

Rhena followed her gaze to where Regis stood conversing with Geralt and Dandelion some distance away, gesturing with uncharacteristic animation as he corrected some historical detail in the bard's latest composition. Snow dusted his hair, and for once, he seemed unbothered by it, too engaged in the discussion to maintain his usual fastidiousness.

"He speaks of the White Wolf often," Rhena said after a moment. "But his stories hardly captured the true nature of their bond."

"Some bonds are too complex for mere stories," Priscilla replied gently.

"Or too meaningful to be casually recounted," Yennefer added, her voice softening slightly. "Even for one as eloquent as Regis." She paused, studying Rhena with renewed interest. "Last night during our introductions, I sensed something... unusual about you. Something beyond your nature. A residual magic, perhaps?"

Rhena tensed slightly. "The Elder's judgment leaves its mark."

"Ah," Yennefer's eyes gleamed with professional curiosity. "That would explain it. The magical signature of an Elder vampire's power..." She trailed off, then shook her head slightly. "But that's a discussion for another time, when we're better acquainted."

Before Rhena could respond, Johnny's voice cut through the conversation with its characteristic brash confidence. "That's not how it happened! You're making me sound like some cowering pissant! Tell him, Rhena! Tell him how I orchestrated the whole bloody rescue! How I told Borko exactly where to smash, when to smash! If not for my superior intellect, you'd all be bat food by now!"

All eyes turned to her expectantly. Three hundred years of carefully avoiding attention made the scrutiny momentarily uncomfortable, but Rhena found herself moving forward nonetheless, drawn by something stronger than old habits. The snow crunched beneath her boots as she approached, her movements carrying the liquid grace inherent to her kind.

"Johnny exaggerates," she said dryly as she joined the group. "But not about his quick thinking during our escape." She nodded to the rock troll, who beamed with pride, rubble shifting around his mouth in what passed for a smile. "He did alert Borko at just the right moment when Dettlaff had us cornered."

"Borko smash bad fang!" the troll declared happily. "Johnny say 'smash now' and Borko protect friends!"

"And saved our hides in the process," Johnny added, puffing out his small chest. "Go on then, tell them about the Elder, fangs. You're better with the spooky details. You get this look in your eyes when you talk about him—gives me the shivers just seeing it."

Johnny turned to Geralt with newfound enthusiasm. "White Wolf! Remember when you found me by that broken bridge in Velen? Near those creepy crones and their nasty bog? Got my voice back thanks to you! Still no closer to finding a girl-godling to play with though," he added with a dramatic sigh.

Geralt's lips quirked in the barest hint of a smile. "Hard to forget. You had quite a lot to say once you could speak again."

"And I've got even more to say now!" Johnny declared proudly. "Been practicing my vocabulary. Got some real fancy words now."

Geralt's gaze settled on Rhena with quiet assessment. "Not my first encounter with an Elder," he remarked, a shadow crossing his features. "Had to seek one out in Toussaint. With Regis, ironically enough." He glanced at his vampiric friend. "Different circumstances, similar tension."

Regis inclined his head in acknowledgment. "The Unseen Elder of Toussaint and this Elder share certain... qualities. Though I'd venture the one we encountered in Toussaint was even more removed from mortal concerns."

As Rhena reluctantly began recounting her own fateful encounter, she found herself watching the subtle communication between Regis and Geralt. The two shared glances that spoke of a friendship forged through experiences beyond ordinary understanding. Yennefer had positioned herself at Geralt's other side, her hand resting lightly on his arm in a gesture that seemed both protective and reassuring.

"His presence was..." Rhena paused, searching for words that could convey the experience. "When the Elder appeared, it was like standing before an avalanche that could think. There was this weight to him—not physical, but crushing all the same." She met Geralt's gaze. "We think ourselves predators, Regis and I. But before the Elder, we were prey. Nothing more. You feel the centuries of his existence pressing down on you, reminding you of how small you truly are in the span of time."

"Power that old changes something," Geralt mused. "Seen it in ancient vampires before. They become almost elemental. Less like individuals, more like forces of nature."

"Precisely," Regis concurred. "The Elder exists in a state beyond what most of our kind ever achieve—or desire to achieve, for that matter. His judgment, while severe, adhered to ancient laws rarely invoked."

"Fifty years as a human," Dandelion had joined them, his expression alight with creative inspiration. "What a punishment for a higher vampire! The dramatic potential is extraordinary!" He immediately began muttering rhyming couplets under his breath, fingers twitching as if already composing on an invisible lute.

"Do consider," Yennefer interjected with an arched eyebrow and the hint of a smile, "that your dramatic interpretation might benefit from accuracy rather than your usual embellishments, Dandelion. I'd hate to have to rescue you from an Elder vampire's judgment simply because you couldn't resist an exaggerated rhyme."

The bard paled visibly. "I—well—artistic license is—"

"Dandelion," Regis cautioned more gently, "I would remind you of our discussion regarding discretion."

"Yes, yes," the bard waved dismissively, recovering his composure. "Names changed, details altered. I'm not a complete novice, Regis."

Priscilla strummed a chord on her lute, the sound bright against the winter air. "Perhaps we should collaborate on this particular ballad," she suggested with a wink. "I've been working on a new composition technique—the art of telling truth so beautifully that no one recognizes it for what it is. 'The Vampiric Verses,' perhaps, though we'd call it something far more innocuous."

As the conversation continued around her, Rhena found herself studying these humans—and non-humans—who had so readily accepted her into their circle. For centuries, she had believed safety lay in isolation, in carefully maintained facades and swift departures at the first sign of suspicion. Yet here they stood among a witcher, a sorceress, a bard, a troubadour, and a dwarf, all aware of what she and Regis truly were. The revelation brought neither silver swords nor torches, but acceptance—qualified, perhaps, but genuine nonetheless.

She caught Yennefer watching her with that same reserved assessment—the sorceress clearly still evaluating this newcomer to their circle after just one night's acquaintance. There was caution in those violet eyes, but also a grudging recognition of a similar independence that Rhena herself cultivated.

As evening approached, shadows lengthening across the snow, they made their way back toward the village. Borko reluctantly returned to his cave after extracting promises of regular visits and a new supply of what he called "shiny pebbles" but were actually semi-precious stones Dandelion had acquired.

The rock troll had developed an unexpected fondness for arranging these gems in patterns across his cave floor, creating crude but surprisingly pleasing designs.

Johnny opted to stay with the troll "for a bit longer," though Rhena suspected the godling would eventually find his way to the village tavern, drawn by curiosity and Dandelion's seemingly bottomless ale tab. "Godlings need social interaction too, you know," he'd informed her seriously before they departed. "Can't expect me to talk to rocks all day, can you? Even if one of the rocks talks back." He puffed out his chest. "Besides, someone's got to look after this lug. If not for my quick thinking during your escape from Dettlaff, who knows what might've happened to you two?"

Rhena exchanged a knowing glance with Regis. The godling had indeed played his part, alerting Borko at just the right moment, though his tale grew more heroic with each retelling. Some things, she was learning, were better left uncorrected.

The village appeared gradually through the trees as they approached, smoke rising from chimneys in thin columns against the darkening sky. Unlike Draycott, with its suspicious glances and whispered rumors, this settlement possessed a weathered pragmatism born of hard winters and harder wars.

The inhabitants had already developed theories about the newcomers—Regis was assumed to be an eccentric but skilled physician from Nazair, judging by his accent, while Rhena's silent demeanor and northern clothing marked her as a refugee from the conflict-torn areas nearer to Kovir. The cottage awaited them at the edge of the forest—a modest structure recently vacated by an elderly healer who had departed for her daughter's home in Vizima. When Geralt had mentioned it during their first night's conversation at the tavern, Rhena had recognized the calculating look in the witcher's eyes. A convenient solution, too neatly presented to be coincidental.

Yet as she and Regis approached the dwelling now, walking slightly behind the others, she found herself unexpectedly grateful for the witcher's machinations. The cottage, with its sturdy stone foundation and thatched roof, stood slightly apart from the other dwellings—near enough for convenience, distant enough for privacy. A perfect balance for creatures like themselves.

"You're unusually quiet," Regis observed, his hand finding hers as they walked, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in a gesture that had become familiar.

"Just contemplating," she replied, using his favored phrase with deliberate irony.

His lips quirked in acknowledgment. "And what conclusions has this contemplation yielded?"

Rhena considered the question, her gaze moving across the village before them—the distant spire of its small temple, the smoke rising from hearth fires, the mundane rhythm of ordinary lives unfolding in blissful ignorance of the immortal predators who now walked among them.

"That perhaps there are different kinds of freedom," she said finally. "I spent centuries believing that safety required complete independence, answering to no one, forming no attachments that couldn't be severed at a moment's notice."

"A reasonable conclusion, given your experiences," Regis noted, his voice carrying that scholarly tone that both amused and exasperated her.

"Perhaps," she agreed. "But an incomplete one." She glanced toward where Geralt walked with Yennefer, Dandelion and Priscilla, Zoltan regaling them with some improbable tale that had the bard gesturing in protest. "There's freedom in being known, Regis. In being seen for what you truly are and accepted nonetheless."

"Even if that acceptance comes with certain... complications?" he asked, his tone light but his eyes serious as they met hers.

She knew what he meant—the complications of friendship, of community, of roots that could not be easily torn away if danger threatened. The compromise of self-sufficient solitude for the messy entanglements of belonging.

"I've existed for nearly three centuries," Rhena replied, squeezing his hand gently. "Perhaps it's time I learned to live instead."

Ahead of them, Zoltan called back with impatient enthusiasm, "Come on, ye slow-moving vampires! The tavern keeper's opening a special cask tonight, and I'll not miss the first pour because ye two were dawdling like love-struck adolescents!"

Rhena felt laughter rise unexpectedly in her throat—a genuine sound that seemed to surprise even Regis, whose eyes widened momentarily before crinkling with pleasure at the corners.

"We'd better hurry," she said. "Before he sends a search party."

"Indeed," Regis agreed with mock solemnity. "One should never keep a determined dwarf from his ale. The consequences could be dire."

As they approached the village proper, several women gathering water from the central well called greetings. Most were directed at Regis, who had already begun establishing himself in the community. Just that morning, he had spent hours examining potential locations for his new practice—a combined apothecary and barber-surgeon's establishment that would serve as both livelihood and cover for their true nature.

"Master Regis!" called one woman, a robust matron named Anja whose husband owned the village granary. "Found a place for your shop yet?"

"Several promising options present themselves," Regis replied with his characteristic formality, though Rhena noted the genuine warmth beneath it. "Though I find myself torn between the vacant chandlery near the square and the old tanner's workshop at the eastern end."

"Take the chandlery," advised another woman, adjusting an infant on her hip with practiced ease. "Tanner's place still stinks of chemicals. Wouldn't do to have your herbs tainted."

To Rhena's surprise, the woman then turned to her directly. "Antje says you're a midwife, mistress. Truth to that?"

Rhena felt momentarily disoriented by the direct address. In Draycott, it had taken nearly a year before anyone spoke to her with such casual familiarity. "I... yes. Among other healing arts."

The woman nodded with open assessment. "Good. We lost our midwife—same one who left you that cottage—to her daughter's family in Vizima. My sister's expecting her third come spring, and the last two nearly killed her. Could use a skilled hand when the time comes."

Before Rhena could formulate a response, Antje joined in with characteristic bluntness. "Might want to see Agnes up by the mill, too. Been in labor two days now with no progress. Local herb-woman's at her wit's end."

"Two days?" Rhena's professional interest immediately overcame her reticence. Her mind already cataloging possibilities—transverse position, shoulder presentation, perhaps a cord issue. "Has the water broken?"

"Yesterday morning," Antje confirmed. "First child, and she's barely sixteen. Narrow-hipped, too."

"Has she been able to walk? Any fever or unusual discharge?" Rhena asked, her centuries of midwifery experience coming to the forefront.

"Walked earlier but too weak now," Antje replied, concern evident in her voice. "No fever that I know of, but the herb-woman's been giving her pennyroyal tea to strengthen the contractions."

Rhena frowned slightly. "Pennyroyal can be too harsh. I have gentler alternatives—blue cohosh with a touch of wild yam might ease her without exhausting her further." She glanced at Regis. "And I'll need shepherd's purse and witch hazel ready, in case of excessive bleeding."

Regis nodded, understanding immediately. "I have those in my satchel, along with ergot if necessary, though I share your preference for the gentler alternatives first."

Rhena exchanged a glance with him, silent communication passing between them. A woman in difficult labor; a potential first patient; a way to establish themselves in the community's trust. The practicalities aligned neatly with deeper needs—to be useful, to have purpose, to belong.

"I should see her," Rhena said, decision made. "Now, if possible."

"I'll accompany you," Regis offered. "My instruments may prove useful if complications arise."

Zoltan, overhearing this exchange, groaned dramatically. "So much for the special cask! Trust a pair of vampires to choose birthing blood over good ale."

"We'll join you later," Regis assured him with a slight bow. "Keep a tankard warm for us."

As they changed direction toward the mill, following Antje's gestured instructions, Rhena mentally prepared herself, recalling similar cases she had attended over the centuries. If the baby was malpositioned, she might need to perform an external version—carefully turning the infant through the abdominal wall. She had small hands, an advantage in difficult births, and the strength of her vampiric nature always provided additional control when delicate manipulations were required.

The irony wasn't lost on her. Mere weeks ago, she had been the silent, feared midwife of Draycott, keeping to her isolated cottage and venturing out only when necessity demanded it. Now she walked openly beside her new mate toward a stranger's birthing chamber, in a village where neither silver nor suspicion seemed to threaten.

"Nervous?" Regis asked quietly as they climbed the path toward the mill.

"About the birth? No." Three centuries had given her experience with thousands of such cases. "About... this. All of it." She gestured vaguely, encompassing the village, their companions, their cottage, this new life taking shape around them with startling rapidity.

"As am I," Regis admitted, the confession surprising her. "Despite appearances, I find myself equally adrift in these uncharted waters. It has been... a very long time since I attempted to establish a genuine life somewhere." His expression grew reflective. "Not since Dillingen, in fact, and we both know how that particular endeavor concluded."

The reference to his infamous past should have troubled her, but instead, Rhena found it oddly reassuring. They were both flawed creatures with bloodstained histories, both seeking something like redemption, or at least peace.

"We have advantages this time," she observed. "Friends who know what we are. A village distant enough from major cities to avoid undue scrutiny. Each other."

"Indeed." His hand found hers again as they walked. "Though I suspect Dandelion's inevitable ballad about a heroic godling, his rock troll companion, and their vampire friends may somewhat compromise our cherished anonymity."

The thought startled a laugh from her—her second that day, she realized with mild shock. When had laughter become something that came so readily?

They reached the miller's house as twilight deepened into true night. Through the frost-rimmed windows, lamplight glowed warmly, casting elongated shadows across the snow-covered path. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with the metallic tang of approaching snow in the air, and somewhere nearby, the mill's water wheel creaked rhythmically against the partially frozen stream. The familiar medicinal scent of feverfew and chamomile drifted from within—the desperate remedies of a local healer reaching the limits of her knowledge.

Before they could knock, a thin wail pierced the evening air—not the robust cry of a newborn, but the exhausted moan of a woman reaching the limits of her endurance.

Rhena straightened, her expression shifting to the professional focus that had defined her for centuries. This, at least, was familiar territory. This, she knew how to navigate.

"Shall we?" Regis asked, his own demeanor equally composed.

She paused, turning to face him fully in the blue-tinged twilight. His eyes reflected the lamplight from the window, dark and steady with a certainty that had become her anchor in this new life.

"Together, then," she said softly, reaching for his hand one last time before they entered. "Strange, isn't it? After centuries of hiding what we are, here we stand—about to be welcomed as healers rather than feared as monsters."

"Not strange," Regis replied, his voice gentle with understanding. "Merely the beginning of the life we both deserve." He pressed a brief kiss to her forehead. "Now, let's help this young mother bring new life into the world."

She nodded, and together they approached the door—two immortal beings preparing to assist one of life's most mortal moments. The irony was not lost on her.

As Rhena raised her hand to knock, a curious sense of rightness settled over her. This village, these people, this work—it was a beginning. Not perfect, not entirely safe, but genuine in a way she hadn't known for centuries. And at last, against all expectation, she had found it. Not in solitude, as she once believed, but in connection—the very thing she had feared for so long.

They would build their life here together, day by day. Regis would open his shop, mixing herbal remedies and offering his services as a barber-surgeon to the village and surrounding farms. She would attend births, treat illnesses, perhaps even teach an apprentice someday.

They would host Geralt when his Path led him through the region, endure Dandelion's embellished tales, and share Zoltan's potent spirits. Johnny would visit from Borko's cave, bringing gossip and mischief in equal measure. Skura would thrive, always finding new crannies for his nests. And when fifty years passed and Dettlaff reclaimed his power, they would face that challenge together. But that was a worry for another day—distant enough to acknowledge, but not to fear.

For now, there was a life to bring into the world, a community to join, a future to build—tonight, tomorrow, and for as many tomorrows as fate allowed.

Rhena knocked on the door, and as it opened to reveal a harried-looking woman with anxious eyes, she stepped forward into her new life.

"I'm the midwife," she said simply, a smile tugging at her lips. "I'm here to help."