Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

for all his life, zayne was never one to break rules. not because he feared punishment — he rarely earned any — but because he was simply… good. a well-mannered boy, as his mother always said with pride.

better behaved than most children, though zayne couldn’t quite compare himself. few children ever lingered near him long enough to be called friends.

still, there was one rule he knew above all others. not a chore, not a curfew, not a lesson.

just one.

“don’t go into the basement. don’t go anywhere near it, you hear?”

when his mother said it, her voice softened, almost pleading. a request more than a command.

when his father said it, the words came clipped and desperate, as though each syllable was nailed into his skull.

zayne never questioned them, not aloud. perhaps the basement stored dangerous chemicals, or rare surgical instruments his father used for research. perhaps treasures were hidden there, locked away from curious hands. his tutor, dr. noah, would only smile when asked and change the subject. that was answer enough.

there were things children should not carry yet.

(or better still — never.)

he kept his promise, like a good son should. but curiosity was a hunger, slow and gnawing. it was not the basement that gave him the first taste of it.

it was the attic.

he’d found it by accident — an old album tucked beneath the warped leg of a cabinet shrouded in white cloth. dust clung to the leather cover. the metal clasps groaned as he pried it open.

inside: photographs. the li family, posed by generations. his grandfather, stern and proud; his father, boyish and uncertain. the decades shifted as he turned the pages, faces aging, fashions changing. always different.

except for four.

always in the background. always at the edge of the frame. never smiling, never aging.

four men. their eyes dark, their presence unmistakable.

zayne thought nothing at first. he didn’t know what to make of it. perhaps it was normal. perhaps all great families had such… attendants. still, when his mother tucked him into bed that night, the question slipped from him with a child’s careless honesty.

“mama, since when did we have butlers?”

her hand froze mid-tuck.

“…why do you ask that, darling?”

he yawned, burrowing deeper under the blanket. “it was in the photo album. the one in the attic. grandpa was in there. and father too. they looked young.” he rubbed his eyes, speaking softly, almost sleepily.

“and there were those four men. they’re in every picture. were they grandfather’s friends? they don’t look older at all.”

the silence stretched. her throat tightened. her hand stilled against the quilt, fingers pressing harder than she meant to.

“they look the same,” zayne murmured still, tilting his head as though trying to recall the photographs more clearly. “even when father was little. even when grandfather was little.”

his eyes blinked open, green-gold in the candlelight. “why aren’t they here anymore?”

the air felt heavier then. pressing down like unseen eyes in the dark.

she smoothed the blanket again, recovering with the grace of someone who’d rehearsed her evasions long ago. she bent low, kissing the crown of his head.

“you’ve such sharp eyes, my love. just like your father,” she whispered, her laugh too light, too brittle. “but it’s getting late, isn’t it? tomorrow will be another long day of lessons.”

she blew out the candle before he could ask again, leaving the room wrapped in shadows.

but zayne, wide awake beneath the covers, thought of the photographs.

of four faces that never changed.

it was only one rule.

one rule zayne had never broken.

but he almost did by accident.

it happened on a gray afternoon, the manor’s windows weeping with rain. zayne was playing ball with his dog in the living room — a shaggy thing he’d named after a medicine, to his mother’s dismay. the animal had been full of energy at first, bounding across rugs and polished floors. but soon its tail wagged lazily, its paws slowed.

“your stamina could use some work,” zayne scolded fondly, shaking his head. he threw the ball again, and this time the dog only stared. it bounced once, twice, and kept rolling.

zayne didn’t mind. he softly laughed, chasing after it himself.

the ball rolled farther than expected, down a corridor he had never lingered in before. it rattled softly across the floorboards until it stopped with a muffled thunk against a door.

zayne bent down, reaching—then froze.

the door was chained. heavy iron links stretched across it in a tight knot, a tarnished cross nailed into the center. rust and wax stains marred the wood, as though it had seen more prayers than polish.

his hand hovered over the ball, but he barely noticed it. his eyes were fixed on the door.

this was… the basement?

he stared. blinking.

he had never been this far before. never even thought about where the forbidden place lay within the sprawling house.

the chain rattled.

softly at first, like metal stirred by a breeze. but there was no breeze. the air was heavy, stale. the manor was too still.

zayne’s chest tightened. slowly, his eyes lifted.

he swore the door itself… shifted. not outward, not open, but like something inside had leaned against it.

his ball sat forgotten at his feet.

was there something...

inside?

“zayne!”

his mother’s voice, sharp and strangled.

he turned just as she rushed down the hall, skirts whispering violently against the floor. she seized him in her arms before he could speak, clutching him so tight he gasped.

“i told you not to—” her words broke, tangled in frantic breaths. her hands shook as they pressed against his back, his shoulders, his face, as if to assure herself he was still there. tears streaked down her cheeks. “never, never come here—”

“i’m sorry,” zayne whispered, bewildered, his own small hands rising awkwardly to pat her shoulders. “i was just chasing the ball. i didn’t mean to—”

“i can’t lose you,” she choked. her sobs trembled against his ear. “they’ll take you away from me.”

her words sank into him like stones into deep water, and yet he did not ask. he didn’t dare.

he only wrapped his arms around her, as though he were the one steadying her instead. the hallway was cold, the cross glinting dimly in the candlelight. behind it, the chains rattled once more, softer this time, like a sigh.

zayne shut his eyes. he stayed in his mother’s embrace, silent.

but in his heart, the question pressed harder than ever.

what was in the basement?

after the incident in the hallway, his mother calmed. or at least, she pretended to.

by next morning, the tears were gone, her hands steady again as she kissed his forehead and apologized for scaring him. she never mentioned the chains, the door, or her outburst. the day moved on. as though nothing had happened.

but zayne knew something had.

it was odd.

it was wrong.

and the longer it went unspoken, the sharper the ache of curiosity became.

what are they hiding from me?

and when the clock struck midnight on the eve of his tenth birthday, zayne almost wished he’d never made the wish at all. he had asked, in the quiet of his bed, for answers.

just answers.

instead, he received blood.

bang.

the crack of gunfire tore him awake.

the sound was so sharp, so alien, he didn’t even understand it at first. his ears rang, his heart thrashed. the dog barked frantically downstairs—then yelped, a horrible sound, cut short.

zayne scrambled out of bed, clutching the blanket as though it could shield him. his bare feet touched the floorboards, cold as stone.

another shot. louder. nearer.

he crept to his door, opened it a fraction, and peered out. the manor was noisy—footsteps pounding, voices shouting in rough, guttural tones. not his father’s voice. not dr noah’s. strangers.

zayne’s breath hitched. slowly, he tiptoed down the hallway, heart hammering. from the landing, he could see the main hall below.

his parents lay on the floor.

the world tilted. his mother’s hair spilled across the tiles like a halo, his father’s hand stretched toward her, fingers limp. their bodies were still, too still.

zayne bit down on his hand to keep from screaming. his eyes blurred with tears. he stumbled backward, the railing cold under his grasp.

a hand gripped his shoulder. he nearly cried out—until he saw the familiar face.

noah. pale, frantic, but alive.

“zayne—hush, you mustn’t make a sound,” noah whispered, voice tight with urgency. he ushered the boy back down the hall, away from the stairs. zayne clutched at him desperately.

“they—mother—father—”

“i know. i know, child. i’m sorry. but we can’t stay here.” his voice broke for a moment, then steadied again. he pressed zayne against the wall, crouching to meet his eyes. “there is one. one place they cannot reach you.”

zayne blinked through tears.

noah’s eyes darted down the corridor, toward the wing zayne was never meant to walk. the forbidden hall.

zayne’s stomach dropped.

“the basement,” noah whispered. “you must go there. they will protect you.”

“they?” zayne asked, trembling.

but before noah could answer, the thunder of boots drew closer. a figure emerged at the far end of the hall, a gun glinting in the lamplight.

“noah!” zayne cried.

the shot rang out.

blood bloomed across noah’s chest. he staggered, then shoved zayne forward with the last of his strength. his hand slipped into his coat pocket and pressed a cold bundle of rusted keys into zayne’s palm.

“go!” he gasped. “they will listen—”

the second shot ended his words.

zayne stumbled back, sobbing, the keys biting into his shaking hand. he turned and ran.

"ngh!"

a searing pain tore through his leg—another shot, grazing him. he fell, cried out, then forced himself up again. the world swayed. he could taste iron in his mouth, hot tears on his cheeks.

the hallway stretched on forever, but he reached it—the chained door, the looming cross. his fingers fumbled with the keys, slick with blood. behind him, heavy boots pounded the stairs.

the lock gave way with a screech.

he yanked the door open, plunged into darkness. the stairs groaned beneath him as he stumbled down, each creak like a scream. his wounded leg buckled; he tumbled, rolling painfully until he crashed at the bottom.

the air was damp, thick with the scent of earth and stone. the cold sank into his bones.

but ahead—just a few steps beyond—he saw it.

a door. red as fresh blood.

zayne dragged himself forward on hands and knees, whimpering. his body ached, his vision swam, but he pressed on. the iron tang of his blood smeared the floor with every movement.

when he reached the door, he collapsed against it. his fingers clawed weakly at the surface, nails catching on the grooves. his breath came in ragged gasps.

above him, footsteps shook the floorboards. the intruders had followed.

zayne clutched the keys tighter. he had no idea what “they” meant. no idea what waited behind this door.

but he had no choice.

the sound was soft, a click swallowed by the dark, but to zayne it roared like thunder. he bit down hard on the pain, pushing the heavy wood until it groaned open.

the air inside hit him first.

a foulness seeped out, thick and rancid, making his stomach clench. it was the stench of something that had been shut away too long—like rot, like damp graves. he gagged, pressing a hand over his mouth.

the room itself was swallowed in shadows, the faint glow of the corridor failing to pierce it. but he could just make out shapes ahead. four of them.

chairs.

and on those chairs… figures.

they sat unnaturally still, draped in shadow. were they… corpses? zayne’s throat tightened. his father—was he hiding bodies down here? was that what this secret was all along?

he shuffled back, his bleeding leg scraping against the floor.

a bang jolted him.

the basement door slammed against the wall, and footsteps echoed down the stairs. a man’s silhouette appeared, tall and broad-shouldered, his smile gleaming in the half-light when he saw the trembling body.

“ah.” his voice was drawling, mocking. “there you are.”

zayne froze, terror pinning him in place.

“didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude,” the man continued, slow and deliberate with every step, “to not greet your guests?”

zayne’s breath shook. he pressed harder against the cold floor, trying to inch away from him. his fingers slipped in his own blood, leaving red smears as he dragged himself backward.

“why…” his voice cracked, barely a whisper. “why are you doing this?”

the man chuckled low in his throat. he descended the last steps, boots heavy on the wood.

“why?” his laugh grew louder, crueler. “what an adorable question.” he tilted his head, studying the boy like a cat studies a trapped mouse. “because we can. because your family had too much—wealth, power, praise. and people like me?” his grin widened, teeth flashing. “we don’t like watching pigs grow fat at the table while the rest of us starve.”

his eyes curved.

“and because, little lord, i was paid very well to put a bullet through your skull.”

he stepped closer towards him. zayne tried to scuttle away, his leg screaming with pain. his back hit the foot of one of the chairs.

the stench made him gag again, but he dared a glance upward.

and he saw it clearer: pale fingers curled loosely over the armrests. long, too long. nails gleamed faintly like glass in the dark.

not corpses.

not quite.

the intruder didn’t notice. he only raised his gun, lazily pointing it at zayne’s chest.

“don’t worry, it won't hurt much.” he said softly. “you’ll be with your parents soon enough.”

and as he cocked the hammer—

a second laugh cut the air.

deeper. older. amused.

it came from the shadows.

the man froze.

zayne’s eyes widened as the four still figures stirred at last.

“what in god’s name—” the intruder muttered, jerking his gun toward the sound.

but he didn’t even finish the movement.

a hand had closed around the barrel. pale, veined, with nails like curved glass daggers. with a single squeeze, the metal shrieked, bending under impossible strength. the man’s eyes widened as the weapon crumpled like paper in the stranger’s grip.

the voice that followed was smooth, rich, and unhurried, as though centuries sat in its throat.

“has our guest been... impolite, young master?”

the word rang strange, heavy.

zayne’s breath caught.

he couldn’t move—couldn’t even cry out—as the figure leaned forward, stepping out from shadow. a tall shape, broad-shouldered, wrapped in the heavy scent of old stone and colder nights. silver hair spilled down like a curtain, shining faintly in the candlelight.

the boy’s world seemed to narrow to that single sight.

eyes—deep crimson, gleaming—locked on him. predatory, unblinking.

the man who had stormed into the basement staggered back, fear flashing raw in his face. “what the hell—what the hell are you—”

the figure ignored him. he bent low over zayne, and the shadows seemed to bend with him, swallowing the boy’s frame. one pale hand braced on the space beside zayne’s head, his presence overwhelming. the air grew heavier, sharper, as if even the dark had to obey him.

zayne trembled. his fingers curled in his bloodied trousers. his heart thundered so violently it hurt, yet… he did not scream. could not. all he could do was stare up at the monster that had emerged from his family’s secrets.

that long hair brushed against zayne’s cheek.

is this... what fear felt like?

not the fear of punishment. not the fear of failing lessons. but the primal kind, the kind buried in the marrow, the kind that whispered...

this thing should not exist, and yet it does.

the figure tilted his head slightly, a faint, amused smile tugging at his lips as he studied the boy.

“mm,” the vampire mused softly, as though zayne had answered without speaking. “so quiet. such composure. you wear the title well, little heir.”

behind them, the intruder cursed and scrambled toward the stairs—

but the vampire didn’t turn. his hand merely flicked. a blur of motion, too fast for zayne’s eyes, and the man collapsed to the ground, throat open in a wet, gurgling ruin.

the room went silent again, save for zayne’s ragged breaths.

the vampire’s smile lingered, sharp and knowing.

“you need not fear, master. from this night on… you are ours.”

more footsteps were heard. backup.

“boss!” one of the them choked, staring at the ruin of his leader’s throat. his voice cracked. “j—jesus christ, what the fuck are you?”

another hissed in reply, sharp and hungry.

“great timing,” came the low murmur from the darkness, silk threaded with hunger. “i was just about to starve.”

and then—

three other pairs of eyes opened at once. crimson fire in the dark.

the men faltered. their grips tightened on their rifles, but their bravado cracked. zayne heard it in their breath, in the silence between heartbeats.

the figures rose from their chairs. slowly, deliberately, until their fangs caught the candlelight.

“monsters,” one spat, though his voice shook. “should’ve known the lis weren’t so holy. making deals with devils.”

rifles cocked in unison. metal clicked.

but those creatures were already there. in a blink, the room filled with movement faster than zayne’s eyes could follow. wood splintered. iron bent like straw. guns were twisted out of hands and snapped with lazy, cruel efficiency.

the men cried out in shock.

zayne whimpered, curling tighter into himself, trying to believe—no, no, my family is innocent. mother and father are good people. they help the poor. they save lives. they would never—

and yet—he looked up again, at the monster looming over him.

that smile. that strength. that voice that called him master.

doubt poisoned his chest.

…then just what are they?

the silver-haired still remained on his seat, his presence suffocating, eyes gleaming with amusement and something far darker.

“just say the word, master,” he purred, as if coaxing a child to speak his first sentence. “what would you like us to do?”

all around them was chaos—shouts, curses, struggling men. yet zayne saw only red.

the red of those eyes.

and within them—reflections. his mother’s collapsed body. his father’s blood pooling on the marble floor. noah’s last breath, the light fading from his eyes. even his dog—still, broken, never to bark again.

it was too much. his body shook. his throat burned.

and then, without even realizing it—without knowing he had spoken—

the words slipped out.

“...kill them.”

the silver-haired vampire’s grin widened, sharp as a blade.

“as you wish.”

the basement erupted in screams.

the air filled with the sound of bones breaking, flesh tearing, gunshots cut short. the scent of iron grew suffocating, heavy and metallic, coating the back of zayne’s tongue. a pale hand raking across a throat, another lifting a man clean off the floor, another sinking fangs into a shoulder.

zayne shut his eyes, but he could still hear it. the pleading. the gurgling. the wet, awful sounds of men dying.

and when at last the noise ebbed, when silence returned but for his own trembling breath, he opened his eyes again.

one of the figures wrenched his fangs free from a man’s neck, spitting the blood to the floor with a wet tsk. he grimaced, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“tastes foul as always,” he muttered. his voice was low, rough with disdain. “humans never change, do they?”

zayne stared. his chest heaved. and then—he noticed it.

a difference.

no, not small. a vast, terrifying difference.

when the red door had opened, they’d looked like corpses—skin paper-thin and stretched taut, wrinkled like parchment, their frames hollow with age. but now, after that bloodshed… their faces seemed fuller. flesh knitting, smoothing. their eyes sharper, brighter.

they were no longer monsters in decay. they were men.

men zayne had seen before.

his heart lurched violently as recognition struck. it was them. the same faces in the family album. unchanged, unaging, preserved by some nightmare pact.

he wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t. the truth stood right in front of him, staring back with crimson hunger.

“well,” the silver-haired one drawled at last, stepping forward. his lips curled into a smirk, his presence too big for the room. “at the very least, we do have something good here.”

zayne’s stomach twisted. he didn’t need them to say it. he knew.

they were talking about him.

his throat felt dry, but he forced his voice out, trembling yet steady.

“you will not kill me.”

the words surprised even himself. a boy of ten, pale from blood loss, from chaos, from watching men torn apart like cattle—and still, he gave an order. his fists clenched. his jaw set.

one of them chuckled darkly. “i don’t think you understand the position you’re in, child.”

“your family owes us,” another intoned, voice deep and resonant, like an organ’s note in a ruined cathedral. “and you will pay the price.”

the silver-haired one tilted his head, his smile sharper now. “but to think they would go as far as sealing us away…” his tongue clicked against his teeth, almost admiring. “bold. i’ll give them that. foolish, but bold.”

"to think they could outrun their debts to the devil."

the others hissed in agreement, the air charged with restrained fury.

he leaned closer, the ends of his hair brushing zayne’s trembling hands.

“and so, the payment has changed. tenfold, for the insult.”

they prowled closer, hunger thickening the air. every step echoed like a drumbeat in zayne’s chest. he could feel their gazes peel his skin back, strip him to the marrow, tasting him before they’d even bitten.

he should have fainted. he should have screamed. but the words left him instead, steady and defiant.

“but i’m the heir now, aren’t i? which means i’m your master. you can’t kill me. and you can’t break your word without breaking yourselves.”

the silver-haired one tilted his head, eyes glowing like twin lanterns in the dark. his smile was sharp, curious. “you sound quite sure of that, little master. what makes you think the bindings of men still matter to us?”

“they do,” zayne whispered. his hands shook, his knees were weak, but his words gained weight, pressing forward past the fear coiling in his chest. “otherwise… you’d have torn me apart already.”

the air shifted. tension twisted into something heavier.

from the corner, another voice slid out—smooth, almost playful, yet steeped in menace. “you are but a child. we're not so cruel as those men to blindly kill.” he stepped forward, lips curling with mirth. “besides—” his smile widened, fangs flashing, “what makes you think one small pain could faze us? i could rip out your throat right here and now, and what of it?”

zayne’s blood turned to ice, but still he persisted.

“you need my blood,” he said. the words tasted foreign on his tongue, surreal, as though he were speaking about someone else. “but the way i am now… surely it wouldn’t be enough.”

it felt strange—wrong—to talk about himself like food. like wine waiting to be drunk. but he forced the words anyway.

“protect me,” he said, “and i will give you my blood in exchange.”

a laugh cut the air, sharp and derisive. one of them sneered. “ha. treating us like your dogs? one good deed, and you’ll reward us with scraps?” his tone dripped with mockery, but his eyes burned hotter, betraying hunger barely leashed.

“my life,” zayne breathed. the words nearly stuck in his throat, but he forced them out, each syllable trembling yet resolute. “i will give it to you. if you keep me alive… until all threats are gone. until i am truly safe.”

his fists clenched. his chest heaved. “then… you can have my life.”

for a heartbeat, silence swallowed the basement.

and then, laughter rippled again—this time from more than one throat. not loud, but low and entertained. a sound that made zayne’s skin crawl and his stomach twist.

the silver-haired vampire leaned closer, lips curling in a slow smirk. his voice brushed zayne’s ear like silk laced with blades.

“clever little heir. very clever. perhaps the li's blood runs true after all.”

another voice added, smoother, tinged with almost teasing curiosity: “he bargains like he’s centuries old. adorable.”

a third exhaled sharply, almost a scoff. “or reckless. a mortal child daring to measure worth with us?”

yet none of them touched him. none of them fed.

and zayne, shaking, bleeding, terrified—realized that in this moment, in this darkness, his defiance was the only thing keeping him alive.

“very well,” the silver-haired one said at last, his words like velvet dragged over steel. “you’ll live. for now. but understand this—your blood is no longer yours. it is ours. every drop you shed belongs to us.”

the others loomed behind him, silent shadows with eyes that gleamed like coals. zayne could feel their hunger ripple through the air, the way their gaze clung to him like invisible chains.

“then… keep me alive. no matter what.”

his chest heaved, each breath shallow and trembling. for a moment, he thought they might laugh again—or worse, simply tear into him and prove his defiance useless.

but no laughter came this time.

only a slow, deliberate stillness.

“brave words for one so small,” the vampire murmured. his smile was sharp, but there was something else beneath it now. curiosity. intrigue. perhaps even interest.

zayne shut his eyes for a moment, exhaling shakily. he’d bought his life—not through strength, not through cunning, but with the only coin he had.

his blood. his body. his eventual death.

and the devils had agreed.

the basement air seemed heavier, thick with the weight of the pact rekindled. the chains that once bound the four no longer rattled—they lay slack and useless, like old toys discarded by children. whatever his father had sealed away, zayne had set free again.

he was ten years old today, but it felt as though he had aged decades in a single night. childhood had been ripped from him as cleanly as the men upstairs had ripped away his family.

“happy birthday, dear master.”

black umbrellas bloomed like dark flowers against the gray sky as the drizzle turned steadier, soaking into the earth. the priest’s voice rose and fell, solemn and distant, but zayne barely heard a word of it. his eyes stayed fixed on the coffin lowered into the hole, its polished wood already freckled with raindrops.

white lilies and roses lay scattered over it, their colors dulled by the weather. he remembered placing his flower in silence, his hand trembling as he let it fall onto the lid where his mother and father now rested.

around him, people sniffled, muttered prayers, whispered things they thought he was too far away to hear.

“the li family curse is up again, i see…”

“tragic, truly tragic… but wasn’t it bound to happen?”

he shut his ears to them, jaw tight. he would cry, yes—he already had. by their bedsides when the coroner confirmed what his heart already knew. by dr. noah’s side before they took his body away. by the kennel where he buried his dog with clumsy, bloodied hands. he had no tears left to spare for strangers’ gossip.

“may their souls rest in peace.”

“amen.”

he echoed it with the others, his voice small but steady.

when he looked up at the circle of black-clad figures around him, all he saw were faces blurred by rain and grief. faces that pitied him. faces that whispered.

and then, subtly, as though by instinct, his gaze shifted over his shoulder.

there they were.

four men, standing a little apart from the crowd, their posture immaculate even in the rain. their hair was shorn short, their suits tailored to perfection. to anyone else, they looked like dutiful butlers paying respect to their late masters. but zayne knew better. he knew the weight of their stares, the quiet hunger barely masked behind civility.

still the same. still here.

sylus caught his gaze, his face softening. he offered zayne the smallest of smiles—gentle, unthreatening, almost human.

zayne turned back quickly, unnerved, heart thudding. the priest’s prayer ended. the first shovelful of dirt hit the coffin with a dull thud, followed by another, and another.

his lips pressed together, and he stood frozen as the coffin was slowly buried from sight. with each layer of earth, a piece of his world vanished with it.

when the final prayer was spoken and umbrellas began to drift away, zayne remained, watching until there was nothing left to see.

and yet, behind him, the four shadows did not leave.

they waited. always waiting.

the cemetery was emptying, the priest’s voice now a faint murmur to another grieving family, the patter of rain steady against his umbrella. but zayne hadn’t moved. his shoes were sinking into the wet earth, his fingers stiff around the wooden handle.

it wasn’t until the air shifted—heavier, denser—that he realized they’d drawn close.

four tall figures closed in, surrounding him in silence. he didn’t have to look up to know. their shadows fell long and sharp over his frame, cutting him off from the gray light of the world beyond.

it felt like standing inside walls.

as if they were building him a cage without bars.

zayne’s throat tightened, but he kept his gaze fixed on nothing. the dirt-covered ground blurred before his eyes.

“shall we return now, master?”

the voice was low, smooth, deceptively polite. a butler’s tone, but under it something deeper—something that hummed with old hunger and patient possession.

zayne’s lips parted, but no words came. he hummed instead, a small sound—half acknowledgment, half surrender.

the rain pressed harder, dripping off the edges of their umbrellas.

he thought of the coffin being lowered, swallowed by earth, and wondered if he’d just been lowered into his own grave as well. buried not in dirt, but in their shadows.

still, when the silver-haired one stepped a fraction closer, offering the barest tilt of his umbrella to shield him from the rain, zayne did not flinch.

he simply stood, small and silent, between the monsters who called him master.

he realized the word was nothing like power.

it felt more like a sentence.

because now, they weren’t just his family’s curse.

they were his.

Chapter Text

zayne never asked for their names.

to call something by name was to accept it, and he refused. the four of them remained butlers to him, shadows that wore faces. strangers who stood too close. strangers who breathed too softly, moved too quietly, looked at him with eyes that were not human.

even after a year, he hadn’t come to terms with his family’s deaths. the image was seared into him — his father's cold eyes, his mother’s pale face, noah’s bloodied hand shoving him out of the way.

“the sons will bear the sins of his fathers. young master, it just so happens that you are the fruit of their labor. unripe… but you will be.”

one of them had told him. a half-truth, a cruelty veiled in pity.

unripe. as though he were some fruit to be harvested.

he’d snapped at them more than once. yelled at them, even, in his most fragile moments. blamed them for his parents’ deaths. it was all he could do to keep his sanity intact. but it was like they always had an answer. always a way to remind him of how helpless he truly was.

 “was it our fangs that tore their throats out?” another voice, smooth, deep, amused. "don't be disillusioned, child. they died only because they wanted to get rid of the contract. of us. humans get comfortable way too fast with peace that they'll selfishly throw away the one that gave it to them. look where that got them?"

the smile that followed made zayne’s stomach turn.

"in their graves. if anything, isn’t it your fault for being the one with blood that sings? sealing us away all so they can protect you.”

blood that sings.

zayne didn’t want to think about that. didn’t want to think about what they meant, about what his blood really was to them, what it meant for him to be alive at all.

“i didn’t ask for this,” he wanted to scream.

but zayne knew they would have an answer for that too. they always did.

and now he wished, more than anything, that he had been taken.

wished the bullet had found him that night.

at least then, he’d be with them.

at least then, he wouldn’t be here.

he would lie awake staring at the canopy of his bed, a hollow ache gnawing at his ribs.

why had noah wanted him to live? what was the point of it? to carry this silence? to be haunted in every hallway, every mirror?

the manor had become unbearable. he couldn’t walk to the library without catching one of their faces reflected in the window glass. couldn’t eat without feeling their gazes at his back, as though waiting for him to break. so he stayed in his room, days blurring together in pages and blankets.

reading, sleeping, pretending.

if he tried hard enough, maybe they would vanish. maybe he could will them away. bore them until they left. that he's worth nothing of entertainment. amusement.

but they didn’t. they never did.

they lingered.

they were always there.

so when the clock struck twelve and the first moment of his eleventh birthday arrived — a day that was supposed to mean cake, music, his mother’s soft hand on his cheek — zayne slipped from his bed instead.

he ran.

he ran down the manor’s staircases, silent as he could, past portraits that seemed to watch him. he ran through the back door, the grass wet against his bare feet, pajamas clinging to his legs.

into the woods.

the forest swallowed him whole. branches clawed at his arms, damp earth sucked at his heels, the moonlight cut in sharp slivers through the canopy. his breath burned but he didn’t care.

he just wanted to leave.

he wanted to outrun the faces, the whispers, the house that felt like a coffin.

for one reckless, breathless moment, zayne thought he could.

he only stopped when the woods pressed close on all sides and he realized he couldn’t hear the manor anymore, couldn’t even see the faint glow of its windows behind the trees.

lost.

the word should have filled him with dread, but instead there was… nothing. no fear. no panic. only stillness, the kind that pressed against his chest like a hand.

maybe this was peace.

his feet were bleeding, but he didn’t care. the hems of his pajama pants were torn and clung to his scraped shins, but he didn’t mind. all of it — the pain, the chill, the dirt streaking his skin — felt distant, dulled.

he crouched in the undergrowth and drew in a shuddering breath. the cold night air fogged from his lips, curling like smoke.

he had never been this deep into the forest before. when he was younger, he’d only gone as far as the meadows with his dog. a clever creature, sharp-eared and loyal, always trotting ahead of him and always — always — finding the way home before the dark fell. zayne used to think the dog knew every path, every hidden bend in the trees.

now there was only silence.

his dog was gone. his family was gone.

everything was gone.

zayne hugged his knees to his chest, the way he had when he was smaller, when thunderstorms rattled the windows and he would bury his face in his mother’s skirts until the thunder passed. only now there was no one to run to. just the stillness of the woods. just the whisper of wind through the branches above.

his chest ached with the weight of it.

zayne pressed his forehead to his knees, closing his eyes. if he stayed still enough, maybe he’d vanish into the earth. maybe the forest would swallow him whole, and he’d never have to go back.

maybe then, he wouldn’t be so unbearably alone...

then a twig snapped.

the sound was sharp, deliberate. not the aimless fall of a branch, not the scurry of a rabbit. it was heavier. closer.

zayne froze, his small hands curling into fists against his legs.

another step. the crunch of leaves, slow, unhurried.

and then — the sensation. that weight. a suffocating pressure creeping into his lungs, pressing against his skin like invisible hands. it was cold, suffocating, wrong.

something's here.

zayne’s heart thrashed against his ribs. he wanted to scream, but before he could—

a bark.

the sound split the night. bright. familiar.

zayne’s head snapped up, his heart lurching. he knew that bark. every part of him knew it. he had buried that sound in the garden with trembling hands and tear-blurred eyes.

it wasn’t possible.

and yet—

“fipronil?” his voice was small, raw. a child’s prayer more than a call.

zayne scrambled up, breath fogging in the cold. his chest squeezed with something between terror and hope, too tangled to pull apart.

the barking came again — but this time farther. moving. urging.

as if it wanted him to follow.

zayne didn’t think. couldn’t. logic and common sense cracked under the weight of yearning. he needed it to be real. needed to see those bright eyes, feel that warm fur against his hands, even if only once more.

“wait! wait for me!” he gasped, his voice breaking as he ran, tears stinging his eyes.

the barking echoed through the trees, always just far enough ahead, always slipping from reach.

but zayne chased anyway. because if he stopped, if he let himself doubt for even a moment, he would shatter.

all that mattered was the sound. the voice of his past, of loyalty, of love. if there was even the smallest chance — even the faintest miracle — that fipronil was alive, zayne would chase it until his body gave out.

mother said god was loving. if that was true, surely… surely he would give something back. at least one thing. at least his dog.

“fipronil! come back!” zayne cried, his voice cracking, carrying across the trees. his small figure darted along the narrowing path, swallowed by shadows, chasing hope with every ragged breath.

the barking grew louder, louder still — until suddenly, the forest opened.

a clearing.

a lake lay before him, vast and black as a mirror of ink. moonlight cut across its surface in silver streaks. zayne stopped, chest heaving, his nightclothes clinging damp to his skin.

had this always been here? he wasn’t sure. he had never seen it before, not in all his wanderings with fipronil. but the sound had led him here — and now the barking was gone.

vanished.

“fipronil?” his voice trembled, small against the silence.

no answer.

but there was a loud splash.

zayne turned toward the sound. he caught the last ripples scattering across the lake, the moonlight breaking on the water’s churn.

and a faint, unmistakable whimper.

his stomach dropped. his chest squeezed.

“...no,” he whispered, already stumbling forward, stumbling faster, the desperation breaking loose in him. “no, no, no—fipronil!”

he reached the water’s edge, nearly falling to his knees, and crouched low, his face close to the surface. his breath fogged and drifted over the rippling silver, his reflection shivering back at him.

“fipronil, where are you? you can swim, boy. you’re a good swimmer, you’re—” his words tumbled out, frantic, uneven. his eyes darted across the water, searching, begging.

but the lake gave him nothing.

no thrashing paws. no familiar shape rising to meet him.

only ripples fading. only silence.

zayne’s throat tightened as panic swelled, hotter and sharper than before. he pressed closer, his small hands gripping the damp earth at the edge. “please… please, come back…” his voice cracked into a sob.

then something stirred beneath the water.

a shadow. large. slow. rising.

closer.

at first, zayne thought it was him.

he saw fipronil’s face breaking the surface, water dripping down his dark fur, eyes shining with the same warm light that had once guided him home. his chest leapt with relief, a sob catching in his throat.

but then the moonlight shifted.

and zayne’s heart stopped.

the dog’s face was wrong. half-rotted. matted with mud. its mouth hung slack, and the water lapped against teeth too white in the dark. it was the exact same state zayne had buried him in, a year ago.

and there was no body.

only the head, bobbing grotesquely on the surface, like a nightmare given form.

“fi… fi—fipro—” zayne stuttered, the word strangled in his throat. his body locked, his knees pressing into the damp earth as though the ground itself pinned him there. he couldn’t move, couldn’t look away.

the water stirred again.

more shapes floated forward, pale in the silver light. first one, then another, then another. faces he knew better than his own.

mother.

father.

noah.

their skin was ashen, waterlogged, their eyes shut as though asleep. drifting. waiting.

zayne’s breath shattered into short, shallow gasps. his chest heaved like he couldn’t find enough air.

cold.

something slick, icy, slid around his wrist.

zayne flinched violently, finally tearing a sound from his throat — a broken, ragged cry — but it was too late. the grip tightened, impossibly strong, yanking him forward. his small body pitched into the lake, swallowed whole in an instant.

the water hit like knives. freezing, crushing, filling his mouth and nose. the world above shattered into ripples as he plunged down, down, deeper, his arms flailing in useless bursts of panic.

no, no, no—!

the faces surrounded him in the dark water. they drifted closer, their limbs limp, their mouths parting as though to speak—

and all the while, that hand on his wrist dragged him further into the black, down where the moonlight couldn’t follow.

zayne’s chest convulsed. his lungs screamed. his whole body trembled with the need to breathe—yet to open his mouth would mean death.

and through the murk, she appeared.

his mother.

her hair floated around her, pale hands cupping his small, frozen face with impossible gentleness. and behind him, his father’s palm pressed against the back of his nape, steady, grounding. just like he always does when zayne gets scared meeting new people.

zayne wanted to believe it's them. so badly it hurt.

“shh, my love,” his mother’s voice cooed, distorted through the water like sound carried through glass. her hands cradled his cheeks with a gentleness that betrayed the claws sinking into his skin. “it’s all right now. we’re together again. no more loneliness. no more nights crying.”

her touch was too smooth. too cold.

“my sweet, sweet zayne…” she whispered. the sound was soft, muffled by water, yet somehow clear inside his head. “shall we go back home now?”

then her eyes opened wide, milky and wrong, as her lips split into a grin far too wide. “just one kiss, darling…”

“yes. a kiss, and you’ll stay with us. forever.” his father’s voice called. it didn’t come from the lips inches from zayne’s ear, but everywhere at once, echoing through the water. blurry, hollow. “come now, son. give your mother…”

the words fractured, the warmth collapsing.

their faces changed.

skin draining to corpse-white. hair sloughing away in strands. their ears stretching sharp into points. their mouths splitting wider, too wide, revealing rows of gleaming fangs.

“…a kiss.”

terror broke him. zayne thrashed violently, bubbles streaming from his mouth in a strangled cry. pain lanced his wrists where their fingers clamped too tightly, bruising, unyielding. their nails scraped, cutting skin.

the false mother leaned in, her teeth so close he swore he felt their needle-points against his cheek—

the water rippled.

not softly. not like rain. but violently, parted by force.

from above, something descended—a flicker of light that cut through the suffocating dark.

a tail. scaled in hues of sapphire and violet, iridescent as moonlight on glass, each fin flowing like silk in the current. its beauty was otherworldly, out of place in this nightmare.

attached to it—an elegant figure, gliding down through the water with ease, like the lake itself bent to his will. long hair fanned out behind him, strands of lavender and silver shifting like smoke.

and his eyes.

red.

the same red as back in the basement.

but there was no hunger in his gaze—only command.

with a single motion, swift as lightning, his hand carved through the water.

the false parents froze. for a heartbeat, their twisted faces flickered with surprise.

slash.

their heads were severed cleanly. no blood clouded the water, no gore—only the grotesque smoothness of the cut, as if their very forms had been illusions shattered by his strike. their bodies dissolved into shadow, fragments dispersing into the dark.

the pressure on zayne’s limbs vanished instantly.

he floated, gasping silently, lungs burning, chest heaving as though the water itself had turned solid inside him.

the figure hovered in front of him now, fins drifting lazily in the current, hair framing a pale, beautiful face that seemed sculpted from marble.

but it was the eyes that held him captive. crimson and bright, blazing even through the dark waters.

and the new figure’s touch, when it finally curled against him, was cold, yes—but not crushing. not cruel.

zayne’s chest convulsed. he couldn’t hold it anymore—his mouth opened, the water rushed in. he choked. darkness clawed at the edges of his sight. all he could do was stare as the tail coiled, strong and graceful, propelling them both upward toward the surface.

up.

up.

until light broke over his face again, and air clawed into his lungs with a ragged, shuddering gasp.

the lake churned behind him, lavender hair spilling across the water like ink.

zayne doubled over, palms pressing into the dirt as he hacked water out of his lungs. each cough felt like needles tearing through his throat, but at least he could breathe again. at least the air, sharp and cold as it was, filled him.

his limbs shook. his clothes soaked and heavy, plastered to his skin. the ground beneath him seemed to tilt, sway, like he might topple back into the lake if he dared close his eyes.

behind him came the sound of water stirring, languid, unhurried. he was half-draped over the bank, his scaled tail lazily sweeping in and out of the lake. droplets ran off his fins like liquid diamonds. he looked untouched by what had just happened—composed, almost mocking, as if he had pulled zayne out from nothing more than a puddle.

“mm. what a mess you’ve made of yourself, little master,” he drawled, his voice rich with a dark sort of amusement. “drowning on your birthday? how tragic.”

zayne said nothing. he couldn’t. his jaw clenched, his teeth chattered from the cold, from the leftover terror still crawling beneath his skin. his eyes—too wide, unfocused—saw again and again the pale faces of his mother, his father, noah. their hands on him. their voices coaxing him closer.

he flinched when something heavy settled around his shoulders. the man had taken up his discarded coat, shaking it once before draping it over zayne’s trembling frame.

he gave a sharp click of his tongue. “didn't anyone teach you not to chase after things so carelessly?” his tone was almost scolding, though it carried no real heat. he leaned back on his elbows, as if they were merely talking in the comfort of the manor’s drawing room. “we indulged in your little rebellious act, but to think you’d get yourself almost killed that fast…”

the words went on—zayne could see his lips moving—but he wasn’t listening. the sound blurred, like echoes underwater.

mother.

the image of her lingered. hands that should have been warm and gentle pressing his face into the dark. teeth where her smile should be.

that wasn’t her. it wasn’t them. just monsters. just another trick. he knew that.

and yet…

if they had been here—if by some cruel miracle he could see them again—would they have hated him? for surviving where they hadn’t? for not saving them?

zayne’s small fists balled tighter in the coat’s fabric. he bit down until his teeth ached, until his jaw shook with the effort.

why him?

why did he have to be the one they were waiting for?

the lake whispered behind them, the world quiet except for zayne’s uneven breathing.

and then the man stopped. his voice cut off mid-sentence. his eyes narrowed as he studied the boy.

he was used to this manor ringing with grief, with hatred, with the ceaseless noise of human emotion. but the child before him now—hollow-eyed, shivering, refusing even to cry—was something else entirely. a void.

he exhaled through his nose, a sound of mild annoyance that concealed something else. with a flick of his tail, water splashed upward, sprinkling over zayne’s hair and face in a cool mist.

the boy blinked sharply, startled out of his trance, his head jerking up.

the other leaned closer, his wet hair brushing the grass, his expression unreadable. his voice, when it came, was softer, lower, thrumming against the air with a weight that was almost hypnotic.

“keep your eyes on me now, young master,” he murmured. the command was quiet, absolute. “you’re not allowed to think about anything else but your dear servant who just saved you.”

the red of his gaze filled zayne’s vision, vivid and inescapable.

zayne’s lashes fluttered, heavy, his vision clouding at the edges. he blinked once, twice, then let his gaze fall—not to the red eyes, but to the shifting shimmer of his tail.

it caught the moonlight with every lazy sweep, throwing silver-blue patterns across the rippling water. like glass. like gemstones. too beautiful, too unreal.

the reflections danced across zayne’s pale face, and for the first time that night, his expression eased. his breathing slowed, softening into a fragile rhythm.

the coat hung loose around his small shoulders, swallowing him whole. he nestled into its weight as though it were a shield, his eyes narrowing to sleepy slits.

“like my tail that much?” he murmured, voice lilting, tilted with sarcasm. his head cocked, his wet hair spilling down in lavender strands that clung to his cheekbones. “you’re no different than an infant with a toy.”

the words slid across the boy’s ears, but zayne gave no sign of hearing. his tired eyes stayed fixed on the swaying, curling fins, following their rhythm as though it were a lullaby.

the man's lips curved faintly, though whether it was in disdain or amusement, not even he could tell. “the least you could do,” he drawled, “is thank me properly.” a pause, then a sharp, dismissive scoff. “ungrateful little master.”

zayne’s lashes sank the rest of the way. the world dulled. his limbs grew too heavy to move. sleep tugged at him relentlessly, wrapping him in its grasp despite his weak attempt to fight it.

just before his consciousness slipped, he caught the faintest sound, low and close, like the pull of the tide.

“remember my name,” he said, his tone edged with a warning, almost playful, almost dangerous. “or else you’ll regret it.”

the name carried him down into the dark, etched against the inside of his mind like fire.

rafayel.

and with only that name left behind, zayne slept. no dreams, no shadows, no family calling him back.

just silence.

and for once, silence was a mercy.

the first thing zayne noticed when his eyes cracked open was the heaviness in his body. every joint ached, every muscle groaned in protest when he shifted against the sheets. his throat burned raw, and his feet throbbed in dull waves of pain.

but someone had tended to him.

his legs were propped slightly on a cushion, both feet wrapped in thick layers of gauze that swallowed his ankles whole. the dressing was sloppy, uneven, wound far tighter than it should’ve been. whoever had done it wasn’t careful—or wasn’t skilled. a patchwork job. zayne stared at it for a long moment, his lips pressing thin.

he could’ve done better himself.

he eased upright slowly, biting back the hiss that threatened to escape when his ribs pulled tight. the room swayed faintly, but it was his room. his bed. his desk. the familiar, heavy curtains pulled almost shut against the morning light. for a moment he wondered if it had all been a fever dream.

and then he saw the coat.

it hung over the back of his desk chair, neatly placed, black fabric, still faintly damp at the hems. the coat he’d been draped in by that man—that creature—by the lake.

zayne’s stomach turned. he hadn’t carried it back. he hadn’t carried anything back.

before he could think too much, something sharp glinted in his peripheral. a stray shard of sunlight had found its way through the curtain gap, reflecting off something on his night table.

he squinted, lifting a hand to shield his eyes, then followed the light.

there, resting as casually as if it had always belonged in his room, was a single scale. no bigger than a flower petal, its edges delicate, razor-thin. iridescent—blue, violet, green—its sheen shifted with every tilt of the light, a prism of waterborne colors that danced across the table’s dark wood.

zayne froze. his throat went tight.

rafayel. don't forget it, young master.

his hand twitched toward it, almost of its own accord. he wanted to touch it, to feel its texture, to confirm it was real and not some cruel trick his exhausted mind had conjured. his fingers hovered an inch above it, trembling slightly.

and then, with a small, strangled sound, he withdrew. his hand fell limp against his sheets. he turned sharply away, pulling the blanket back over his shoulders, curling into its hollow like a child warding off the dark.

he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the image away.

he didn’t want it. didn’t want the coat. didn’t want the proof of last night sitting so brazenly beside his bed.

“i’ll throw it away…” his voice cracked into the empty room, the words barely above a whisper. “…tomorrow.”

but tomorrow suddenly felt very far away.

Chapter Text

zayne stopped running.

not because he’d grown comfortable, not because he trusted them—but because he finally understood there was nowhere else to go. beyond the manor walls lurked worse things. creatures that could wear his mother’s face and pull him under the lake, monsters that whispered in voices too familiar. he hadn’t forgotten.

so he chose to stay where the monsters he knew already lingered. at least they weren’t preying on him outright. at least, in their twisted way, they were bound to him. zayne wasn’t naïve—he was certain if he tried to slip past the gates again, he’d barely make it three steps before one of them found him.

instead, he wandered the gardens.

it was safer there. especially in daylight. he'd made his own little research about the men who lived in the manor with him. that they hated the sun. they wither under it. so zayne kept to the gravel paths, the trimmed hedges, the patches of earth his mother had once coaxed into bursts of color.

his hand brushed along the shrubbery as he walked, fingertips grazing over the rough leaves, the scent of earth heavy in the morning air. the flowers were in bloom, but they felt… quieter somehow. he crouched to look at a cluster of lilies, pale white heads nodding in the breeze.

he remembered his mother kneeling in the soil beside him, hands dirty, laughter soft. she had loved planting rare flowers, ones she had imported from faraway lands. tulips from holland, peonies from china, orchids from the tropics. she always smiled when they thrived, sighed gently when they withered.

“it’s all right,” she’d told him once, smoothing his hair back. “we can’t force them out of their comfort zone. some things can only grow where they belong.”

he knelt down, brushing dirt off a wilted petal. her words stung now. a cruel echo of something he couldn’t have back.

the manor was quieter than ever these days. too quiet. a silence that used to be suffocating, now stretched out like an old scar.

no ambushes. no sudden threats in the night.

he half wondered if the others out there—the ones who preyed on humans, who made monsters of them—had truly given up. but deep down, he knew it was the work of his “butlers.” the four who lingered like shadows at the edges of his life, unseen until they wanted to be.

he didn’t want to admit he owed them for it. today, of all days, he hated the reminder.

twelve.

a new year.

it didn’t feel like anything. not a celebration, not a milestone. just another reminder—another year without them, another year of walking to the cemetery with a bouquet of jasmines cradled in his arms. another year of setting them gently against cold stone and whispering nothing at all. he would’ve liked to linger there, sit on the damp earth and talk to them, but he couldn’t.

because he was never alone.

one of them always came with him.

and as with every visit, it was the grey-brown haired one. the quiet one. the one who kept to zayne’s side without saying a word. zayne lets him only because silence was the easiest to endure. no taunting smirks like the silver-haired one, no intrusive lectures like the purple-haired one, no uncanny stares like the brown-haired one.

just… quiet.

zayne hated that it made sense.

even so, when they stood before the graves, the figure’s shadow falling long beside him, zayne gritted his teeth. his hand tightened around the jasmines, knuckles white, as though the stems were the only tether left keeping him upright.

“don’t… follow me all the way in,” he muttered under his breath, not even looking up. “just stay there.”

the vampire said nothing.

and that silence, heavy as it was, felt like the only kind of mercy zayne could get.

zayne’s steps slowed, his gaze lifting from the flowers to the manor looming in the distance. the windows glinted in the sunlight, cold and dark, like the eyes of something vast and watching.

another year. another birthday. another reminder that he lived not in a home, but in a cage carefully tended by monsters who thought themselves his keepers.

he drew in a steady breath and let it out, the jasmine’s faint perfume still clinging to his fingertips.

for now, at least, he could pretend the garden was his.

almost.

“mm?”

the sound was soft, almost careless, but it jolted through zayne like a thunderclap. his head snapped upward.

hair caught the sunlight, glinting faintly, though the eyes beneath were not the cruel red that haunted his nightmares. they were a deep blue, half-lidded, as though he’d only just stirred from sleep.

the figure leaned lazily against the high hedge, peering over its green crown. in his hand, incongruous and strange, rested a pair of garden shears.

zayne froze. his pulse skipped. they weren't supposed to be out here at this hour... and yet this one stood unbothered, the light touching him without so much as a wince.

the vampire tilted his head, his voice quiet, neutral, without a ripple of emotion.

“why are you here?”

the question landed like a stone in still water. not accusatory, not curious. just flat, as though the boy’s presence in his own garden was something odd, something needing justification.

“…i live here,” zayne said.

for the briefest moment, those blue eyes blinked—slowly, languidly—as though weighing that answer.

“not running away again?” he murmured.

zayne flinched at the words. he pressed his lips together, gaze turning away, refusing to give the satisfaction of a reply.

the vampire let out a faint huff, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. then, without another word, he straightened and stepped back behind the hedge, moving with that slow, unhurried grace that all of them seemed to share.

shears glinted once in the light. snip. a few petals floated gently to the soil. snip.

zayne blinked, frowning faintly.

this one always been different. the others carried weight when they entered a room—like a storm you couldn’t escape. but him? sometimes it felt like he wasn’t even there. a shadow without sharp edges. a ghost that forgot how to haunt.

zayne should’ve walked away. should’ve returned to the safety of the path, the hedges that marked the garden’s end. but his feet stayed put. his eyes followed.

quiet as his small body allowed, zayne drifted a few paces closer. he peeked around the hedge corner, watching.

the vampire moved among the plants, almost absentminded but never careless. his long fingers brushed gently over leaves, lifting a stem here, adjusting a branch there, before the shears snipped with clean cuts. the movements weren’t rehearsed—not the way his mother had taught zayne to garden, with patience and rules—but fluid, natural, as though the plants themselves were guiding him.

zayne’s brows knit tighter as he watched a rosebush yield beneath those pale hands. the vampire didn’t flinch at the thorns. didn’t rush. he cleared away the dead blossoms, pruned the branches with steady rhythm, stepping back to observe, then leaning in again.

he’s… good at it.

the thought unsettled him. monsters weren’t supposed to be good at things like this. they weren’t supposed to kneel in the dirt and handle flowers as if they mattered.

monsters killed. monsters destroyed.

yet here one was, humming faintly under his breath—some tuneless note that floated like the wind—as he clipped away wilted leaves.

zayne’s small hands clenched at his sides. he couldn’t tell if he was annoyed, or confused, or… something else.

still, he kept following.

his shoes pressed softly, every step a careful attempt at silence. whenever the shears clicked, zayne used the sound as cover to creep one pace closer. his gaze never left the vampire’s hands.

snip. snip.

the shears gleamed again, sharp and final. then—without turning his head—the vampire spoke.

“…are you going to keep hiding back there?”

zayne froze, his blood running cold.

“i wasn’t hiding,” he snapped before he could stop himself.

one pale brow lifted slightly, he tilted his chin over his shoulder.

“no?” the vampire’s voice was flat, but a faint hum of amusement threaded beneath it. “then what do you call… skulking from hedge to hedge?”

heat crept up zayne’s neck before he could stop it. “i was just… watching.”

the silence stretched, so heavy that his skin prickled.

the man finally set down the shears, brushing stray bits of stem from his hands. his gaze didn’t waver, though his tone stayed mild.

“curious little master.”

zayne’s stomach turned at the word. he wanted to argue, to insist he wasn’t curious about him, that he was only making sure this one wasn’t plotting anything. but the words stuck like thorns in his throat.

instead, he looked away, muttering, “you’re supposed to hate the sun.”

the man blinked once, then glanced skyward at the warm light filtering through the hedges. his lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite mockery.

“…i’m used to it.”

and with that, he bent down again, resuming his quiet work among the flowers, as if zayne’s presence didn’t matter at all.

“then… what about the others?” zayne blurted, the words tumbling past his lips before his mind could stop them. his chest tightened instantly, like he’d just thrown himself into a pit he couldn’t climb out of. “are they the same?”

he regretted asking right away. for he hoped not. if all of them could walk under the sun so freely, if they could stalk the garden paths in broad daylight, then… where would he ever be safe?

“no.” his voice was quiet, almost distracted, as his hand moved to pluck a withered leaf from a stem. a faint hum left him, as though considering the question further. “…maybe.”

“…what does that mean?” zayne demanded, irritation sharpening the edges of his small voice.

the butler shrugged without looking back. “the sun is irritating to them, but does no harm. i come from a kingdom where light is a constant thing. so i am used to it.”

zayne’s frown deepened. a kingdom? his gaze lingered on the vampire’s back. people didn’t speak that way anymore. not even the oldest books in his father’s library had used “kingdom” outside of fairy tales.

“you are royalty then?” the question slipped out before he could think better of it.

the shears stilled midair. the pause stretched, taut and brittle, until zayne’s heart began to pound against his ribs. he swallowed hard, his throat dry. for a moment he was certain he’d made a mistake—that this was it, that one wrong word would cost him his throat.

but then, slowly, the shears moved again. snip. snip. the vampire carried on as though nothing at all had happened.

“you can say that.”

the answer was vague. too vague. but zayne wasn’t stupid—he caught the deliberate sidestep. he’d touched something raw, something the vampire didn’t want touched.

zayne’s lips pressed into a thin line. he wanted to ask more—what kingdom? what happened? what are you hiding?—but the heavy weight in the air pressed down on him, warning him to keep his tongue still.

instead, he stood there, watching the slow rhythm of shears, the pale hands moving like they belonged more to a scholar than a killer.

deciding it wasn’t his business to pry, zayne turned away. he let his feet carry him down the garden paths, past beds of flowers in neat rows, past the careful hedges.

the blooms were thriving, despite the absence of the hands that once tended them.

despite mother no longer being here.

zayne slowed. his lips pressed thin. so then… was it that man?

the thought twisted in his chest. he wasn’t sure how to feel about it, wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be grateful or angry. if it was his work, then every blossom was an intrusion, proof that even here, in the garden where he once belonged, these creatures were digging their claws in.

but then—he stopped.

white roses.

his eyes widened. rows of them, young but alive, pale buds waiting to unfurl.

mother had sighed about them once—he remembered it clearly. how they had withered year after year, how father had suggested giving up on them. “we should stop buying roses, darling. perhaps they are not meant for our soil.”

but now, here they were.

zayne crouched down, gaze fixed on the fragile blooms. his chest loosened a fraction. he smiled—just a small, fleeting thing, but it broke through. she would have been happy. she would have smiled at this sight, clapped her hands softly and said it was a blessing.

and for a moment—just a moment—he could almost imagine her beside him.

“hey, did you care for these too—”

zayne turned, words tumbling out with a faint thread of warmth he hadn’t expected to feel. but his throat closed at the sight before him.

the man stood over the roses, his posture calm, indifferent. his pale fingers lingered around a stem, shears poised. then, without hesitation...

he clipped a bud that had only just begun to unfurl.

the soft snip cut straight into zayne’s chest.

“what are you doing?” his voice cracked. he darted forward, fingers clutching at the vampire’s coat, yanking with all the strength his slight frame could muster. “stop it!”

he looked down, startled not by the force—because there was none—but by the boy’s sudden flare of fury. zayne’s eyes blazed, cheeks flushed, his teeth bared like a cornered animal protecting something precious.

“they were just—just about to bloom!” zayne hissed, his throat burning with the words. “do you know how hard she tried? how many times she—”

his voice faltered, the memory tightening its claws around him. he swallowed hard, but didn’t let go of the coat.

the vampire regarded him in silence, his expression unreadable. the severed rose hung loosely between his fingers, white petals trembling against the faint breeze.

“they were weak,” the taller finally said, tone flat, almost clinical. “the buds wouldn’t have lasted. they were growing wrong.”

zayne’s hands trembled against the fabric, the explanation striking his ears like an insult. “then you should’ve let them try!”

the outburst hung in the garden, raw and sharp. for a boy who barely spoke, who held his grief locked in his chest like a tomb, the words were nearly violent in their release.

something flickered in those blue eyes—not amusement, not disdain. something harder to name.

zayne’s breathing hitched, anger and sorrow knotting together. his fists stayed clenched in the vampire’s coat as if daring him to strike back, daring him to rip away one more thing that belonged to his mother.

but he let the boy’s anger wash over him like water against stone. his gaze drifted back to the flower, and with a precise movement, he snipped off the brown edge of a wilting leaf from the stem.

“do you know why a gardener prunes?” he asked, not looking at zayne. “it isn’t cruelty. it’s mercy. what is cut makes way for what will live.”

zayne’s hand fell from his coat, fingers curling into fists at his side. “you don’t get to decide that. not after what you all did.”

he turned his head, eyes locking with the boy’s. they were calm, too calm, but not cruel—like a deep ocean tide that could swallow without malice.

“you’re right,” he said simply. “we’re no saints. not your guardians. not even your parents. but…” his voice dropped lower, quieter, almost an afterthought. “even devils know how to keep flowers alive.”

zayne’s jaw clenched. his vision blurred as heat stung behind his eyes.

“and if it doesn’t?”

“then you plant another.”

plant another.

as if his mother, his father, noah—everyone—could be uprooted and replaced like a dead flower.

“people aren’t flowers,” he spat, his voice breaking. “you can’t just replace them.”

the man stared, shears resting loosely in his grip. the sun caught on his hair, making him seem less like a man and more like a statue carved in cold light—ancient, unyielding.

“no,” he agreed finally, his voice quiet, flat as glass. “you can’t.”

the admission startled zayne, though it came without comfort. his gaze had drifted past the boy, fixed somewhere distant, somewhere he couldn’t follow.

“when the rot sets in,” he went on, almost to himself, “you cut it away. you endure the empty patch it leaves behind. and if the soil is kind… perhaps something will grow there again.”

he didn’t sound bored anymore. he sounded… tired. as though he’d lived with more empty patches than he could count.

zayne’s throat burned. he wanted to argue, to shout, to tell this monster he was wrong—that his parents weren’t rot, they were everything good, everything worth keeping. but the words stuck. his anger shook itself into silence, too heavy to carry.

he looked down at his hand.

“…i don’t want another,” he whispered at last.

the man glanced back at him, and for the first time, there was no amusement, no distance, no mask of indifference—only something faintly human, flickering behind those eyes.

“neither did i,” he said.

and just like that, the moment ended. he turned back to the hedge, lifting his shears, his face unreadable once more.

the snip of blades filled the silence.

the morning light crept through his curtains, pale and soft against the walls. zayne tugged the last button of his shirt into place, eyes half-focused on the mirror. his hair was still mussed from sleep, his collar uneven. he reached up to straighten it when—

he stilled.

behind him, reflected faintly in the glass, was something that hadn’t been there when he fell asleep.

on his desk.

a vase. clear and simple, with only a single stem inside.

a rose. white.

zayne turned slowly, his chest tightening. the flower stood upright, impossibly clean, impossibly alive. its petals caught the light, soft as porcelain, the very image of the blooms his mother had once coaxed with careful hands.

but it was never there before.

zayne’s throat closed. he crossed the room in two quick steps, the polished floor cold under his bare feet. he stopped short of touching it, fingers hovering in the air.

the rose was real. fresh. its faint perfume drifted upward, familiar and foreign all at once.

he looked around sharply, scanning the corners of the room, the draped curtains, the closed door. empty. always empty.

but the flower was proof. someone had been here. someone had chosen this.

beside it, a slip of parchment. small, folded once. his pulse thudded in his ears as he reached for it, unfolding it with careful fingers.

the handwriting was sharp, controlled—penmanship that belonged to someone who had once written decrees, or love letters, or death warrants. noble. old.

one word only.

xavier.

zayne’s stomach twisted. the name lodged in his chest like a thorn, unwanted, unwelcome. he hadn’t wanted to know it.

and yet…

his hand shook as he lowered it, carefully brushing the edge of a petal with the tip of his finger. silken. fragile. alive.

his chest ached, sharp and deep.

zayne turned away abruptly, retreating to the safety of his bed. he lay back stiffly, staring at the ceiling, willing himself not to look at the desk again.

but the faint scent of roses lingered, threading through the air.

Chapter Text

noah’s death left a hollow space in the manor that nothing could fill.

his lessons, his steady voice, his patience—all gone. the desk in zayne’s room stayed neat, the books stacked untouched. zayne sat at it anyway, every day, a quill scratching over parchment, but it was a stubborn ritual more than anything. he wanted no replacement. he wanted no guidance from anyone.

until one evening, the door slammed open without so much as a knock, and hands dragged him bodily from his chair. zayne thrashed, shouting, but the grip didn’t loosen. his words might as well have been smoke against stone.

“put me down!” he snarled, fists pounding uselessly against a shoulder as hard as iron.

the silver-haired vampire didn’t even flinch. his long strides carried them across the hall, down the stairs, into the cavernous library. it smelled of dust and old paper, the air heavy with the weight of centuries. shelves loomed like watchful sentinels, row after row of spines bound in leather and gold. the fire in the grate was low, more shadow than light, throwing long arms across the floor.

he set zayne down none too gently in a chair. his silver hair caught the firelight, eyes gleaming red as rubies in the dim. he leaned a hand on the armrest, caging zayne in without effort.

“you have no one,” his voice silk wrapped around steel. “when will you understand that? i would have left you to your little sulks, to your tantrums, if you had your human family still here to spoil you. but you don’t. there’s only you now.”

zayne’s small fists clenched on his knees. he stared up at the vampire, teeth gritted, jaw tight.

“and you only have us.” his tone was final, as if declaring a sentence.

“i know,” zayne bit out. his voice was steady, but his hands trembled, nails pressing crescents into his palms.

the vampire tilted his head, smugness curling at the edges of his mouth. “do you? you run. you hide. you rot in your little room pretending the world hasn’t ended.”

“i know!” zayne’s voice cracked then, too raw to be anything but truth. his eyes stung, vision blurring, but he refused to let the tears fall. he shoved the words out, softer this time, broken. “i know… but i want them back.”

the admission hung in the library like smoke.

the man studied him, long and quiet. for once, there was no amusement in his expression, no cruelty sharp as his fangs. just a stillness that made him look impossibly old, older than stone, older than the books that lined the shelves.

“wanting changes nothing,” he said finally, voice low, almost bored. “you can claw at the dirt until your hands bleed, boy. they will not rise.”

zayne bowed his head, shoulders curling inward as if to shield something fragile. his nails dug deeper into his palms.

“…then i’ll bring them back myself,” he whispered.

it made the man's mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “hn. now that is interesting.”

he straightened, looming tall, hands folding behind his back. “very well. learn. read. grow. if you want to defy the grave, you’ll need more than tears and wishes.”

zayne lifted his head slowly, defiance flickering in the wet shine of his eyes. the monster's words were cruel, but they sparked something dangerous inside him—a resolve that grief alone hadn’t carved yet.

and the man looked almost pleased.

zayne was still allowed his sulks, his tantrums of locking himself in his room, pulling the covers over his head until the day burned itself out. but like clockwork, that man would arrive—silver hair glinting even in shadow, eyes too sharp, too amused. he never knocked. he never asked. he simply swept in, lifted the boy by the scruff if needed, and deposited him in the high-backed chair of the library.

“because,” he would say, languid as a cat, “i refuse to serve a master with the brain capacity of a mutt.”

and so zayne’s days began to fracture into two halves: his silence in his room, and the butler's voice in the library.

he tried to ignore him, at first. eyes fixed stubbornly on the books, ears closed to that drawling tone. he traced the same sentences again and again, forcing his mind to drown out the lectures.

but he was relentless.

history spilled from his lips not as lessons, but as memories. he spoke of kings long dead as if he had once dined with them, of plagues and revolutions as though he had smelled the smoke and blood himself. where the texts painted dry dates and names, the man would scoff, correcting them with infuriating confidence.

“wrong,” he’d say, tapping the page with one long finger. “he wasn’t poisoned at supper. he died in his mistress’s bed, choking on his own greed. i know. i was there.”

zayne had snapped his head up then, scowling. “you expect me to believe that?”

he only smirked, lounging in his chair with the grace of someone who feared neither time nor consequence. “believe what you like. the truth doesn’t need your permission to exist.”

it was unbearable. the arrogance. the godlike way he spoke. as if nothing was beyond his grasp, as if the whole of the world’s knowledge had already passed through his veins.

and yet…

when his contradictions clashed with the neat order of the texts, zayne felt his resolve waver. he couldn’t help it. the questions clawed their way up his throat.

“what do you mean the war didn’t end there?”

“why would they lie about that?”

“then what really happened?”

and the butler, always with that maddening glint in his eye, would answer. sometimes briefly, sometimes in long winding accounts that painted the library with the ghosts of empires.

zayne hated him. hated how he made him listen, how he dragged him out of his silence. hated how, for those hours, grief loosened its grip just enough for curiosity to slip through.

every lesson felt like a battle. him with his smirk, zayne with his stubborn glare, the books between them like a field of war.

and yet, under the burn of anger, zayne couldn’t shake it: the faint, traitorous pull of wanting to know more.

even if the knowledge came from the mouth of the very devil he loathed.

but there were nights when zayne simply wasn’t in the mood for the lessons.

like the night he crept out of his room, bare feet padding softly against the polished floors, clutching the books in his room that were piling by his desk —that man's latest demands returned fully-read and begrudgingly so—zayne decided to take them back to the library.

the house was still, the kind of stillness that felt unnatural, like breath being held.

halfway to the library, a noise caught his ear.

a muffled thud. a scrape against stone. not the sounds of old wood settling. something alive.

he hesitated, fingers tightening on the books, before drifting toward the nearest window. the glass was cold under his palms as he leaned forward and peered out into the courtyard.

and there—beneath the moonlight—was a stranger.

a man, dark-clad, moving with the nervous care of a thief. his gaze flicked between windows, his hand tight on the hilt of a knife.

zayne’s heart thumped once, hard.

an intruder.

of course. the rumors must have spread. a boy heir, barely thirteen now, rattling around this cavernous estate with only four servants. to the outside world, it must have seemed like easy prey. an unguarded treasure box.

but they didn’t know.

zayne’s breath caught in his throat as a blur of silver cut across the courtyard.

one moment the intruder was crouched low, eyes scanning the manor. the next, that vampire was upon him. no warning, no words. just the gleam of fangs sinking into flesh.

the man’s muffled cry was swallowed by the night. his knife clattered uselessly to the ground.

zayne froze, every part of him locked. the books in his arms felt like stone.

the monster fed. not with hunger, not with the desperate frenzy zayne had read of in stories—but with control, like a man draining the last drop from a glass of wine. his hand gripped the intruder’s jaw, his silver head bent, until the man sagged limp in his arms.

then came the snap—sharp, final. a neck broken as carelessly as one might snap a twig.

the careless thud of a body discarded as though it were no more than garbage.

zayne had pressed a hand over his mouth that night, his knuckles white against his lips, as if he could push the sound back inside, as if silence would make him unnoticeable. but that man hadn’t looked his way. he hadn’t needed to.

a monster.

how had he forgotten?

no—he hadn’t. not really. he’d only gotten used to the arguments, the bickering, the infuriating way his voice filled the air until it drowned out the silence of his grief. he’d started to mistake that noise for something almost normal.

but the truth had bared its fangs again, slick with blood.

zayne hadn’t slept that night. he’d lain awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the phantom crunch of bones echo in his ears. and when dawn came, when he knew he would come for him as always, he bolted.

not out the front doors—he wasn’t foolish enough to think he could escape the estate. no, he climbed, barefoot and silent, up into the dust-choked attic.

it was stifling there, hot even in the early morning, the air thick with moth-eaten cloth and the scent of forgotten wood. cobwebs brushed his face, and the boards creaked under his weight, but he made himself small in the farthest corner, knees to his chest.

here, at least, the books couldn’t reach him. here, the silver-haired devil couldn’t drag him by the collar and force him to sit.

hours passed. the dust turned his throat dry, the light from the small round window crept across the floor. he tried not to breathe too loud, as though that vampire's senses weren’t sharp enough to find one human boy anyway.

every sound made him flinch: the groan of the wood settling, the flutter of wings near the roof, the faint footsteps that might not even exist.

he told himself he didn’t care. that he didn’t want to learn from him anymore. that no amount of knowledge was worth listening to a killer’s voice.

but his chest ached with something more complicated. because alongside the horror was betrayal—not because he was a monster (he’d always known that), but because zayne had almost let himself forget. almost let himself believe he could treat him like a teacher.

now he wanted to tear that fragile illusion apart with his own hands.

for days, zayne starved himself of the library. not of the knowledge—he had hoarded enough books in his room to last a while—but of the place itself, of the way the vampire's presence clung to its walls. every time he thought of stepping back inside, the sound from that night replayed in his mind.

and so he lingered upstairs, dust gathering in the quiet corners of his solitude, his heart pounding every time he thought he heard footsteps near his door.

but solitude had limits. his small collection dwindled too quickly. the pages blurred with repetition. and finally, on his thirteenth birthday, zayne slipped back to the one room he swore he’d never step into again.

the library smelled faintly of parchment and polish, sun filtering in through tall windows that painted the aisles in gold. he stood still for a moment, testing the silence. no footsteps. no smug voice. just him.

good.

he moved carefully, returning the stack of books he’d consumed in the safety of his room. row by row, spine by spine, he slid them back into place. it was tedious work, but he preferred it that way.

when he reached the far aisle, he frowned at the last book in his arm. its slot was higher than he expected. he stretched up, rising onto the very tips of his toes, arm straining, the weight of the book awkward in his hand. his fingers brushed the shelf but couldn’t quite push the volume into place.

he could’ve fetched the stool by the ladder. he could’ve admitted defeat. but stubbornness rooted him to the spot.

just a little higher—

before he could try again, a pale hand slid into his view. long fingers plucked the book neatly from his grasp and, with an ease that mocked his effort, placed it back on the shelf where it belonged.

zayne went still. he hadn’t even heard him approach.

the vampire stood behind him, close enough that zayne could feel the faint shift of air as he moved, the faint scent of old ink and something sharper—something metallic. his silver hair caught the sunlight, gleaming like a blade unsheathed.

“you should have taken the stool,” he murmured, his voice even, calm, as if days of silence had never passed. as if the blood on his lips from that night had been nothing more than a dream.

zayne’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. he managed only a whisper, raw and trembling.

“…why are you here?”

“am i not allowed to roam around? a butler isn’t exactly stuck in one place, aren’t they?” he huffed, but zayne caught it—that small drag in his voice, faint as the slowing of a clock’s hand. the sunlight must have weighed on him after all. not the holy blaze zayne once prayed it would be, but a dull anchor dragging at the monster’s limbs.

zayne didn’t answer. he didn’t move. his gaze stayed forward, fixed on the row of books before him as if their spines could shield him from the silver gaze he knew was burning into his back.

“are you afraid of me, master?”

the title was mockery on his tongue, velvet stretched over fangs.

zayne’s said nothing.

he leaned just enough for his shadow to spill over zayne’s smaller frame.
“that can’t be. after all…” his mouth curved, his tone lilting with amusement, “would someone afraid dare argue with a monster about facts?”

zayne’s nails bit into his palms. he remembered every correction, every smug contradiction, every time that man forced him into a corner with nothing but words and left him furious, humiliated, alive.

and yet—he also remembered the blood dripping from his chin, the corpse on the ground.

his voice scraped out, brittle but steady:

“arguing with a book doesn’t mean i’d walk into its jaws.”

the butler's laugh was soft, humorless, the kind that licked like smoke. “ah. so you admit you see me as nothing more than a beast with teeth.”

he didn’t answer, but the silence was louder than words.

the man tilted his head, eyes narrowed—not in anger, not even in disappointment, but in something sharper. interest.

“everything i do, everything your dear butlers do, is to protect you as you have commanded—”

“but did i say to kill them?” zayne snapped, his voice breaking, too loud in the stillness of the library.

“yes.”

the answer landed like a stone in water, without hesitation, without shame.

zayne faltered, the heat rushing out of his anger, leaving only the thin tremor of a boy’s voice. “that doesn’t count. i was afraid. i was hurt. i was—”

“your words are your command.” his tone sharpened, cutting away excuses like dead branches. “you ask us to keep you safe, alive. but you didn’t say to what point.” his eyes burned with the weight of centuries, merciless in their clarity. “to us, whatever threatens you… should be removed.”

zayne’s chest heaved, anger and horror tangling into something he couldn’t name. he wanted to shout that it wasn’t the same, that protection wasn’t the same as murder, but the memory of the corpse—slack, lifeless—froze the words in his throat.

the man's voice dropped lower, almost gentle, but no less cruel for it. “you forget what the deal was about, master. you will be kept safe and sound… until the day you pay your family’s dues.”

his hand rose slowly, hovering above zayne’s head without touching, a shadow poised to close around him. the gesture was almost paternal, almost reverent—yet it carried the weight of a claim, the reminder of a leash he could not see but always felt.

“your blood.”

the words slid between them like fangs piercing skin.

zayne’s breath hitched. his heart drummed painfully in his chest, a child’s instinct screaming to flee, though his legs were heavy, rooted.

what terrified him most wasn’t the threat. it was the reminder that no matter how much he resisted, no matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise… he wasn’t wrong.

he forgets yet again that his life is not his own. it presses on him like shackles, unseen but always there. depressing. maddening. to grow, to learn, to breathe, only to end as nothing more than someone’s meal.

the weight of it pulled at him until his shoulders sagged. he leaned against the shelf, wood cool against his back, and lowered his head. his bangs fell into his eyes, a curtain hiding the heat burning there.

“then…” his voice cracked on the word, the sound thin, almost swallowed by the silence of the library. he forced it out, steadying his breath as though that could steady his will. “at least, from now on—no more killing people. human.”

those red eyes glinted, unblinking.

zayne gritted his teeth, fingers curling tight against the shelf. “and i will keep my promise.” the words left him in a rush, quiet but sharp, each one stabbing into the heavy stillness. “when i feel safe. when i feel alright… i will let you know.”

the silence stretched, suffocating.

zayne didn’t lift his head. he didn’t dare look at him. he knew what he’d see there—mockery, disdain, maybe even hunger. instead, he clung to the whisper of his vow, the only thread he had left to call his own.

across from him, the man said nothing. for once, no biting retort came. only the faint rustle of his coat as he stepped back, withdrawing his hand from zayne’s head.

zayne exhaled shakily, as though surfacing from deep water.

“sylus.”

the boy's head lifted a fraction, his lashes parting to stare at him. “…pardon?”

the vampire sighed through his nose, the faintest curl of annoyance tugging at his mouth. he rolled his eyes as though the act of explaining himself was beneath him.

“my name,” he clarified, crisp and clipped, though the weight behind it was strangely heavy. “figured the young master should know who to call when he’s in trouble.”

zayne blinked at him, stunned. his lips parted, but no sound came.

a name. offered freely. just like the last two.

the man's gaze softened only a fraction—less a kindness than a command dressed as one. “say it,” he murmured, not as a request, but an inevitability.

zayne swallowed, throat tight, the name clawing at his tongue like something both venomous and vital.

“…sylus.”

the vampire’s smirk finally came, slow and sharp, but there was something quieter underneath it. satisfaction, yes. but also something that felt dangerously like recognition.

“good,” he said, turning away. “now we’re making progress.”

Chapter Text

“idiot!”

“you’ve said that five times now,” xavier muttered, his voice flat but steady as his hands worked the gauze around zayne’s arm.

after the last disaster where rafayel had wrapped the boy’s feet so thick they looked like loaves of bread, the others decided xavier would be the one to handle medical matters.

even zayne, reluctantly, agreed.

“apparently, it’s not enough,” rafayel scoffed, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed, sharp with irritation. “how could you be so careless, young master? what were you thinking?”

zayne opened his mouth to snap back, but sylus’s dry chuckle slid between them first.

“he’s a child,” sylus drawled from his chair near the window, resting his chin against his hand, watching the scene with amusement. “and children are reckless by design. hardly a surprise.”

the irony wasn’t lost on zayne: three immortals, untouchable, unscarred, fussing over a boy with scrapes and bruises. the only one in the room who actually knew how to tend wounds was him—the human—and yet he sat bandaged like a doll while they argued about his fragility.

rafayel clicked his tongue again, glaring down at him. “he has the survival skills of a goldfish. you expect us to follow him around all day just to make sure he doesn’t get killed by a sudden gust of wind?”

zayne scowled, glaring up at him through the strands of his dark hair. “i can hear you.”

“i meant for you to,” rafayel shot back with a sharp smile, fangs just barely flashing.

“enough,” xavier said softly, not even glancing at rafayel as he tied off the gauze. he checked zayne’s arm one last time, then sat back with a quiet sigh. “it will heal.”

sylus’s eyes flicked lazily from the bandages to zayne himself. “ the fish has a point, though,” he mused. “your defense and offense are lacking."

zayne bristled, his lips pressing tight. “isn’t that the point of having you to protect me?”

“yes,” sylus answered without hesitation, his gaze cutting sharp and cold, “and what if one day all of us are occupied at the same time?”

zayne stared at him, doubt etched across his face. it sounded impossible. these three—these four—were too powerful, too sharp, too relentless. the idea that they could all be tied down at once felt like a lie meant to frighten him.

but… the thought of relying entirely on them, of being helpless and cornered again—it dug deep.

“…fine,” he muttered at last, dropping his gaze. “but i don’t want you to teach me.” his glare slid toward sylus, sharp despite the heat flushing his face. “one library session with you is already more than enough.”

sylus smirked, unbothered.

“and the two of you…” zayne hesitated, looking between the others. “you’re bad at teaching.”

rafayel scoffed, offended. xavier only tilted his head, unfazed.

zayne went on, quieter but firmer. “because i know you don’t hold back.”

the words struck true, and none of them argued.

that left one.

sylus’s gaze flicked toward the man near the door, who had been silent this entire time, leaning casually against the frame.

“caleb, then,” sylus decided aloud, voice certain. “he has experience handling weak humans, after all.”

zayne’s head turned sharply, his breath catching before he could stop himself.

so that was his name. the last one. the last piece of the chain.

caleb’s violet eyes met his for a brief, unreadable moment before drifting back toward sylus. his face betrayed nothing. no irritation. no eagerness. just quiet acceptance.

“…after his arms heal,” caleb said finally, his voice low, measured. “sure.”

perhaps this one was… less unbearable.

maybe.

after a few weeks, caleb finally led zayne out to a forest—not the one behind the manor. never that one.

zayne had made it clear, stubbornly, furiously, that he didn’t want to set foot in that place ever again. even if rafayel had assured him every last monster was killed. even if xavier had said it was “safe.”

safe didn’t matter. the soil was steeped in memory, and memory was worse than teeth. every time zayne glimpsed the treeline from the manor windows, his chest squeezed until breathing felt like swallowing glass.

so caleb chose another. a quieter wood, further away, where the canopy was gentler and the air smelled of pine rather than rot.

“why a forest?” zayne asked at last, his voice low, eyes trailing the trees as caleb crouched before him. the older man’s gloved hands brushed over his arm, turning it gently to inspect the scars. zayne didn’t even fight him anymore. at first he used to bristle, pulling away, but caleb’s quiet persistence had worn him down. somehow the man had fallen into the role of an overbearing nurse, checking his arms as if expecting the wounds to reopen when he wasn’t looking.

“they’re healed,” zayne muttered, embarrassed by the attention.

caleb hummed noncommittally, eyes scanning over the pale lines carved into the boy’s skin before finally releasing him. “a forest is where you’ll be weakest,” he said simply. “uneven ground. cover everywhere. sounds that confuse. and things that want you dead.”

zayne’s shoulders tensed. “…comforting.”

caleb rose to his full height, brushing off his gloves. “better to be comfortable with truth than choke on lies.”

zayne looked away, frowning. his fingers ghosted over the scars on his arms. the memory of that day returned sharply—the stranger’s hand grabbing him, the knife, his own blood running hot and quick.

and afterward…

he swallowed, glancing at caleb out of the corner of his eye. “when i bled,” he said finally, voice almost a whisper, “why didn’t any of you lose control?”

caleb’s head turned toward him, unreadable.

zayne pressed on, words tumbling fast and sharp to hide his unease. “don’t pretend i don’t know what you are. i’ve seen it. i thought… i thought one drop and you’d—” he cut himself off, clenching his fists. “but you didn’t.”

it was what terrified him most when xavier had found him, bloodied and trembling. what made his skin crawl when they’d cleaned his wounds in the manor with all four present. he’d expected hunger, frenzy—expected to die right there on the floor.

but they hadn’t touched him. not once.

caleb’s gaze stayed on him, still as a statue. then at last, he spoke.

“we’re not like them.”

“like them?”

“there are different types of us.” caleb’s voice was quiet, as though explaining something he’d said many times before. “but i’ll spare you the details. i believe you’ve already seen it.”

zayne blinked, then realized what he meant. rafayel. xavier.

he nodded mutely. yes. he’d seen it.

“…then what about sylus?” zayne asked, unable to help himself.

caleb shrugged. “no one knows. he never told us.” he paused, just for a second, like even he tread carefully around the topic. “but he’s probably the oldest among us.”

“tch.” zayne clicked his tongue, scowling at the ground. typical sylus. always keeping his secrets, lording them over him like weapons.

a beat of silence passed before zayne found himself blurting another question, one that sat heavier than the rest. “then… what does that make you?”

this time, caleb didn’t answer. he just kept walking, his back broad, his pace unbroken.

zayne narrowed his eyes. he picked up his pace, walking faster to close the space between them.

“…you’re all the same,” he muttered bitterly.

“i thought you didn’t want to know about us?” caleb’s said almost disinterested, but his eyes flicked briefly toward zayne as he moved a branch out of the boy’s path. the twig would’ve scratched across his ankle had caleb not shifted it aside with the back of his hand.

“i don't,” zayne muttered. his jaw clenched as he kept walking, eyes downcast on the uneven ground. “i never wanted to be involved with any of you.”

the words came out sharp, but hollow at the core. no matter how many times he said it, it never changed the truth. he was involved. he’d been dragged into their world the night his family died.

and all his effort—all the stolen hours, poring over old texts, searching for rituals and weapons and loopholes—collapsed the moment sylus caught him. the memory still burned in his chest. sylus’s silver hair glinting in the candlelight, his smirk widening as he read over zayne’s scribbled notes. his laugh had been cruel, mocking, ringing in zayne’s ears long after he tore the pages from his hands.

"you really think you can kill any of us?"

bastard.

caleb’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, like he could see right through the boy’s thin defiance, then turned forward again. his steps didn’t falter.

“you ask plenty of questions for someone who doesn’t care.”

zayne’s fists tightened in his pockets. “…you’re just suspicious.”

“suspicious,” caleb repeated flatly, as if tasting the word. “because we’ve told you too much? or not enough?”

the boy’s jaw clenched. he hated how sharp that question was. hated that caleb could pin him down with so few words.

“…because you’re not human,” zayne said at last. “and yet you keep… pretending to be.”

caleb didn’t look back this time. his shoulders shifted ever so slightly, like the weight of that truth pressed against him too. “we don’t pretend,” he said, almost too quiet for the forest. “we adapt. there’s a difference.”

zayne frowned, about to snap back, but then caleb’s hand lifted again—this time not to brush aside a branch, but to stop him. the man’s palm opened, firm but silent, signaling him to stay still.

“lesson one,” caleb said without turning, his voice steady, calm. “always notice what’s around you. the forest isn’t empty. look closer.”

and only then did zayne hear it—the faint rustle in the underbrush, too heavy to be the wind.

the hairs at the back of his neck prickling.

he didn’t know what he expected—bandits? more monsters like the ones in that cursed lake?—but what slinked out of the brush was smaller. leaner. its body was low to the ground, ribs showing, eyes yellow and hungry. a wolf, but wrong somehow, its jaw slack with strands of drool, fur patchy as though sickness had eaten it.

zayne’s stumbled one step back.

caleb didn’t move. didn’t even reach for him. “what do you see?”

zayne whipped his head toward him. “what do you mean what do i—?”

“focus,” caleb said sharply, and for the first time, there was an edge in his voice. “your fear won’t make it vanish. look.”

zayne’s heart pounded in his throat. his eyes darted back to the wolf, forcing himself to actually see: its gauntness, the way it favored its back leg, the way it growled but didn’t charge yet.

“it’s… hurt,” he whispered.

caleb nodded once. “good. and?”

zayne swallowed hard, clutching his fists so tight his nails bit his palms. “hungry.”

“then?”

“…desperate.”

the wolf snapped its jaws, inching closer. zayne’s breath hitched, but caleb only stepped aside, intentionally leaving him clear and exposed.

“lesson two,” caleb murmured, eyes cool and unyielding. “it will always be you, or the thing that wants to tear your throat out. so—what will you do, young master?”

zayne’s stomach twisted. he had no weapon, nothing but his own trembling limbs and the pounding of blood in his ears. his instinct screamed to run, to hide, to wait for caleb to handle it. that’s what he was there for, wasn’t it?

but caleb wasn’t moving.

the wolf snarled, pawing forward.

zayne bit his lip hard enough to taste copper. his body screamed no, but his mind—caleb’s voice—pushed him forward.

he grabbed the nearest thing at his feet: a broken branch, sharp at the end where it had splintered. his palms sweated as he raised it awkwardly like a spear.

“good,” caleb said, low and calm. “now, don’t wait. waiting gets you killed.”

the wolf lunged.

and zayne held his breath, drove the branch forward with all his strength.

the branch struck true, jamming into the wolf’s side with a sickening crunch. it yelped—a sharp, wounded cry—and staggered back, collapsing into the dirt. its legs kicked weakly, its breath rattling, eyes wide with pain.

zayne froze, chest heaving. his arms trembled from the effort, the broken branch still clutched tight in his hands. he’d done it. he’d stopped it. it wouldn’t attack him now.

it should’ve been enough. safe.

then caleb’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears.

“finish it.”

zayne’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide. “what?”

caleb’s expression didn’t change. his tone was flat, implacable. “it’ll heal. come back worse. kill it.”

the words landed heavy, like stones in zayne’s stomach. he turned back to the wolf. it was whimpering now, its chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. its yellow eyes weren’t wild anymore—they were frightened.

helpless.

his grip loosened. the branch dipped.

“…i can’t.”

the memory rose unbidden, cruel in its clarity: his dog, his friend.

this wolf wasn’t his dog. he knew that. but the sound—the whimper—it dug under his skin like claws.

“i can’t,” he repeated, voice breaking.

caleb’s gaze sharpened. “mercy won’t protect you. mercy will get you killed.”

zayne shook his head, glaring back at the man. “i won’t do it. it can't kill me anymore.”

the wolf coughed, blood wetting its muzzle. caleb’s shadow shifted, and for a heartbeat, zayne thought he might reach for him, tear the choice away.

but instead, he turned back around and kept walking, his voice drifting back with a calm finality that stung.

“then you’ll live with what follows.”

the silence that followed pressed on zayne’s ears. he dropped the branch with a hollow clatter and turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer.

the forest opened into a clearing, the canopy breaking just enough for sunlight to spill through in fractured beams. caleb slowed, scanning the perimeter with the kind of quiet, patient vigilance that came from instinct rather than habit. after a long moment, he gave a short nod.

“this will do.”

zayne let out a small breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. his legs were sore from the walk, but he moved toward the nearest tree, shrugging off his coat and folding it neatly over a low branch. he tugged at his sleeves, bracing himself for whatever came next.

the sudden chill against his throat stopped him cold.

he flinched, heart lurching, and spun around. caleb stood close—too close—one hand steady, a blade in it gleaming with the kind of sharpness that whispered danger. the flat, dull side of the dagger pressed to zayne’s neck, not enough to cut, but enough to remind him how easy it could.

“your reflexes are slow.” caleb’s pointed out quietly, “i thought doctors in training were supposed to have quick response.”

zayne’s jaw clenched. he glared, though his pulse still hammered in his throat. “in an operating room, sure. not—” his voice cracked with heat, “—not in the woods. and i’m fourteen.”

something flickered in caleb’s eyes at that, a shadow of amusement—or maybe pity—but it passed too quickly to name. he withdrew the blade, turning it in his hand so the edge caught the sunlight, a shimmer of silver and promise.

“take it.” he held it out to him, handle first. “it’s yours now. consider it a gift.”

zayne hesitated, looking at the dagger, then at caleb’s expressionless face. there was no malice in his tone, no jest—just inevitability, as if this was the only path forward.

“you can’t fight anyone with that small body,” caleb continued. “you’re already at a disadvantage. this…” he lifted the dagger slightly, “…evens the ground. at least a little.”

zayne swallowed hard. his hand closed around the hilt, cool and heavy against his palm. for a moment, he stared down at it, the weight foreign, unsettling.

he’d imagined holding many things in his life—books, instruments, maybe one day a scalpel. but a dagger? a weapon made to cut and end, not mend?

the thought curdled in his stomach. he exhaled shakily, lowering it to his side.

“to think,” he muttered bitterly, “i’d hold this before a scalpel…”

caleb said nothing, only watched. his eyes seemed to measure something unseen, something zayne couldn’t quite name. then, with the same quiet finality as always, he turned, stepping back into the clearing.

“show me your stance.”

zayne blinked, then raised the dagger awkwardly, point angled too high, wrist bent at an uncomfortable angle. it was a poor imitation of what he’d seen in books or the exaggerated posturing of soldiers in paintings. his knuckles whitened around the hilt. his breath came uneven, more fear than focus guiding his grip.

before he could even steady himself, caleb’s hand flicked out. two fingers brushed the flat of the blade, knocking it aside with insulting ease. he didn’t even look like he’d put effort into it.

“dead,” he said flatly.

zayne’s scowl deepened, his cheeks burning. “you didn’t even try.”

“that’s the point.” caleb straightened, looming without meaning to, his shadow long in the fractured sunlight. his eyes narrowed faintly, unblinking. “the world won’t ‘try,’ young master. it doesn’t give warnings. it doesn’t play fair. it’ll succeed if you don’t learn how to move faster than your fear.”

zayne gritted his teeth, glaring up at him. he wanted to shout that he wasn’t afraid, that caleb was wrong—but the tremor in his hands betrayed him.

caleb stepped closer, his gaze heavy. “again,” he said simply, and motioned for zayne to lift the dagger.

zayne hesitated, fingers flexing on the hilt. his heart hammered, his throat tight.

he raised the dagger again, this time lower, the blade trembling but closer to the right angle.

caleb’s eyes flicked to it, then back to him. his voice softened—barely, but enough to be heard.

“better. but still dead.”

they sparred until zayne’s arms ached and his lungs burned, until his hair stuck to his forehead and sweat stung his eyes. caleb didn’t fight to crush him, but neither did he soften his blows. every clash was measured, meant to drill reflex rather than humiliate.

at last, caleb waved his hand in dismissal.

“break.”

zayne slumped against a tree trunk, chest heaving. he hadn’t realized how much his body could hurt in so many places. caleb moved with the same calm as before, pulling out a flask of water. he handed it over without a word.

zayne drank, the cool liquid soothing his throat. when he lowered it, his gaze lingered on the vampire a little too long. caleb had sat down against a stone, one knee bent, arms resting loosely. his eyes were half-shut, his head tilted back slightly, as though he were… relaxing.

vampires don’t get tired. vampires don’t breathe in the forest air like it matters. vampires don’t sit like this. yet he does it still.

“…you’ve done this before,” zayne muttered before he could stop himself.

caleb cracked one eye open. “what? fighting?”

his voice was even, but there was something faintly wry in it, as though the answer should’ve been obvious.

zayne shook his head, gaze shifting away. “teaching.”

there was a pause. caleb closed his eyes again, exhaling through his nose—not a sigh, exactly, but close.

“maybe i have.”

the words were soft, simple. but zayne caught the weight in them, something unspoken curling at the edges.

"who?"

caleb huffed, "xavier is right. you're a curious one."

zayne frowned, "...is it wrong of me to want to know what sort of people my butlers are?"

"and what do you have so far?"

"that all of you like to be secretive and mysterious." he muttered.

"you're not exactly wrong." caleb smiled, but then it faltered, watching something from a distant. a tree, animal or something else? perhaps a memory.

"some pasts aren't meant to be told."

zayne leaned back against the tree, "and yet all of you already know mine."

caleb’s gaze flicked back to him, steady but unreadable. “yours was never a secret. death leaves its scars loud.”

zayne’s throat tightened. he looked down at the dagger resting across his lap, the blade glinting faintly in the light that filtered through the canopy. “loud to you, maybe. to me, it’s just… quiet. too quiet.”

caleb didn’t answer immediately. his posture stayed relaxed, but there was a stillness about him, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

zayne pushed on, words spilling before he could stop them. “it isn’t fair. you all see me. you know every wound, every weakness. but you—” he gestured vaguely toward him, toward the shadows that clung to all four of them. “you’re locked up like vaults. do you enjoy keeping me blind?”

caleb’s smile was small, humorless. “would you rather the vaults open and drown you with what’s inside?”

“yes,” zayne snapped, then caught himself. his fists clenched around the dagger’s hilt. he dropped his voice to a whisper. “at least then i’d know i’m not the only one broken.”

that silenced even the birds for a beat.

caleb’s eyes softened—not pity, not sympathy, but recognition. he leaned his head back against the tree, looking at the canopy.

“…you remind me of her.”

zayne stilled. “…her?”

caleb’s lips pressed into a thin line, as though he hadn’t meant to say that aloud. but after a pause, he gave a low chuckle, almost self-mocking.

“see? this is why vaults stay closed.”

he pushed himself up, brushing the dirt from his coat. “break’s over.”

but zayne stayed sitting, heart beating hard against his ribs.

and though caleb clearly had no intention of prying it further open, zayne’s mind latched onto that single word.

her.

the scratching of a quill filled the library, steady but faintly rushed, as though he wanted the lesson over with more than he wanted the ink to dry neatly on the page. sylus lounged across from him, half-slouched in his chair, silver hair like spilled mercury. his sharp eyes were not on the text, but on zayne himself—ever watchful, ever amused.

at length, sylus broke the silence with a lazy drawl.

“so,” he said, twirling the end of his quill between long fingers. “how’s training with the mutt?”

zayne didn’t look up. his handwriting faltered for half a second before steadying again. “…fine.”

the word was clipped, dismissive. but in his head, he added the rest: annoying… but efficient.

the first week had left his arms and legs aching so badly he could hardly hold a pen. his body had screamed with every step. but then… it grew easier. caleb’s methods were harsh, yes, but not cruel. he gave breaks when needed, knew when to push and when to let him catch his breath. patient, in his own way.

more patient than he expected a vampire to be. more human.

that thought made zayne’s quill still on the page. he frowned faintly, eyes flicking up to sylus, who had begun tapping his quill against his teeth, watching him with sharp interest.

zayne hesitated, then asked, “you said before… he knew how to handle humans.” his tone was cautious, almost reluctant, but curious all the same. “what did you mean by that?”

“my, my. the little master finally wants to know something about his keepers?” he rested his chin on his hand, “you’ve ignored us like furniture for years. now suddenly you’re curious?”

zayne’s jaw tightened. “just answer the question.”

sylus chuckled under his breath, low and dry. “learning how to press. good. perhaps my lessons are finally rubbing off on you.” he tapped the desk with one finger, drawing out the silence until zayne’s shoulders stiffened.

“since you’ve asked,” sylus said at last. his tone shifted—still sharp, but laced with something darker, older. “once upon a time, a little mutt thought he could play house. pretend to be human. pretend he belonged to them.” he leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming red in the filtered light of the library. “he let them call him son. brother. he played the role well. too well. he even loved them.”

zayne’s pen faltered on the page. “…loved them?”

sylus smiled, cruel in its softness. “and what do humans do to things they don’t understand, master?” he tilted his head. “they burned them. his family. tied them up, called them witches, monsters, heretics. every last one of them—except him.”

the drop of ink spread wider, bleeding into the paper until it resembled a blackened wound.

his throat tightened. “…they killed them?”

sylus gave a lazy shrug, the smile never leaving his lips. “of course they did. humans are nothing if not predictable. fear dresses itself up as righteousness, and righteousness loves a good bonfire.” he gestured idly, like painting flames in the air. “by the time he returned, they were ash and smoke.”

zayne stared, his chest tightening. he thought of caleb’s quiet way of watching him train, the way he corrected without scorn, the strange gentleness beneath the harsh drills. he had thought it was patience, discipline—but maybe it was grief.

“…what did he do?” zayne asked, though some part of him already knew.

sylus’ grin widened, all teeth. “what do you think, boy? he slaughtered them. every man, every woman, every child who had touched the torch or turned their head. he left the square redder than any sunset. that was the first time the council took notice of him.”

zayne flinched at the word. “council?”

“ah, another story,” sylus murmured, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “but what matters is this: caleb tried to live as one of you. he tried to love you, serve you, even die as you do.” his eyes gleamed with a cruel kind of amusement. “and humans answered by gutting him of everything he cared for. that is the man you train with. that is why he knows your kind so well. why he knows how fragile you are.”

zayne sat still, his hands balled tightly in his lap. his heartbeat too loud in the silence of the library.

sylus watched him for a moment longer, then leaned back, feigning boredom again. “but don’t ask me for any more details. the mutt won’t tell you, so why should i. and if you’re lucky, maybe he'll slip one day. who knows.”

zayne bent his head back to his work, jaw tight, but his mind was already far from the ink and parchment.

“a simulation?” zayne repeated, staring at the flask caleb had just drained. the liquid smelled faintly metallic, acrid.

“yes.” caleb wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then tossed the empty container aside. his expression didn’t shift. it never did. “an assessment of sorts.”

it made sense.

a month had passed since they began, and zayne had grown stronger—at least in ways he could measure. his swings no longer trembled. his balance no longer faltered after two strikes. his body no longer screamed with soreness at the end of each day. but how much of that mattered outside of drills? that was the question caleb intended to answer.

so now zayne stood at the mouth of the forest, dagger tucked into his pocket, heart thudding loud enough to drown out the birdsong. the rules were simple: caleb was unarmed, his vampiric strength suppressed to something “human” drom whatever that drink he swallowed, and zayne was to evade or disable him.

simple, on paper.

he rubbed his thumb anxiously against the hilt of the dagger. still there. don’t worry. it’s just caleb. he wouldn’t hurt him.

and yet…

air caught in his throat as he stared into the green-dark of the trees. how easily had he forgotten that caleb was still a vampire, no matter how calm his eyes looked? if he wanted to, he could snap zayne’s neck before the boy had time to scream.

he exhaled, steadying himself. it’s just training. just caleb.

“begin when you’re ready,” caleb’s voice carried faintly from somewhere in the trees.

zayne swallowed hard. he shut his eyes and counted in his head.

one. two. three. each beat matched the drum of his pulse.

by the time he reached ten, his legs moved on their own into the forest, breath quickening, every sense sharp with nerves. every snap of a twig could be him. every shift of leaves could mean caleb’s eyes watching.

the dagger’s weight against his thigh was both comfort and curse.

zayne had been here countless times already, walking these paths with caleb’s steady shadow at his side. but now—without him—everything felt wrong. too open. too still.

it wasn’t that caleb was gone. no—he was here. somewhere. watching. waiting. that thought hollowed the forest into something unfamiliar. caleb’s absence from his side was worse than if zayne could see him outright. it meant he could be anywhere.

zayne forced himself to breathe evenly, the way caleb had taught him. listen. observe. don’t panic.

but it was hard not to panic when every rustle sounded like footsteps. when the crack of a branch in the distance made his stomach flip. when he swore he felt eyes boring into the back of his neck.

he moved carefully, crouching slightly, brushing aside branches.

his heart thudded so hard it almost drowned out the forest itself. still, he forced himself onward, weaving between trees, ears straining for the faintest sound.

then—rustling.

his whole body froze. the hair at the back of his neck rose as his grip on the dagger tightened. he spun toward the sound, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling too quickly. caleb’s voice echoed in his head again: breathe. focus. don’t let fear decide for you.

but his heart was hammering too loud to listen.

he raised the dagger, point trembling in the air, and waited. heaving heavily, ears ringing with anticipation.

the rustling stopped.

a pause. a dreadful pause.

and then, from behind the bush, a pair of small wild critters scurried out—startled by his presence—before disappearing deeper into the underbrush.

“…oh.”

zayne stood there, stunned, dagger still raised. then the tension drained from him all at once, leaving his arms heavy, his knees unsteady. he lowered the blade slowly, his breath escaping in a long exhale.

he crouched down, pressing his free hand against his thigh to steady himself. his chest ached from how hard his heart had been pounding.

he hadn’t even seen caleb yet. not once. and already his body felt wrung out, like every nerve had been stretched too tight.

“how pathetic,” he muttered to himself, biting down on his lip.

pathetic that he was this tired from shadows and animals. pathetic that he could already feel fear gnawing at him. pathetic that this was supposed to be training, and he hadn’t even been tested yet.

zayne squeezed his eyes shut.

if he couldn’t even keep himself together here—safe enough, with caleb only pretending—what chance would he have if it were real?

when the monsters came again?

when it was his life on the line, and not some test?

but then—he felt it.

a finger, poised just above the back of his neck.

his body moved before his mind caught up.

the dagger came up with a scrape of metal against his sleeve, his body twisting on instinct, blade slashing through the space where the threat had been.

but the figure was gone—no, not gone. moved. back. just out of reach. the blur of shadow pulled away with a grace that mocked him.

zayne staggered, feet digging into the earth. his head pounded, vision swimming with static. he could barely process whether it was caleb or something else, someone else. his brain screamed for reason, for recognition, but adrenaline burned it all to ash.

it didn’t matter.

he saw only shapes. dark. dangerous. a predator looming where no one should be.

the only thing that mattered was survival.

that was all. that was everything.

the shadow shifted again, and zayne’s body lurched forward, blade striking at the dark.

the first clash came and went like a blink. zayne’s blade cut through air, missing the figure by inches, and in the next instant he was forced to stumble back, ducking from a hand that could’ve easily snapped his throat.

minimize your voice. caleb’s words burned in his head. don’t alert the forest where you are.

so zayne gritted down on the panic, swallowing his breath, forcing every sound smaller. no cries, no yells—just short grunts, choked gasps when a fist skimmed too close, the sharp thud of his shoes against the roots. his body trembled, not with fear alone, but with the effort of containing it.

this wasn’t a drill.

drills had patterns, repetition. a predictable arc of movement. this—this was chaos. messy, uneven, shifting every second. the shadow didn’t strike the same way twice. zayne couldn’t anticipate, only react.

too slow, always too slow.

but he moved.

he ducked. he swung. he shoved his shoulder hard into a chest he couldn’t quite see, enough to stumble the shadow back for half a second. his dagger arm jerked forward again, wild, uncontrolled, but sharp enough to keep distance.

no grace. no strategy. just raw scrabbling survival.

his heartbeat thundered in his skull, air came in short bursts. the dagger shook in his grip but he kept it raised, kept it moving, even as his arms ached. his feet slipped in the dirt, nearly sent him down—but he caught himself, scrambled upright, pushed back against the pressing dark.

it didn’t matter if he looked like a wild animal.

it didn’t matter that his movements were clumsy, untrained, born of fear instead of form.

what mattered was that he kept going. that he didn’t stop.

stay alive, his mind pulsed, a drumbeat in time with his chest. stay alive. stay alive. just stay—

and then—too fast to catch—the shadow stepped in. one sharp, decisive movement.

zayne’s wrist was seized mid-swing, his arm wrenched aside.

a heartbeat later, the forest floor slammed into zayne’s back, knocking the air from his lungs. his dagger flew from his grip, skittering into the underbrush. panic surged hot and sharp through his chest as weight pressed down, pinning his arms.

zayne thrashed, teeth clenched, his voice a muffled grunt. his legs kicked, his shoulders twisted—but the figure above him didn’t budge. he was caught.

no.

caleb’s voice echoed in his skull, sharp as steel: if you’re pinned, don’t fight the hold. break the balance.

zayne sucked in a sharp breath and tried—he jerked his hips sideways, snapped one knee up, twisted his wrist the way caleb had shown him, not clean, not fluid, but enough—enough to throw the figure slightly off.

that single slip was all he needed.

he rolled, rough and clumsy, until the dirt scraped his elbows raw. his hand fumbled, reached, and found the dagger’s hilt. he gripped it tight, knuckles white, and before he knew it—before he could think—he was on top, straddling the figure, the blade raised high.

gasps tore from him.

the shadow was beneath him now. pinned. helpless.

one move. just one move, and he’d prove he could survive. that he wasn’t weak. that caleb had taught him well.

his arm trembled, dagger poised—

—and then his vision sharpened. the dark blur, the threatening shape, snapped into focus at last.

caleb.

his face, calm as always, unflinching beneath the blade. just watching.

zayne froze.

the dagger trembled in his grip, so close to striking, so close to ending something that wasn’t an enemy at all. his whole body shook, torn between instinct and recognition, fear and sanity clawing for control.

the dagger didn’t fall.

“why’d you stop?”

caleb’s voice cut through the stillness like a blade. steady. inevitable.

zayne’s grip on the dagger tightening until his knuckles turned bone white.

“zayne,” caleb’s voice dropped, quieter, yet sharper than the edge of the dagger itself. “finish it.”

the words slammed into him like a strike.

zayne’s chest convulsed with shallow breaths. his vision blurred at the edges. finish it. he heard it before—different scene, different prey. the wolf, limping into the trees, leaving behind that expectant silence. caleb’s eyes on him then, caleb’s eyes on him now.

the same look. the same test.

kill it. end it. prove you’re not weak.

but caleb wasn’t a beast cornered and bloodied. he wasn’t some faceless shadow of the forest. he was right there, staring back at him—calm, unflinching, waiting for the choice.

zayne’s arm shook violently. he could see it in his mind: the dagger plunging down, the warmth spilling over his hands, caleb’s stillness broken not by struggle but by the end. he could do it. he had the chance. he had the upper hand.

vampires heal fast. they always do.

so why couldn’t he move?

his throat burned. his chest ached. he couldn’t breathe right.

“why—” his voice cracked, nearly a sob, the dagger lowering by an inch. “why do you keep making me—?”

the question broke apart, ragged and raw, but the meaning bled through.

why do you keep making me choose between being human and being something else?

and just like before, zayne couldn’t do it. the dagger trembled in his hand, lowered but never driven home. his eyes were wide, shaking, hollow with conflict—but still he hesitated.

again.

caleb’s chest tightened, the sight clawing at something old, something festering. he felt the heat of anger rise, sharp and bitter.

why? why was it always the same?

why was it that every human he met—every fragile, fleeting thing—was like this?

so weak. so naïve.

…so merciful.

when the world deserved none of it. when mercy had only ever led to flames and screams and the stench of burning flesh.

his hand shot up before he realized it, fingers locking like iron around zayne’s wrist. the boy gasped at the sudden pressure, dagger rattling in his trembling grip.

and suddenly—caleb wasn’t seeing zayne anymore.

he saw small hands clawing at the dirt as villagers dragged a little girl toward the cross. her cries tearing into the night. the smell of smoke, of pitch, of betrayal.

“a witch!” they had screamed, their faces twisted with fear and hatred as the flames licked higher, as she screamed his name—

“caleb!”

the present snapped back, zayne’s voice breaking through as he struggled above him. “it hurts!”

caleb blinked up at him, expression unreadable, but his grip on zayne’s wrist tightened until the boy’s bones creaked. his voice, when it came, was low—flat, dangerous.

“does it now?”

zayne gasped, eyes wide. he tried to yank his arm back, but caleb’s hold was unyielding.

“you said you wanted to be strong,” caleb went on, his tone iron, heavy as chains. he shifted with a sudden pull, dragging zayne’s arm downward, forcing the boy’s dagger against his own chest.

zayne froze.

the steel pressed just over caleb’s heart, the tip dimpling fabric, pricking skin. the faintest dot of red welled up.

“then learn this,” he hissed. “don’t hesitate. if you want to live.”

zayne’s chest heaved, his arms trembling so violently the blade rattled between them.

“do it,” caleb said, steady, merciless. “don’t think. don’t wait. don’t hope they’ll spare you. they won’t.”

“stop—let me go!” zayne’s voice broke, high and desperate as he twisted, trying to wrench himself free. panic made his hands slippery with sweat, his grip on the dagger weak and shaking.

but caleb didn’t release him. his grip was cold iron, dragging zayne closer, closer, until the boy’s small frame nearly collapsed against him.

“strike, zayne.” his voice sharpened into a growl, something primal bleeding through, something not meant for him but for the ghosts clawing at caleb’s insides. “before they take everything from you. before they burn it all.”

the dagger trembled harder.

“i can’t—” zayne choked, muscles straining against caleb’s hold. “i don’t want to kill you!”

that stilled caleb.

the boy’s eyes—wet, furious, desperate—locked with his.

“i—” his voice broke. “i’m not you.”

the dagger slipped from his trembling grip, clattering uselessly to the dirt between them. his freed hand shoved weakly against caleb’s chest, a defiance that carried no weight except his refusal.

silence rang between them, heavy.

caleb’s expression didn’t change at first. his eyes flicked from the dagger in the dirt to zayne’s pale, shaking face.

he let go.

the moment caleb’s grip loosened, zayne staggered back. his wrist throbbed where the fingers had bitten deep, but he barely noticed. the dagger still lay between them, dark against the dirt, but he couldn’t even bring himself to pick it up.

he just wanted away.

zayne lurched to his feet, legs unsteady, and without a word—without daring to look back—he turned and ran.

branches whipped at his face, roots caught at his ankles, but he didn’t stop. his body screamed with every step, lungs burning, wrist aching, his heart slamming so hard he thought it might burst. he wanted the trees to swallow him whole, to put anything, everything, between himself and caleb’s gaze, between himself and that voice telling him to kill, to be like him.

“no,” he hissed under his breath, though no one was there to hear. “i’m not— i won’t—” his words broke off, swallowed by the forest.

the sting of hot tears blurred his vision. he scrubbed at them with his sleeve, furious at himself for crying, for shaking, for running like a child. but his legs didn’t stop. they carried him deeper and deeper into the forest, past where the light began to thin, past where even the birds fell silent.

the world pressed close, suffocating. the silence after his pounding footfalls was too heavy, too loud.

and only then—when he finally stumbled against a tree, clinging to the rough bark for support, chest burning as if it might split open—did the thought pierce through him.

he was lost.

alone.

again.

with only caleb’s words echoing in his head: don’t hesitate. strike. before they burn it all.

zayne squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead hard against the bark as if he could shut those words out, drive them away. but they lingered.

he wanted just a moment—a moment to breathe, to be alone, to clear caleb’s voice out of his skull.

but the forest wouldn’t give it to him.

leaves rustled behind him.

“go away. i don't want to see you—” he snapped, voice sharp, breaking at the edges. but when he turned—

it wasn’t caleb.

yellow eyes gleamed low in the brush. then another pair. and another.

the wolf he had spared, its limp still faint in its gait, stood at the front. fur bristled, lips peeled back over sharp teeth. and behind it—three more shadows slipped from the undergrowth. larger, uninjured, circling with the low patience of predators that had already decided the outcome.

zayne’s stomach dropped. his hands went clammy, reaching instinctively for the dagger—only to realize he’d left it behind.

the bitter laugh that escaped his throat wasn’t really a laugh at all. more like a choked, hollow thing. “of course,” he whispered to no one. “of course it’s the forest again. of course it’s me again.”

the wolves fanned out, their paws soundless against the leaf-litter. the limping one’s growl deepened, as if it remembered him. remembered the mercy.

and in the flicker of zayne’s mind, the thought stabbed sharp and cruel: this is what kindness gets you. teeth at your throat.

his heart hammered. his back pressed against the tree. he wanted to scream for caleb, for anyone—but the words stuck, heavy, as though speaking would break him completely.

the pack crept nearer.

and zayne realized—he’d been so desperate to escape caleb that he’d run straight into something worse.

the first wolf moved like smoke—one blink it was crouched, the next it was airborne. zayne barely twisted aside, the rush of hot breath skimming his cheek before claws scraped bark where his head had been. another came from the left, a flash of teeth and fur, and he swung his arm wildly, stumbling back. for a heartbeat he thought he’d escaped—

—but the ground betrayed him. his heel slid on wet mud, slick from the rain.

wide open.

the growl was behind him now, close, terrifyingly close. he squeezed his eyes shut, the stink of wet fur and blood filling his lungs. he could already feel it—jaws closing around his throat, bones snapping.

and then—nothing.

silence.

the bite never came.

zayne’s eyes flew open.

caleb was there, crouched low over him, body angled like a shield. a wolf had its jaws sunk deep into his shoulder, muscles straining, shaking with the effort of tearing flesh. blood spilled thick down his sleeve.

but caleb… caleb didn’t move. didn’t flinch. his face was calm, terrifyingly so. his eyes—once the muted violet zayne had come to know—now burned a deep, blood-red, gleaming even in the forest shadows.

“this is why…” caleb muttered, voice low, almost to himself.

his free hand rose, fingers spreading. they found the wolf’s head, gripping just behind its ears. the animal thrashed harder, its teeth grinding deeper into muscle, ripping at him. a normal man would be screaming.

caleb only sighed.

and then—his hand tightened.

the wolf whimpered, a broken sound. bones gave way beneath his palm with a crack like snapping branches. the thrashing stopped. its body sagged, jaws loosening from his shoulder at last.

caleb let the corpse drop to the mud with a wet thud. blood—his and the wolf’s—spattered across the leaves.

the pack froze mid-step, their growls cut short. yellow eyes flicked from the twitching corpse at caleb’s feet to the man himself.

he straightened, slow, steady. his bloodied hand hung loose at his side, dripping into the mud. his other arm flexed where the bite wound tore his flesh open—but still, he stood unshaken.

then he looked up.

the glow in his eyes sharpened, a crimson blaze that cut through the shadows. a single, pointed look. not a word. not a sound.

the wolves faltered. one whimpered, tail lowering. another bared its teeth—half-hearted, desperate.

caleb took a single step forward.

that was all it took.

the pack broke. in a flash of fur and panic, they scattered into the trees, yelps and snarls fading into the dark. the forest was silent again, save for the wet drip of blood and zayne’s uneven breathing.

caleb exhaled slowly, shoulders lowering with controlled restraint. the crimson in his eyes dulled, but it did not vanish entirely. his hand flexed once, cracking dried gore from his palm before he finally glanced back at zayne.

the boy was still on the ground, mud on his clothes, wide-eyed. trembling.

caleb tilted his head, his voice steady—too steady for what had just transpired.

“…you can’t afford to hesitate.”

“the young master hasn’t come downstairs for days now.”

“…i see.”

rafayel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes flicking lazily toward caleb as the other man continued wiping the kitchen counters in silent strokes.

“something happened that day,” rafayel said finally, his tone deceptively light.

caleb didn’t pause. “is that a question or a statement?”

rafayel rolled his eyes, sharp teeth glinting as he exhaled through his nose. “tch. i’m not in the mood to feel stabby today, so i’ll keep it plain: whatever it is, make up with him. humans are such fragile and sensitive beings. you look away for one second and they’d be floating off the water surface, cold and dead.”

caleb finally stilled, cloth pressed against wood. slowly, he turned his head, eyes narrowing.

“you’re speaking as if he’s a hamster.”

“that too,” rafayel said, lips curving into a grin. “though i doubt even hamsters sulk for days after being cornered.”

“...you weren’t there.”

“no,” rafayel said smoothly, “but i can taste it on him. fear. confusion. he reeks of it still.” his grin widened, shark-like. “you overdid it.”

for a moment, silence hung heavy. caleb’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer.

rafayel clicked his tongue, pushing off the doorway with a flick of his finned coat-tail. “if he withers, sylus will be displeased. and unlike me, he doesn’t scold with words.”

“and since when do you care? he frowned, slightly irritated now. he moved to the sink. “i thought you’d be happier to see him dead.”

“don’t put words in my mouth, landratte. i said i hate humans. i never said i wanted this one to drown in his own misery.” he huffed. “besides… he’s entertaining. i’d hate to lose that.”

caleb’s jaw tightened, gaze still fixed on the dish in his hands. his fingers flexed once, too tight, and the porcelain cracked with a sharp snap. he cursed under his breath and set the pieces aside.

“you’re twisting it,” caleb muttered, voice low. “you know exactly why i…” he trailed off, catching himself before the words could finish. his throat worked, silent.

“why you what? why you looked at him like he's already dead?” he drawled it slow, savoring the way caleb stiffened. “i don’t need to feel emotions to see them, caleb. you carry ghosts like chains.”

the silence stretched, heavy. caleb’s hand hovered over the broken shards on the counter, but he didn’t move.

“…i pushed too far,” he admitted finally, voice almost a growl, like dragging confession from between his teeth. “i know.”

rafayel’s smirk softened just a fraction—still sly, but less cutting. “then fix it. before he starts looking at you the way he looks at sylus.”

caleb’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “and how’s that?”

rafayel chuckled low, shaking his head as he pushed off the counter, walking past him with a lazy swish of his coat.

“like a monster,” he said simply, and the sound of it lingered long after he left the kitchen.

caleb stood alone, the broken porcelain still on the counter, his reflection warped in the sharp edges.

as if he doesn't see all of them like that.

caleb stood before the boy’s door longer than he cared to admit, the plate in his hands warm from the fresh pastries he’d pulled from the oven. the smell of butter and sugar clung to him, unfamiliar, almost ridiculous in a place like this. he shouldn’t be here. he shouldn’t care. and yet—here he was.

he exhaled, steadying himself, then raised a hand to knock lightly.

“master,” he said, voice even. “may i come in?”

silence.

he waited. counted his breaths. no answer came.

caleb’s eyes narrowed faintly. the boy’s silence was answer enough—an invitation or a test, he wasn’t sure. he set his jaw, shifted the plate into one hand, and turned the knob.

the door creaked open.

thunk.

the dagger whistled through the air before he even stepped inside. caleb tilted his head, and the blade buried itself into the wall behind him with a sharp, ringing bite.

he stopped just past the threshold, gaze flicking from the vibrating hilt to the bed.

the boy sat hunched beneath his blanket, only one arm poking free—the arm that had thrown. his face half-hidden, eyes sharp, watching him.

caleb’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “...good aim.” his commented flatly, but not unkind. “though you’ll want to learn restraint before you skewer the wrong target.”

he shut the door softly behind him, crossing the room with the same unhurried calm he always carried, and set the plate on the desk. the sweet scent filled the quiet space.

“peace offering,” caleb said simply, dusting his hands against his coat as if to rid himself of the awkwardness that clung heavier than flour.

on the bed, zayne said nothing, but his hand tightened in the blanket, his eyes locked warily on the pastries.

“i don’t want to talk to you.”

“then don’t.” caleb’s voice was level, clipped, as if the words were not for argument but fact. “just eat. stop trying to starve yourself into the grave. you’ll only make it easier for monsters that aren’t me.”

he moved toward the bed. but the moment zayne flinched, shrinking into himself under the blanket, caleb stopped cold. he let the space stretch between them before stepping back toward the door instead. his eyes fell on the dagger still trembling in the wall. he reached over, yanked it free without effort, then turned the blade in his hand as if weighing it.

“are you afraid of me now?”

the boy’s silence filled the room, heavy and sharp. caleb waited, his gaze steady but unreadable.

finally, zayne huffed, the sound wet at the edges of his throat. his fists tightened around the blanket.

“why do all of you keep asking me that?” his voice cracked with the force of it, too loud in the small room. “afraid of you, of any of you—what does it matter? you’re monsters. what am i supposed to say?”

caleb’s eyes flickered—something unspoken passing like a shadow across his face.

he leaned against the doorframe, dagger turning once more in his fingers before he set it down on the desk beside the plate. his tone was quiet, not defensive, not sharp, but firm in a way that made it impossible to tell if it was anger or truth:

“you’re supposed to say whatever you mean.”

zayne’s head snapped toward him, eyes hot and wet. “and if what i mean is that i hate you? that i wish every one of you had burned in the sun before you ever touched my life?”

the words tore out of him raw, like glass in his throat.

caleb didn’t flinch. his expression remained steady, though his jaw tightened ever so slightly. “then say it.”

zayne stared, breathing hard, the blanket pulled so tight around him it trembled. “...and then what? you’ll kill me? or you'll leave me alone?”

caleb’s jaw worked, slow and stubborn as a thing trying not to crack. he watched zayne with the steadiness of someone who’d learned how to hold a shape against the wind.

“i won’t kill you,” he said finally, voice low and flat. he did not say i won’t take you by force—there was no need. the boy’s whole life, caleb knew, had been a litany of things taken. “nor will i leave. that isn’t what i do.”

zayne’s laugh was small and bitter, a sound that scraped. “then what are you? a babysitter? a predator with manners?”

caleb let the question sit a moment, then turned slightly so the light picked out the old lines at his mouth. “neither,” he answered. “i am what i am. i am also the one who tried to be a man for others until those others lit the world on fire.”

he didn’t offer the details—he’d learned long ago there was cruelty in telling a wound’s shape aloud—but tension crept up his spine in a way that sketched the past.

his hand moved—an almost invisible shift, nothing like the grab that had pinned and forced before. he placed the dagger beside the plate, then folded his hands, palms flat against his thighs. he did not reach for zayne. he did not close the space.

“if what you mean is what you wish,” caleb said softly, “then i will hear it.” there was no bait in it. no scorn. only the bare truth of consent: the boy could keep his rage, shout it until his voice broke, and caleb would not pretend it could unmake the past. “i will catalog it. i will remember it. but i will also stand between you and those who come for you.”

silence grew thick between them. the scent of warm butter sawed through it like something human and absurd in a house of monsters. zayne’s hands curled white at the quilt. his eyes glittered—red at the rims, furious and exhausted in equal measure.

“why do you care?” he whispered, the question hardly audible. “why do you stay if you don’t have to?”

caleb’s eyes went somewhere private.

“because i will not fail you.” he offered his palm out to him. "i will not force you. if all you have is mercy, then my hands will protect you from blood...unless you choose otherwise."

it wasn’t an excuse. it wasn’t a plea for absolution. it was a statement carved out of something that still ached.

the blanket trembled with the force of zayne’s breath. for a moment the boy looked as if he might hurl the pastry plate across the room or fling the cover aside and bolt.

but his stomach betrayed him first. it growled, loud in the silence.

zayne’s face burned. caleb said nothing, but the faintest flicker of amusement touched his eyes before it was gone. he pushed away from the doorframe, the sound of his boots soft against the floor as he moved toward the exit.

“eat,” was all he said, his hand brushing briefly over the door handle. “i’ll come back tomorrow. if you throw the plate, aim better.”

and with that, he stepped out, shutting the door quietly behind him.

zayne sat there, blanket tight around his shoulders, staring at the steaming pastries on the desk. his hand trembled as he pulled it free, torn between reaching for the dagger or the food.

in the end, his fingers brushed the plate.

the blanket muffled his voice when he whispered, “...idiot.”

Chapter Text

days passed like shadows slipping across the floor, marked with the slow withering of flowers left at a grave.

it wasn’t that zayne forgot the date. he simply stopped acknowledging them.

threaded only by his visit to the cemetery, a bouquet in hand and silence on his lips. that was how he counted time now. by how many times he’d knelt before the headstones, how many jasmines he’d laid down.

grief had dulled at the edges. the kind of dull that wasn’t peace, but numbness—a hollow that became part of him. the nightmares still visited, dragging him back into cold waters, screams, and hands he could never reach.

rafayel was always there when they came, lurking like a shadow at his bedside, voice low, soothing his storm until his breathing steadied.

at least now the vampire wasn’t feeding from his terror anymore. small mercies.

but the manor itself was a cage lined with velvet.

each corridor too quiet, each room too suffocating. zayne realized, with a kind of quiet panic, that if he didn’t do something—anything—he would eventually stop feeling altogether.

so he insisted. demanded. fought sylus tooth and nail until even the vampire’s amused taunts fell flat. zayne wanted out—wanted to learn properly, not from four creatures who couldn’t bleed, couldn’t sicken, couldn’t die the way humans did.

he still remembered staring sylus dead in the eye the day the vampire lazily offered, “i could split open my chest and let you study what’s inside, if that’s what you want.”

zayne had only glared back, horrified.

in the end, they relented.

and so, barely fifteen years old, zayne walked through the gates of the medical academy. the youngest by far—surrounded by adults, apprentices, scholars already deep in their fields. their stares lingered, curious, skeptical, some even pitying. but when they heard the name li, their suspicion shifted.

the lis had been pioneers—his parents had left behind groundbreaking research, cures, discoveries that still carried weight in every medical hall. the professors welcomed him cautiously, offering condolences he answered only with a nod.

he thought the hardest part would be proving himself.

he was wrong.

because what truly unsettled his peers were the four shadows that always lingered at his side.

not one, not two, but four butlers—though never all at once. each day it was a different man, yet always the same faces.

they never blended in. they didn’t try to. students whispered behind zayne’s back, wondering why a boy needed such guardians, why their presence sent chills down spines even in daylight. professors gave tight smiles, tolerating the strangeness because of his name.

zayne pretended not to notice.

but he felt it. every day. the weight of their gazes, the whispers that trailed him, the way others kept their distance.

even here, in a place where he should have belonged, he was still alone.

still, when he sat in the lecture halls, notebooks spread open, pen gleaming beneath the lamplight, there was a flicker of something in him that hadn’t existed since he was ten.

purpose.

he wasn’t just the boy in the haunted manor with monsters at his heel. he was zayne, student, future doctor.

even if, when he looked up, he always caught one of those four pairs of eyes watching from the back of the room.

when zayne turned sixteen, he treated his very first patient.

not a human.

but a vampire.

“unbelievable…” zayne muttered for the tenth time, rapping his knuckles against the bathroom door. “rafayel, open the door.”

there was no answer. just the faint slosh of water spilling over porcelain, the sound of a tub too full, waves lapping as though the ocean had been shoved into that small space.

it had been weeks ago since rafayel had breezily declared he’d be leaving the manor for “personal business.” he hadn’t explained—zayne hadn’t asked. the boy had only caught fragments of his rambling: something about the sea, about debts or bonds that “a young master like you wouldn’t understand.”

fine. zayne hadn’t cared to understand.

but he did care when rafayel returned, days later, dragging a trail of blood up the marble stairs, leaving crimson fingerprints on the walls like grotesque art.

sylus, of course, had been the one to explain—if “explaining” could be applied to his lazy tone. “silver bullet,” he’d said with a flick of his wrist, as though it were nothing more than a bee sting. “don’t fuss. he’ll live.”

and then sylus had left him there.

so what was zayne supposed to do? leave a thousand-year-old idiot to bleed out in his bathtub like some wounded fish?

the water shifted again, heavier this time, and zayne pressed his forehead against the door with a groan. “you’re over a thousand years old, and i’m the one fussing over you. do you hear yourself? do you hear me? you’re supposed to be the immortal one, not—”

he cut himself off when another sound followed: a muffled hiss of pain.

zayne’s fingers tightened around the small medical kit he’d prepared. he wasn’t supposed to care. he wasn’t supposed to worry. but the sound of pain—no matter whose—set something in him trembling.

he knocked once more, sharper this time.

“open the door. or i swear i’ll break it down.”

no answer. only a low hum, muffled through water, as if rafayel were trying to soothe himself with a tune.

he wasn’t supposed to care. wasn’t supposed to feel this knot in his stomach at the thought of him bleeding out alone. but the image kept flashing in his mind: that iridescent tail slicing through the lake, those red eyes gleaming as they cut down monsters that wore the faces of his family.

the one who had pulled him out of the water when he was too small, too weak to save himself.

“i’m coming in,” zayne muttered, more to himself than to the man behind the door.

the knob turned without resistance—unlocked, of course. typical. a man who hoarded his secrets like treasure, but left doors unbarred as if daring someone to trespass.

the steam hit him first, warm and suffocating, thick enough to blur the world. then the sound: the constant drip-drip of water overflowing, the dull slap of it pooling onto the tile.

and then—

rafayel.

half-slumped against porcelain like some drowned god, hair the color of amethyst spilling in heavy strands down his shoulders, sticking to skin too pale under the lamplight. his tail, that iridescent marvel of shifting purples and blues, lay limp over the tub’s edge. it should have been dazzling. instead, it looked heavy, dim—dragged down by blood.

the wound was worse than zayne expected. just beneath his ribs, angry and blackened where silver had lodged, the flesh refused to close. every instinct screamed wrong. vampires didn’t stay injured. they didn’t sit there and fester.

and yet, here he was.

rafayel’s lashes fluttered, and those red irises—usually sharp, mocking—were hazy, dulled with exhaustion. still, somehow, his lips pulled into the ghost of a smirk.

“oh? finally decided to join me, little master?” his voice was soft, hoarse, but dripping with the same infuriating amusement as always. “don’t tell me…” his eyes narrowed faintly, the smirk deepening, “…you were worried.”

zayne’s jaw clenched. his grip on the medical kit whitened his knuckles.

“i should let you rot,” he shot back, though his voice wavered against his will. “would serve you right.”

rafayel’s chuckle was low, fragile at the edges—half a laugh, half a groan. “mm. cold words for such warm hands. you brought your toys, didn’t you? gonna play doctor with me?”

zayne grit his teeth and set the kit down on the sink counter with a clatter.

“quiet,” he muttered, rolling up his sleeves. “you’re bleeding all over the floor. if you can’t manage the dignity to die quietly, then at least hold still.”

rafayel tilted his head against the porcelain, lips twitching into that same insufferable curve. “such bedside manner. your patients will adore you.”

zayne ignored him, snapping open the kit. gauze. tweezers. scissors. antiseptic. all pitifully human tools, but it was all he had. he knelt beside the tub, water soaking through the knees of his trousers instantly. the warmth bit at his skin, heavy with the scent of salt and iron.

the wound was worse up close. black veins spiderwebbed out from the entry point, flesh puckering angrily around the embedded silver. zayne swallowed hard. he’d seen cadavers, read about poisonings, but this was—different. alive.

“hold still,” he ordered, voice thinner than he wanted.

“mmh,” rafayel hummed, eyes slipping half-shut, “as you wish, little master. do be gentle. it’s my first time.”

zayne froze, heat flooding his ears. “you—” he cut himself off with a sharp exhale, digging tweezers into the wound before rafayel could continue.

the merman hissed, grip tightening on the tub’s edge, but he didn’t move. his tail flicked, scales flashing faintly in the steam, and the water rippled against zayne’s arm.

the silver shard slid free with a wet scrape. zayne dropped it into a dish with a clink, and immediately pressed gauze against the wound. the black around it pulsed, refusing to fade.

“…it’s not closing,” zayne muttered.

“silver lingers,” rafayel replied, voice faint but still steady. “doesn’t matter how deep you dig. it leaves its poison behind. like betrayal.” his smile curved again, weak but sharp. “ugly, isn’t it?”

zayne ignored the words, pressed harder. the gauze soaked through, scarlet blooming fast. he cursed under his breath, fumbling for another wrap, but rafayel’s hand caught his wrist. cold, unyielding.

“don’t—” zayne started, but the words froze in his throat as rafayel gave a sudden pull, dragging him forward.

rafayel was looking at him. really looking at him.

not with his usual lazy amusement, not with that sharp-edged smirk that made zayne want to throw things. this was something else entirely. something raw and unguarded, like a mask slipping away without permission.

the silence stretched between them, heavy with steam and the soft drip of overflowing water. zayne's free hand still held the bloodied gauze, forgotten now, as he stared into those crimson eyes that seemed to be searching for something he couldn't name.

his voice, too, carried something hollow.

“if i had told you,” rafayel muttered, lips parting faintly, “that my blood could grant you eternity… would you drink it?”

the question hung in the air like a prayer, like a confession.

zayne blinked, caught off guard. the question was absurd. yet the way rafayel asked it, soft, ragged, stripped of his usual arrogance—it cut.

"if i had told you my tears could turn to pearls, my hair to a tonic for beauty, my scales to heal all disease…" rafayel's tail shifted weakly in the water, fins dragging heavy against the porcelain. the movement sent ripples across the surface, little waves that caught the lamplight. "and my eyes—beautiful, aren't they?"

he turned back to zayne then, and there was something desperately fragile in his expression, something that made zayne's chest tight.

"would you have asked me for them?"

zayne opened his mouth, but no sound came out. the question felt like a trap, but not one meant for him. this was about someone else, someone who had once stood too close to this same tail, these same scales, and asked for too much.

rafayel's grip on his wrist shifted, thumb brushing over zayne's pulse point with an almost unconscious gentleness.

"would you use me, master?" the word 'master' fell from his lips like poison, bitter and wrong. his smile flickered at the corner of his mouth, brittle as old glass. "and if i refused your order, would you hate me?"

the pressure on zayne's wrist increased again, cold seeping deeper, but it felt less like restraint now and more like an anchor. like rafayel was holding on to keep from drowning in whatever memory had surfaced.

"would you leave me?" his voice cracked on the words, just barely, just enough to make zayne's breath catch. "abandon me? betray me?"

the words hung there, unsteady, unfinished. but zayne didn’t need him to finish. the weight of it was clear, heavy as the ocean depths rafayel carried in his chest.

for a moment, zayne forgot the blood, forgot the wound. he stared at the man before him—not the sharp-tongued, mocking butler, not the creature of scales and red eyes. but someone asking questions like a child too afraid of the answer.

“i’m not—” his voice cracked, sharper than he intended. “i’m not like them.”

rafayel’s lips curved, but there was no humor in it, only a strange bitterness. “they all say that. at first.” his grip on zayne’s wrist loosened slightly, enough to let him pull away if he wanted. “and then they take, and take, and take until nothing’s left but bones. even monsters drown eventually.”

water dripped from his hair to the floor, trailing red with each drop. his eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable, but the words… they were too raw to be a lie.

zayne swallowed, anger rising where his fear should have been. “do you think i care about any of those?” he shoved the fresh gauze against rafayel’s side, firmer this time. “i’m not here because of what you can give me. i’m here because you’re hurt.”

for a beat, silence. rafayel stared at him, crimson eyes slowly melts into his usual pink blue hue catching the dim light, searching. and then—he laughed. soft, shaky, almost incredulous, but a laugh nonetheless.

“you’re strange, little master,” he murmured, sinking deeper into the water as though letting the sound cradle him. “strange… and stubborn.”

his lashes fluttered, heavy. the smirk he wore was faint now, but gentler, as if the bitterness had drained from it for the first time. “maybe you’ll prove me wrong.”

the words trailed into a low hum as his eyes finally closed, his body going slack against the porcelain.

zayne froze, panic clutching his chest until he felt the faintest stir of breath against his wrist—unnecessary, he knew, for a vampire like rafayel, yet somehow reassuring.

he pressed the gauze harder, breath shaking, jaw tight.

and then… nothing. just zayne sitting there in the quiet, the sound of water dripping and his heartbeat thundering in his ears, refusing to let go.

everything went well and stabilized. well, as far as zayne can assume for someone not human.

rafayel was… asleep, maybe, in the bathtub. zayne had no way of knowing for certain—vampires didn’t sleep the way humans did, didn’t dream. rafayel had reminded him of that more than once, usually with a smirk. but right now, with his head resting against the curve of the porcelain and his tail draped over the side.

zayne let himself sag down onto the floor, back pressed against the side of the tub. his clothes were already damp, hair clinging to his forehead from the steam and spilled water, so what was the point of leaving now? he’d been holding his breath for hours, tension coiled in his shoulders. at least here, in this stillness, he could finally exhale.

his gaze drifted to rafayel’s face. even in rest, the vampire looked like he carried the weight of something ancient, something crushing. always so loud, so infuriatingly smug—yet now, stripped bare of words, he was… quiet. vulnerable.

zayne glanced away quickly, chewing on his lip, heat pricking at the corners of his eyes. his thoughts tangled back to rafayel’s questions, the strange sharpness in his voice. he never talked about himself—none of them did. just bits and pieces and never the full picture.

but maybe silver loosened more than just the body. maybe it pried open the cracks in their silence.

on the counter, the petri dish gleamed faintly in the dim light. zayne reached for it, turning the small silver bullet between his fingers.

such a tiny thing. no bigger than the tip of his thumb, and yet it had nearly unraveled someone who had lived a thousand years.

his throat tightened. he raised the bullet higher, letting the ceiling light catch on its polished surface, and whispered, barely audible:

“…what were you doing out in the sea?”

when zayne turned seventeen, rafayel returned from one of his short sea journeys. as usual, he had vanished without warning, without offering so much as a hint of where he was headed or what he was doing.

and as usual, zayne had spent those days pretending not to care—pretending he wasn’t staring at the horizon whenever the wind drifted faintly across the estate, pretending he wasn’t half-expecting another trail of blood on the marble floor.

but this time rafayel came back in one piece. not just whole, but… lighter, almost cheerful.

“here,” rafayel said suddenly, shoving something into zayne’s hands.

zayne blinked, then looked down. “…a conch shell?” he lifted it up, turning it over. the surface shimmered faintly with painted colors, soft blues melting into pearl-white, a faint swirl of gold glinting where the light touched. he raised a brow at rafayel. “why?”

“rude,” rafayel scoffed, planting a hand dramatically against his chest. “it’s a special conch shell. look at the color—pretty, isn’t it?”

zayne squinted at him, unimpressed. “…please don’t tell me this was what you were looking for last year.”

“clever,” rafayel purred, flashing a wink. his smile was bright, playful, but his gaze slipped somewhere else for a moment, distant and reflective. “it was something i made with… someone not important.”

that pause lingered. it wasn’t like the jagged silence of before, not sharp with grief. this one was gentler, softened by time, touched with something wistful.

zayne frowned faintly, brushing a thumb over the painted grooves. “…and now you’re just giving it to me?”

rafayel’s lips curved into a softer smile this time, something almost fond. “consider it a souvenir.” he tilted his head, violet hair brushing over his shoulder as his eyes flicked to the shell. “…keep it safe. when i miss the ocean again, i’ll come visit you to borrow it back.”

zayne sighed, exasperation slipping through his voice even as his chest tightened. “then why not just keep it for yourself?”

rafayel leaned in, teeth flashing in that familiar grin. “because, young master… i wouldn’t have any reason to come see you then, would i?"

“...that's unnecessary."

“or,” rafayel added with a mock-serious tilt of his head, “should i let myself get hurt again so you’ll give me your attention?”

zayne glared at him, cheeks heating despite himself. “don’t joke about that.”

rafayel’s grin softened into something closer to a smile. “then keep it safe for me,” he murmured. “that way i’ll always have a reason to come back.”

zayne looked back down at the shell. its painted swirls glimmered like a frozen piece of the sea. for a moment, he imagined rafayel’s hands working over it, painting and carving, before throwing it away in a fit of some ancient, untold anger. and now—handing it to him.

he didn’t know what to say. so instead, he just nodded, cradling the conch like something fragile.

rafayel straightened, that teasing glint returning to his eyes. “good. don’t lose it, little master. if you do…” his grin turned sharp, but not unkind. “i might just have to come take you back to the ocean with me.”

zayne rolled his eyes but said nothing. he couldn’t quite explain why the thought didn’t sound as terrifying as it should.

Chapter Text

when zayne finally had breaks from his classes, he found himself wandering the manor halls. for years the estate had been nothing more than a shelter to him, a gilded cage where he endured, where he learned to keep breathing because he had no other choice. he never dared call it home. that word had been buried—locked away with the boy he used to be.

but now… his steps slowed. his gaze lingered.

the carved wood of the banisters, polished smooth by decades of use. the faint cracks in the marble tiles he remembered tripping over as a child. the scent of the old books and varnished furniture, the quiet hum of life that persisted in the manor even when he tried to shut it out.

for the first time in years, he looked with eyes that no longer seethed, that no longer denied or rejected. he looked softly. slowly. gently.

and the memories came back.

he could almost hear the rapid patter of paws against the floor, his dog chasing him as he ran down these same corridors. he remembered mother scolding him in that stern-but-smiling voice, always telling him not to run indoors. yet, inevitably, she would end up joining him, crouching behind the tall curtains, shushing him with laughter in her eyes as they played hide and seek until father came searching for them both.

father, always in a rush. papers tumbling from his arms as he dashed through the hallways, muttering to himself about patients, meetings, research. zayne used to follow the trail like breadcrumbs, collecting the fallen pages in his small hands. and when he finally caught up, he’d wrap his arms around his father’s waist, thrusting the papers back with a grin.

sometimes, if father wasn’t too busy, he’d indulge him—kneel down and read aloud a few cases, a story here, a patient’s recovery there. zayne hadn’t understood all the words back then, but he remembered the warmth in his father’s voice, the pride in his eyes.

and noah…

his throat tightened as his fingers brushed along the wood-paneled wall. noah had been more than a butler. he had been a friend, a mentor, a steady presence. a builder. a tinkerer. zayne remembered the wooden toys noah used to carve, funny little figures that sometimes toppled over, that sometimes broke when played with too roughly. but noah always laughed it off, and zayne kept every single one. even the broken ones. especially the broken ones.

they were still in his room, tucked away in a box. he realized, with a pang, that he had never been able to throw them out.

how long had he shut these memories away? how long had he convinced himself that remembering would only hurt?

zayne exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the cool wall. the ache was still there, but it wasn’t sharp anymore. not a blade pressing into his chest, but a dull ache that reminded him he had once been loved, once belonged.

he almost missed it—that faint, subtle shift in the air. the quiet presence that always followed him, never far. a shadow lingering at the edges of his nostalgia.

they never said anything when he wandered like this. not sylus, not caleb, not xavier, not rafayel. but he knew. they watched, they lingered, they waited. as though even in his silence, they could feel the way his heart was changing.

for the first time, the manor didn’t feel like a tomb. it felt… alive.

maybe not home. not yet. but something closer.

he came across a hallway he hadn’t walked in for years. it stretched quieter than the others, the rugs thinner, the air carrying the faintest smell of cedar and varnish. the walls were lined with paintings—his mother’s favorites. delicate landscapes, portraits of nameless women with wistful eyes, and bold swaths of color that didn’t quite match the rest of the manor’s stately collection. she’d loved these, said they made the hall feel warmer, brighter.

but what caught him wasn’t the paintings. it was the door at the end.

he stopped in front of it, brows furrowed. the handle was polished, not like the forgotten dust of locked rooms. had it always been there? he couldn’t remember. he tried to dig back through his memories, but they came up blank.

hesitation pinched at him, but his hand rose anyway. the knob turned easily beneath his fingers.

the door gave way with a soft creak, and for a heartbeat zayne braced himself for dust, cobwebs, the heavy scent of neglect. but the air was clean. faintly polished wood and linen oil lingered, subtle enough that it hadn’t been long since someone tended to the space.

his gaze swept across the room. a grand piano stood at the center, its lacquered body gleaming darkly even in the muted light. nearby, other instruments rested in quiet order—violins, a cello, even a harp, their cases propped carefully along the wall.

it struck him as strange. he had never seen anyone here. never heard a sound of music echo through the manor halls. and yet, the room was alive in its silence.

he stepped further inside, the floorboards muffled under his tread.

memories stirred—half-remembered stories his father had told him once, in a tone both admiring and cautious. the first heir of the li family had a sister. a girl who sang, who danced, who lived for melody. it was said she could charm birds from the air, silence a bickering crowd, make even the coldest heart pause with her voice.

until, one night, she died. mysteriously, during a performance, collapsing mid-song as though the music itself had betrayed her.

no one spoke of her much after that. she was a shadow in the family’s history, remembered only in whispers and clipped anecdotes.

zayne’s steps drew him to the walls where framed photographs hung, sepia faces frozen in their time. a girl with sharp eyes and a bright smile. a stage, flowers heaped at her feet. beside them, newspaper clippings yellowed with age, praising her talent in bold, flowery language. certificates, medals, awards—testaments to brilliance that had burned too briefly.

he lingered there, then turned, his gaze falling back on the piano.

it loomed like a monument. black and unyielding, yet still elegant, proud. he reached out, fingers brushing the cool surface. solid. real. waiting.

zayne swallowed, his throat tight with something he couldn’t name.

he had no gift for music. his mother had taught him to hum simple tunes when he was little, soft lullabies in the garden while they watered flowers together. but beyond that… nothing.

and yet, standing here, it felt wrong for the room to be silent.

his hand drifted lower, to the keys. he pressed one down gently.

a single note rang out, low and resonant, filling the room like a voice that had been waiting years to be heard again.

the sound echoed, lingered, and then faded into quiet.

zayne’s chest ached.

for a fleeting moment, he thought he felt the manor itself sigh, as though something long-forgotten had just breathed again.

“do you play?”

zayne startled, nearly slamming the cover shut. he turned sharply to find xavier leaning against the doorframe, half in shadow, his silver hair catching faint light.

“no,” zayne huffed, scowling to cover his surprise. “my mother used to say i was hopeless with instruments.”

“no one is hopeless.” xavier stepped further inside, his tone calm, unshaken. “it only takes practice.”

“spoken like a true musician…” zayne muttered under his breath, eyes flicking across the instruments lined neatly against the walls. then, louder, “are you the one tending to this room?”

xavier nodded once. “it’s a good place to sleep.”

“…right.” zayne muttered, skeptical, though a corner of him almost believed it. he turned back toward the piano, letting silence settle again. his fingers hovered above the keys but didn’t press them. the question left him before he could stop it.

“…did you know her?”

xavier didn’t ask who he meant. his gaze had already shifted to the framed photographs—the smiling girl, the spotlighted stage, the applause caught forever in still images.

“no,” he murmured, voice soft but steady. “she was already gone when the pact was formed.”

zayne’s chest tightened. he wanted to press, but xavier kept speaking, the words almost reverent, almost careless.

“but the heir at the time didn’t like how quiet the manor was. so when he learned i could play, he asked me to. he had no ear for music, but he liked to sit and pretend. pretend his sister still lived. pretend the halls weren’t haunted by what had been lost.”

his lips curved faintly—less a smile, more a shadow of one.

“but heirs change. opinions change. some didn’t like it when i played.” his tone shifted wry, brittle at the edges. “said it stirred ghosts better left to sleep.”

zayne studied him, uneasy. the thought of xavier—eternal, patient xavier—sitting at the piano, filling the manor with someone else’s memory, felt… heavy.

the words sank heavy in the air. zayne found himself staring down at the piano again, his reflection faint in the polished black surface. a boy who once filled these halls with laughter, now half-grown into a man who filled them with silence instead.

“...do you still play?” zayne asked.

xavier’s shoulders lifted in the ghost of a shrug. “sometimes. though i’ve come to prefer listening. the manor has its own music, if you know how to hear it—the footsteps, the creak of floorboards, the wind through the windows.” his eyes softened, just barely. “and your voice when you argue with sylus. loud enough to shake the rafters.”

zayne huffed a small, unwilling laugh at that. “that’s not music. that’s… noise.”

“noise is only unshaped sound,” xavier countered. “even noise has rhythm, if you listen long enough.”

there it was again—that strange way he had of making ordinary words heavy, layered. zayne turned back to the keys, pressing another note. this time higher, sharper, the echo almost mournful.

“you should play something,” he muttered. “if you still can.”

xavier was quiet for a long while, then he moved closer. his steps made no sound, but zayne felt the shift of the air as the vampire settled beside him. long, pale fingers hovered over the keys, hesitant in a way zayne had never seen before.

when he finally pressed down, the piano came alive. a simple melody at first, lilting and smooth, then growing richer as more notes joined in. it wasn’t cheerful, nor was it mournful—it was steady, patient, like waves against the shore or breath drawn in sleep.

zayne sat frozen, listening. the sound wrapped around him, filled the space between his ribs where loneliness had made a home.

when the last note faded, zayne whispered, “...i think the manor likes it better when it’s not silent.”

xavier’s lips twitched, the faintest smile tugging at them. “then perhaps,” he said quietly, “i’ll play more often.”

after that day, zayne found himself returning often to the music room.

sometimes he slipped in just to sit in silence while xavier played, letting the vampire’s long fingers draw sound out, music that curled through the halls like smoke. other times he busied himself with cleaning—dusting frames, organizing stacks of yellowed papers and brittle sheets that bore the handwriting of someone long gone.

he had even tried, once, to place his own hands on the keys. awkward, hesitant. but his hands were used to steadiness, to scalpels and stitches, not clumsy fumbling. and so, in time, he caught on.

“a fast learner,” xavier had murmured, after zayne managed to stumble through half a piece without breaking tempo. the praise had slipped out so easily it sounded almost absent-minded, but it had made zayne’s ears burn all the same. he brushed it off with a scoff, but he came back the next day anyway.

today, as they worked side by side, zayne leafed through a folder of loose sheets while xavier sorted another pile. he caught sight of notes that swirled upward and quickened, like laughter translated into ink.

“oh,” xavier said suddenly, pausing. he tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he scanned the paper. “this one was played in a ballroom.”

zayne perked up, leaning closer. “you can tell?”

“mm.” xavier’s gaze flicked across the bars, his lips moving faintly, as though he could already hear the melody swelling. “the rhythm isn’t meant for a stage. too round, too sweeping. it suits a dance.”

zayne smiled faintly, picturing her laughing and spinning in that imagined ballroom, the music filling her lungs as she played. she must’ve had fun with it.

but his reverie was cut short when xavier’s eyes flicked toward him.

“speaking of…” his voice was casual, but his gaze sharp. “do you dance, master?”

zayne blinked at him, caught off guard. “what? no.” he let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “mother tried to teach me once. i stepped on her feet more than the floor. she said i had two left legs.”

xavier chuckled softly, folding the sheet music and setting it aside. “most people do, at first.”

zayne’s eyes narrowed. “don’t tell me you’re about to offer—”

“why not?” xavier interrupted, voice calm, matter-of-fact. “if you can learn piano, you can learn to dance. both are patterns. both require rhythm.”

“i’m not interested,” zayne muttered, turning back to shuffle through the stack of pages. but the tips of his ears warmed, betraying him.

“you looked interested just now.” xavier’s tone was quiet, even, but zayne felt the weight of his gaze. “when you smiled. when you imagined her playing for a hall full of dancers.”

zayne stiffened, frowning at the sheet in his hand. “…that’s different. she deserved that kind of joy. i don’t.”

for a moment, xavier said nothing. then he moved closer, slow enough not to startle, and set one hand lightly on the piano’s polished edge.

“joy isn’t a matter of deserving,” he said, almost gently. “it’s a matter of allowing.”

zayne looked up at him then, lips parted, uncertain. xavier’s expression was unreadable as ever, but his hand—when it extended toward him—was steady, expectant.

“come. just one step. if you hate it, i won’t ask again.”

zayne’s heart thudded, loud in his ears. his fingers twitched above the sheet music, torn between pulling back and reaching out. every rational thought screamed to refuse, but—

slowly, reluctantly, he placed his hand in xavier’s.

the contact was immediate, electric. xavier's skin was cool as always, but the firmness of his grip sent an unexpected jolt up zayne's arm. before he could second-guess himself, xavier pulled him up from the bench with gentle insistence.

zayne stumbled slightly, caught off balance by both the movement and his own racing pulse. "i really don't know what i'm doing," he muttered, voice rougher than he intended.

"that's why i'm leading." xavier's reply was calm, unruffled, as he guided zayne into the open space between piano and wall. the room suddenly felt smaller, more intimate, with nothing but air and possibility between them.

xavier positioned zayne's left hand carefully on his shoulder. the fabric of his butler's coat was soft beneath zayne's palm, but he could feel the solid warmth underneath, the reality of muscle and bone that somehow made this more real than he wanted it to be.

"left foot first," xavier instructed, his free hand finding its place at zayne's waist. "don't think—just follow."

but zayne was thinking. couldn't stop thinking. about the hand resting lightly against his side, about how xavier's fingers seemed to span his waist with casual ease, about the way their bodies were suddenly occupying the same space in ways that made his skin feel too tight.

his feet moved anyway, stumbling into step as xavier guided him with frustrating, practiced ease.

it was awkward at first—zayne's natural instinct was to lead, to control, to anticipate. but dancing required surrender, required trusting someone else's rhythm. every time he tried to predict xavier's next move, he stumbled. every time he let his guard down, they found their flow.

xavier was patient, steady, never making him feel foolish even when zayne stepped on his feet or nearly tripped over his own legs. there was no music except xavier humming under his breath, low and melodic, a tune that seemed to wind around them both like an invisible thread.

gradually, zayne stopped fighting it. stopped overthinking each step and let his body remember what xavier had said—that he was light on his feet, that he could adjust and adapt. the tension in his shoulders eased fractionally.

"better," xavier murmured, approval warm in his voice. the hand at zayne's waist shifted slightly, thumb brushing against his side in what might have been encouragement or might have been something else entirely.

zayne's breath caught. they were closer now, close enough that he could see the faint flecks of light in xavier's blue eyes, close enough to feel the subtle shift of air between them with each movement. the rational part of his mind catalogued these details with clinical precision, but the rest of him was drowning in sensation—the scent of xavier's skin, the controlled strength in his movements, the way their hands fit together like puzzle pieces.

"you're nothing like what i expected a butler to be," zayne said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. his voice was softer than he intended, almost wondering. “sometimes I forget you’re supposed to be serving me.” 

the humming stopped.

xavier's step faltered—just for a heartbeat, just enough for zayne to feel the hesitation ripple through their joined movement. the hand at his waist tightened reflexively, as though xavier had caught himself from stumbling, then loosened again with deliberate care.

zayne looked up, frowning at the sudden shift in xavier's expression. something had shuttered behind those blue eyes, a wall sliding into place so smoothly zayne almost missed it.

"…did i say something wrong?" he asked, their dance slowing to a gentle sway.

“no.” xavier’s reply was quick, too quick. he guided zayne’s next step smoothly, but his gaze had drifted—away from zayne, away from the piano, as if his thoughts had been tugged somewhere far beyond the music room.

“then… why did you—”

“because,” xavier interrupted, softer this time, his tone dipping low. “a butler is what i am now. it is what i chose to be. the rest… doesn’t matter.”

zayne frowned deeper, searching his face. that calm mask was there again, steady and unshakable, but something behind it flickered—something that looked almost like grief, or regret, or maybe both.

he hesitated, then muttered, “for someone who tells me not to hold things in, you’re pretty bad at following your own advice.”

xavier’s eyes snapped back to him. for a moment, zayne thought he’d gone too far—but instead of a reprimand, there was only the faintest curve of a smile. wry. amused. …lonely.

“you’re not wrong,” xavier murmured, almost fondly. he slowed their steps until they stopped, the silence wrapping them both like a second skin.

zayne pulled back slightly, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. his ears burned. “…you really are overqualified,” he whispered, trying for lightness.

this time, xavier’s smile lingered. “perhaps.” he released zayne’s hand carefully, as though handling something fragile. “but the role suits me, nonetheless.”

and then, without another word, he turned back toward the piano, leaving zayne staring at the space between them—feeling like he’d just brushed against a part of xavier he wasn’t supposed to touch.

the manor was quiet that night. too quiet, even for immortals who had long since lost the need for sleep.

xavier moved soundlessly through the hallways, candlelight brushing his figure as though uncertain if it should touch him. his steps carried him to the music room, unbidden, as though the walls themselves guided him.

he closed the door behind him and crossed to the grand piano. for a long moment, he simply stood there, staring at the polished surface. his reflection stared back—unchanged, unaging, unending.

a slow breath escaped him. not because he needed it. just because.

he sat, lifting the cover, letting the faint scent of old wood and strings fill the air. his fingers rested over ivory keys. and then, with no sheet, no preparation—just memory—he played.

a slow intro. quiet, steady, deliberate.

“eat, xavier.” two human bodies hit the floor before him, lifeless eyes staring upward. his father’s shadow loomed tall and cold. “if you are to replace me one day, you should be strong like me.”

the tempo shifted—faster now, insistent.

“xavier, stop it right now!” the king’s voice thundered across the throne room, shaking the pillars. “you walk out of that door, and you are no longer the prince.”

his fingers softened, drawing gentler notes from the piano. a lullaby of sorts.

“xavier,” his mother’s voice. warm. a balm. she smiled at him, eyes full of sorrow and love. “must you leave?”

he nodded, too young to carry the weight of that decision.

she hummed, holding him close. “then make sure to come back again soon.”

for a heartbeat, the music soared, freer, lighter—like a bird lifting off.

but it faltered, broke. crashed down.

his mother’s corpse—silver plunged through her chest. his people’s screams as they fell one by one. his father’s head severed, rolling across stone.

the humans came like fire and ash, blades shining, vengeance burning in their eyes. and xavier—xavier who thought himself righteous for leaving—was not there. a tantrum. that’s all it was. his rebellion had left his kingdom defenseless.

his fingers stopped short of the final note.

because there was no end. there never would be.

xavier lowered his head against the keys, a discordant jumble echoing through the room. the sound shivered, fragile, then faded into silence.

the day he had joined sylus was the day he tasted human blood for the first time. revenge had driven him, rage had blinded him. he slaughtered every hunter who had dared raise a blade against his kin, killing until his body burned with silver wounds.

he had been ready to die.

but sylus found him. pulled him back. kept him tethered.

and now, here he was. a butler in a manor that wasn’t his, serving a master he hadn’t chosen, carrying centuries of a crown that had long since turned to ash.

xavier closed his eyes, as if silence could bury memory.

he didn’t know how long he stayed there, slumped against the keys, the piano’s body cold beneath his forehead. but when he stirred again, the darkness beyond the windows had softened.

the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, pale gold spilling across the floor, inching toward him. warm. comforting. like a hand from a memory long gone.

“the sun was never our enemy,” his mother had whispered once, her fingers brushing his cheek as they stood on philos’s castle balcony. her voice had been reverent, proud. “so many envy us for this gracious gift. protect it well, xavier.”

yes. protect it. he had promised.

and yet—what had he done? the kingdom lay in ruins, his people scattered to dust. only he remained with that gift. only him.

the hinges of the door groaned softly. not loud, but enough to catch his ear.

footsteps followed—gentle, hesitant, unarmored by immortality. a heartbeat. a rhythm so fragile xavier didn’t need to look to know.

the steps stopped beside the piano bench.

the cushion shifted as someone sat down. not a word was spoken, not a question asked. just a quiet presence sliding into the silence. until the faint shift of weight made the instrument hum again. the notes that spilled out this time were higher, softer. a jumble, yes—but lighter somehow.

xavier opened his eyes.

zayne sat beside him, mirroring his posture, his own head laid across the cool ivory. watching him not with pity but something else—something quieter, gentler. a wordless i see you.

the sunlight touched zayne’s hair, framing him in gold. for a brief, fragile moment, xavier thought he was dreaming—thought the warmth in the room belonged to philos again, to his mother’s laughter, to the life he’d lost.

but no. it was here, now. the boy beside him. the human who shouldn’t even have been brave enough to come close.

and xavier, who had spent centuries drowning in silence, found himself unable to look away.

“…you look tired.”

xavier blinked, slow, the weight of centuries pressing behind his gaze. “i don’t tire.”

“you do.” zayne’s voice carried no accusation, only certainty. he breathed out, almost a sigh. “not in the way i do, but…it's there.”

zayne shifted again, laying his cheek more firmly against the keys. his eyes fluttered shut briefly, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“…the song you played,” he murmured, “it sounded… lonely.”

xavier’s throat tightened. “it was.”

his voice was low, raw. a confession he hadn’t realized he’d spoken until it left his lips.

his lashes trembled, but his eyes stayed shut, his breath even and steady—as though the answer he’d gotten was enough. as though he knew, instinctively, not to reach deeper into wounds that weren’t ready to be touched.

xavier sat still. the silence pressed down, heavier with every second, yet it wasn’t the silence that had haunted him for centuries. this one was different. softer. warmer. not empty.

it was shared.

the boy’s heartbeat thudded gently beside him, fragile but persistent. a rhythm xavier hadn’t realized he had memorized until now.

for a long while, he only looked—at the faint crease between zayne’s brows, the unguarded curve of his mouth, the way his presence had slipped past the walls of xavier’s solitude without him noticing.

his hand twitched once, almost reaching, almost daring. but he stilled it. instead, he lowered his head again, cheek pressing against the keys, the low notes sighing beneath him. and he let himself—just this once—exist in the same silence as someone else.

morning crept through the curtains, pale gold spilling over the ivory, over zayne’s face, over the hollow places xavier had never thought could be filled again.

perhaps he couldn’t come up with an ending now. not for the song, not for the grief etched into his bones, not for the loneliness that clung like a second skin.

but maybe…

maybe staying with this one peculiar human would help him find one.

one that wouldn’t sound sad. one that wouldn’t echo with grief. one that could—just maybe—hold a fragment of something gentler.

and when the sun rose, he did not leave.

he simply stayed.

Chapter Text

zayne’s studies were finally complete. he was a doctor now.

the graduation ceremony should have felt triumphant—relief, pride, the culmination of years of effort. instead, it felt like suffocation. a ballroom that was too big, chandeliers glittering like eyes watching from above, and a suit that fit too perfectly to be his own. rafayel had shoved it into his arms hours earlier, hissing about how “the youngest li doctor in history cannot look like a librarian’s lost child.”

zayne tugged at the collar, wishing he could vanish into the marble floor.

his classmates laughed and mingled, pairs sweeping to the dance floor, glasses clinking. they tried dragging him along earlier—dragging him, the word was literal—but zayne had managed to slip away, letting them enjoy themselves without his sulking shadow.

no one approached him now. no one dared.

zayne didn’t have to wonder why.

he glanced to his side, and there stood sylus, tall and unnervingly composed in his own black suit. his expression was carved in the usual mixture of disinterest and faint disdain, as though everyone in the room was already beneath him and he was bored of the fact.

a wall of ice in human (well, vampire) form.

…zayne almost wanted to thank him for it.

“your sulking is loud,” sylus said without moving his gaze from the dancers. his tone was soft enough not to carry, but sharp enough to sting.

“i’m not sulking.” zayne muttered, arms crossed. “i just… don’t want to be here.”

“clearly. and yet here you are.” sylus tilted his head, finally cutting him a sidelong glance. “congratulations, by the way. youngest to earn the title in centuries. you’ll be remembered for it, whether you like it or not.”

zayne rolled his eyes. “i didn’t do it to be remembered.”

“no,” sylus said, almost to himself, sipping from the glass of untouched champagne he’d stolen from a tray. “you did it to prove you could survive without us. that you are more than a fragile boy playing at master.”

the words cut deep, because they were true.

zayne opened his mouth, closed it again, then frowned down at the floor. “you make everything sound ugly.”

sylus smirked faintly, a sharp curl of lips. “truth rarely flatters.”

the music swelled, a waltz that filled the ballroom. laughter rippled as another wave of students joined in. sylus’s eyes flicked over them with a faint curl of boredom, then back to zayne.

“do you want to dance?”

the words were so unexpected, zayne almost choked on air. “what?”

“relax,” sylus drawled. “i didn’t mean with me. though if you insist—”

“i don’t.” zayne hissed, face heating.

sylus’s low chuckle was soft, meant only for his ears. “you’re easier to amuse than i remembered.”

zayne glared at him, but his lips twitched against his will. for the first time that night, the room felt a little less suffocating.

“zayne,” a voice called warmly, pulling him from his thoughts.

he turned.

two familiar figures approached—james and leo, glasses of wine in hand, faces flushed with the kind of easy joy only a graduation night could give.

“ah—sorry,” james corrected with a grin. “perhaps it’s doctor li now.”

zayne’s back straightened unconsciously, the title still foreign in his ears. he gave a short nod. it’s gonna take a while to get used to that.

they clinked glasses, the sound ringing bright in the heavy ballroom air.

and then, inevitably, their gazes shifted to the tall, pale figure at zayne’s side.

"you as well, sir."

sylus did not move, did not smile. his crimson eyes barely flickered in acknowledgment before he let out a low grunt, sharp and dismissive.

james and leo exchanged a look, but only chuckled politely. they’d grown used to sylus’s presence during the years of study—his looming shadow in the library corners, his cold gaze on late walks home. strange, yes, but familiar enough now to not question.

“don’t mind him,” zayne sighed, as if explaining away an inconvenient thundercloud.

“it’s fine,” leo assured with a small smile.

and just like that, the conversation flowed. they reminisced about their sleepless nights, professors they hated, the exams that nearly killed them. they spoke of futures too—leo, planning to move to the capital to work under a renowned surgeon. james, set on traveling abroad for more studies.

zayne, when asked, admitted quietly, “i’m thinking of opening a clinic. somewhere close. the area i live in doesn’t really have one.”

“of course you are,” leo teased, raising his glass. “doctor li, always thinking ahead.”

but the warmth of the conversation chilled when james leaned closer, lowering his voice. “speaking of your area, did you hear? about anna’s brother?”

zayne stilled. “…no.”

leo’s expression darkened. “murdered. the autopsy came in just yesterday.”

zayne’s hand tightened around his glass, the stem biting into his palm. “murdered?”

james nodded grimly. “they didn’t release much detail, but… the manner of death was strange.”

“strange how?”

leo exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “like something out of a novel. they said his blood was drained.”

the stem of zayne’s glass creaked under his fingers.

“poor anna…” james muttered, finishing the last of his wine. he and leo shared a glance, clearly unsettled, then excused themselves to rejoin the others.

silence pooled around zayne as their laughter faded into the ballroom. he turned sharply to sylus, his voice low. “is that why you’re here?”

sylus didn’t answer right away. he swirled the champagne in his glass lazily, gaze sweeping over the dancers as if the slaughter of a man were as trivial as spilled wine. finally, he hummed.

“…caleb found a lead. he and xavier are following it now. rafayel is at the manor, keeping watch. there's more than one, a coven maybe. so we can't risk any opening.”

“and you?” zayne pressed, his throat tight.

sylus’s lips curved into a smirk that never reached his eyes. “i,” he drawled, “am here to make sure it doesn’t get any ideas about my master.”

zayne scoffed under his breath, lifting his own glass to hide the flicker of unease on his face. yeah, right.

sylus wasn’t worried about him—not really. he was more worried about the pact, definitely.

“and you… just happened to volunteer to be my guard tonight?”

sylus’s smirk curved wider, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “volunteer? you give me too much credit. you’re not exactly difficult to bait. all it would take is the wrong whisper in your ear, and you’d go sniffing where you shouldn’t. easier to put myself between you and the knife than deal with your corpse later.”

zayne frowned. “you make it sound like i’m useless.”

“not useless,” sylus corrected smoothly, swirling his glass of champagne as if the subject were casual dinner talk. “valuable. do you not understand the difference? humans kill for diamonds, gold, land… and what are you? a li heir with a mind worth a thousand scholars, blood laced with a debt we’ve yet to claim. you shine, master. creatures and pests will come for you like moths to flame.”

the words pressed on his chest like a weight. zayne’s jaw tightened. “and you’re saying i should just accept that?”

sylus chuckled low, sipping at his glass. “no. i’m saying you should accept me.”

zayne froze, caught off guard. sylus leaned closer, his voice dropping so only he could hear.

“you forget,” he murmured, “your leash isn’t only around your neck. it’s in our hands. and i, unlike whatever is bleeding your classmates dry, know the difference between protecting a master… and devouring him.”

their gazes locked. for a moment, zayne thought he saw something flicker beneath the arrogance in sylus’s eyes—something old, brittle, almost weary. but then it was gone, smothered beneath his usual sharp amusement.

zayne turned back toward the ballroom, pulse still thrumming too fast. the music swelled, laughter rising again. his classmates twirled and danced like nothing had changed, like the world wasn’t full of monsters watching from the dark.

“here.”

before zayne could react, sylus’s hand closed firmly around his wrist, tugging him forward. he stumbled, the wine in his glass sloshing dangerously close to spilling.

“what are you—” zayne hissed, steadying himself, scowling up at him.

sylus ignored the look, fingers deft as he fastened something small and cold onto zayne’s lapel. a pin. simple in design—black enamel, faintly gleaming under the ballroom light, an insignia he didn’t recognize.

zayne glanced down, then back up. “what? some kind of vampire magic?”

sylus’s mouth curved into a humorless smirk. “something like that. it’ll tell me when my cat is wandering too far.”

“…cat?” zayne’s frown deepened.

“mm.” sylus straightened the pin with unnecessary precision, his touch lingering just long enough to make it feel more like a collar than an accessory. “you bite. you scratch. you’re troublesome. suits you perfectly.”

zayne gritted his teeth. “why?”

sylus’s gaze sharpened, crimson eyes flicking toward the far end of the hall where the crowd pressed too tightly, where shadows seemed a shade too thick. his smirk didn’t falter, but zayne caught the shift—the stillness before a predator moved.

“i need to leave you for a bit,” sylus said finally, voice low enough that only zayne heard. “i’m getting the feeling there really is something here.”

zayne’s grip on his glass tightened, a quiet pulse beating in his throat. “and you’re just going to leave me?”

sylus leaned closer, lips brushing near his ear, a whisper more intimate than reassuring. “if anything tries to touch you, i’ll know. and it’ll regret it.”

then he stepped back, that smirk still painted across his face, and melted into the crowd with a fluid grace that left zayne bristling—and more alone than ever.

the ballroom was all light and chatter, the clink of glasses and polite laughter layered over the faint pulse of so many human hearts. too loud, too warm, too exposed. sylus slipped through it like smoke, a shadow in tailored black, crimson eyes half-lidded as though bored—but every step was purposeful, tracking.

the pin he’d fastened to zayne’s coat glimmered faintly in the corner of his vision. his tether. a single spark of awareness thrummed at the back of his mind, letting him feel the man’s presence—his stillness, his small fidgets, even the tightening of his breath when nerves got the better of him.

good.

if anything moved toward him with intent, sylus would know.

now, then.

he passed a waiter carrying a tray, and for the briefest second the young man’s shadow… lagged. too sharp. too stretched. a trick of the light to anyone else, but not to him.

sylus’s lips curled.

he followed without hurry, weaving through clusters of gossiping scholars and proud families until the waiter slipped into a service corridor. the door swung shut behind him. sylus opened it seconds later, noiseless.

the hall was empty.

but the scent was wrong.

not blood. not wine. something older, metallic, bitter.

sylus’s eyes narrowed, and he let his glamour peel back just enough for his fangs to catch the light.

“come out,” he drawled, voice echoing down the dark passage. “you’ve been sniffing around long enough. don’t tell me you dressed up just to run from me.”

silence.

then, from the far end of the corridor, a laugh—low, rasping, almost human.

“i was hoping to meet your little pet human. but perhaps the infamous sylus will do just fine.”

the voice grated against the walls, too thin to be wholly human. sylus strolled forward, unhurried, each footstep a quiet promise.

“you wanted to meet my human?” his smirk deepened, cruel. “pity. you’ll have to settle for me.”

the figure stepped into the half-light, the glamour sliding away like shed skin. his grin was too wide, his teeth faintly jagged, eyes burning with that telltale red sylus knew too well.

old blood.

“i’d never thought i’d see the day,” the stranger crooned, spreading his arms as though welcoming an old friend. “sylus the unyielding, breaker of chains, former executioner of the council… making a pact with a human. oh, how the mighty stumble.”

sylus didn’t move, only tilted his head, crimson gaze like a blade’s edge.

“if you wanted to be a servant so badly, you could’ve stayed with us,” the figure went on, laughter scraping raw in his throat. “the council would’ve gladly accepted you back.”

“and obey your words like a dog?” sylus’s tone was soft—deadly soft.

“there’s not much difference between that and what you’re doing now,” the man sneered. “that human of yours—zayne, isn’t it?—you did well marinating this one. young, unbroken, with just enough grief and bloodlines to season the soul. ripening him like fine wine.”

his grin widened, showing too many teeth. “such discipline, sylus. such restraint. is it loyalty? or are you just savoring the feast for yourself?”

for a moment, sylus said nothing. then his smile cut thin across his lips.

“you speak his name as though it belongs on your tongue.” he murmured, stepping forward at last, slow and precise, each stride tightening the air between them. “it doesn’t.”

the other vampire’s grin faltered—but only for a breath.

“oh, protective now, are we? how sweet. tell me, sylus, when the council learns of this—what will they call it? a weakness? or a betrayal?”

sylus’s eyes narrowed, fangs glinting in the dim light.

“call it what you like,” he said, voice sinking low, dangerous. “but touch him, and i’ll call it your last mistake.”

"then allow me to make that mistake."

the waiter’s face warped, the polite mask shattering. flesh rippled grotesquely, stretching and tearing as if the skin itself couldn’t contain what lurked beneath. his jaw cracked open wider than it should, fangs pushing through with a wet snap, eyes igniting into a sickly amber glow.

the uniform shredded at the seams as his spine arched, too many vertebrae forcing themselves upward, limbs elongating and curling like a predator unfolding from hibernation. veins bulged black against his skin, pulsing with corrupted blood.

sylus tilted his head, unimpressed, crimson eyes catching the faint shimmer of blood still clinging to the thing’s teeth.

“how unsightly,” he drawled, the words slow, heavy with contempt. his fangs flashed—not in hunger, but in warning. “did you really think you could challenge me while wearing that skin? pathetic.”

he stepped closer, movements precise, almost lazy. the air pressed down with every shift of his weight, as though the hall itself leaned away from him.

“honestly…” a chuckle, low, humorless, curling like smoke. “maybe i’ve been away from the scene too long, if carrion like you believe they can stand in my way.”

the creature snarled, spittle flying, claws flexing as it dropped to all fours. muscles rippled under torn fabric, the floor cracking faintly where its limbs struck.

sylus merely adjusted his cuff, as though preparing for something tiresome rather than dangerous.

“go on, then,” he murmured, voice rich with promise, with threat. his gaze burned, sharp as a blade drawn under moonlight. “make this interesting for me.”

the creature lunged.

sylus moved faster. one moment he was leaning lazily against the wall, the next his hand was buried in the thing’s chest, fingers curling around something pulsing. the creature shrieked, clawing at him, but he only tightened his grip, crimson eyes glowing like embers stoked.

“i don’t take kindly,” he whispered, low and vicious, “to vermin sniffing around what’s mine.”

the creature spasmed, mouth foaming, but still managed to hiss: “the human… smells divine… surely… you'll share…a taste—”

sylus’s fangs bared, sharp as razors. “you speak of him again—” he yanked, twisting until the shriek broke into silence “—and you won’t have a tongue to speak with.”

he dropped the husk. it hit the marble with a wet crack, melting almost instantly into a black smear that sizzled against the tiles before evaporating entirely.

sylus wiped clean the last trace of blood from his clawed hand. blood from these scums always tastes like rot that he wouldn't even want a taste of it. his gaze turned inward, to the faint tug at the back of his mind—the pin on zayne’s coat.

still steady. still safe.

he smoothed his cuffs, expression falling back into bored indifference as though nothing had happened at all.

when he stepped back into the ballroom, not a single thread of his suit was out of place.

sylus slipped back into the ballroom like a shadow reclaiming its place among the lights. no one looked twice; his presence was always too poised, too sharp, as though he belonged no matter the room. he smoothed a hand over his sleeve, tugged once at the cuff, and scanned the crowd.

and there he was.

zayne, stiff-backed in that tailored suit, glass held too tightly in his hand. his shoulders were drawn, jaw tense. a stranger leaned in, speaking low—too close, far too familiar. the way his eyes lingered on zayne wasn’t conversation. it was possession.

sylus’s lips curved faintly. irritation was a funny thing—it never showed sharp on him. it curled soft, subtle, the edge of a blade beneath silk.

zayne gave a clipped reply, polite but curt, gaze darting toward the exits as though weighing escape. oh yes—sylus knew that look. he’d memorized it over the years: the quiet panic buried under control, the little tells zayne hated being seen.

and here was this fool, prying.

sylus’s eyes darkened, a sliver of hunger sliding into his expression. how quaint.

how irritating.

he started forward, steps measured, deliberate. people shifted instinctively out of his path, though he never brushed against a single one. by the time he reached them, his presence was already suffocating, the air denser, colder.

“doctor li.” sylus’s voice cut smooth, like the sound of steel drawn from a sheath. “forgive my absence. it seems the wolves come sniffing the moment i turn my back.”

the man blinked, startled, fumbling half a step away under the weight of those crimson eyes. sylus smiled then—polite, razor-thin, enough to make the other man pale.

zayne exhaled quietly through his nose. relief.

sylus tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly as they lingered on the stranger. his smile never faltered.

“run along.”

no sharper command was needed. the man excused himself in a hurry, vanishing into the crowd.

only then did sylus turn back to zayne, expression unreadable. “you do attract trouble when left unattended, don’t you?”

“it’s not as if i was asking for it,” zayne muttered under his breath, adjusting his grip on his glass. “what took you so long?”

sylus’s crimson eyes gleamed, the faintest curl of amusement tugging at his lips. “why? did you miss me already?”

zayne shot him a look. flat. dry. “…you and rafayel surely get along together.”

“tch.” sylus clicked his tongue, irritation slipping through. “i resent being compared to someone else. especially to fish scales.”

zayne sighed, turning away. but before he could take another sip of his drink, sylus’s gaze flicked toward the clock on the far wall. his smirk thinned into something firmer.

“we’re leaving.”

“what?” zayne blinked at him. “wait, they still have one more session. at least until—”

“declined.” sylus’s tone was final, brooking no argument. “we’re going back now.”

“...you can’t just decide that for me—”

whatever retort he meant to finish never came, because something heavy and warm settled over his shoulders. a coat. sylus’s coat. thick, black, smelling faintly of smoke and steel. before zayne could even shrug it off, the floor disappeared beneath his feet.

zayne froze.

no—worse. he was in the air. in sylus’s arms.

his heart lurched into his throat, face flaming as he hissed, “sylus!”

“quiet,” sylus murmured, voice deceptively soft. “unless you want people to look.”

“they’re already looking, you bastard—” zayne gritted, trying to sink lower into the coat, hide his face.

and, of course, as if the universe itself mocked him—

“oh, dear. is everything fine here?” a woman’s voice drifted over, polite, curious. one of his professors, zayne realized in horror.

sylus didn’t miss a beat. his smile turned sharp with courtesy, the kind that could slice without spilling blood. he inclined his head gracefully, zayne tucked firmly against him like fragile porcelain.

“it appears my master indulged himself a bit too much,” sylus said smoothly, voice honeyed with apology. “i’ll be taking him home to rest. i apologize that we must leave early.”

the professor blinked, taken aback—but the smile, the tone, the presence made protest impossible. she only nodded, murmured something about rest being important.

sylus carried zayne through the ballroom without pause, each step unhurried, each onlooker parting before him as though the air itself urged them aside.

zayne’s ears burned as whispers trailed behind them, the weight of stares pressing down like iron.

“put me down,” he muttered furiously into the coat.

“mm.” sylus tilted his head, looking far too pleased. “perhaps once we’re home.”

on his twenty-first year, zayne worked like a man possessed.

the manor, once a place he could barely stand to call shelter, now carried the faint pulse of life again. one of the unused wings—dusty, abandoned, locked away with cobwebs and silence—had been transformed into a clinic. high windows let in the morning sun, shelves lined with neatly catalogued medicine and tools gleamed faintly in the lamplight. his father had once spoken of this dream, of carving a place within their home for healing, not just for the family but for everyone.

and zayne had done it.

he smiled, once, fleetingly, the day he hung the sign. perhaps his father would have been proud. perhaps.

at first, no one came. why would they? the whispers still ran rampant—of the cursed li family, of the boy who lived where bloodstained monsters served. people crossed the road when passing the estate. mothers pulled children close.

but one desperate soul had cracked the dam: an old woman, frail and trembling, clutching her chest with every step. she had entered, too poor for anywhere else, too desperate to heed the warnings.

when she left, her color had returned, her breath no longer scraping. and with her word, others came. one patient became two, then ten, then dozens. the door never stayed closed for long.

zayne, overachiever that he was, threw himself into it. charts filled his desk, notebooks piled, lamps burned low until wax dripped onto papers. he ate less, slept even less. his clinic room became his prison—voluntarily so.

“careful,” sylus murmured, his hand darting out with inhuman speed to steady zayne—and the cup of coffee that nearly slipped from the desk.

zayne blinked, slow, disoriented. his temples throbbed with a pounding headache, his body aching in every limb after hours upon hours of standing, moving, stitching, checking vitals, scribbling notes. the clinic had devoured him again.

“…sorry.” the word escaped before he could stop it.

sylus stilled, one brow arched high, as if the word itself was an exotic animal he had never seen before. “…that’s rare. i think i recall you once saying you’d rather eat carrots than apologize to me.”

zayne groaned, rubbing at his eyes. “…i prefer it if you don’t speak right now.”

“then i suppose i should speak twice as much. be grateful it wasn't any of those three that found you like this, or else you'll be suffering a lot more than my words,” sylus mused, leaning against the desk, arms folding lazily across his chest. “sit down. clearly you need some rest. or is the doctor himself denying that his body is currently wrung out dry?”

zayne gave him a flat look, but it lacked its usual bite. his lips parted, ready to argue—but the truth was there in the slump of his shoulders, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the way his hands trembled faintly when they lowered from his face.

sylus’s gaze softened, just slightly, though his smirk remained. “what is it they say again? ah. ‘physician, heal thyself.’” he reached past zayne, plucking the half-finished chart from the desk and sliding it neatly aside. “but you never were good at following your own advice.”

zayne hesitated, caught between irritation and a bone-deep weariness that made every protest shrivel before it reached his tongue. his knees bent, almost against his will, and he sank onto the chair.

“good boy,” sylus murmured, quiet enough that zayne almost wasn’t sure he heard it.

“…i heard that.”

“of course you did.” sylus’s grin sharpened.

sylus didn’t even realize he was doing it at first. his hands moved without thought, sliding scattered files into neat stacks, recapping the pen zayne had left uncapped, tucking stray notes back into their folders. an unnecessary habit—he was no servant for paperwork—but the chaos on the desk irritated him more than usual.

when he finally glanced back, the irritation shifted.

zayne had slumped forward in his chair, head bowed, hair falling like a curtain over his face. his glasses had slid precariously down the bridge of his nose, about to fall—until sylus was already there in a blink, kneeling, catching them before gravity could.

he set the glasses carefully on the table beside the cooling coffee, then lingered.

up close, the man’s breathing was slow, even, lashes casting faint shadows across his cheeks. the sharp lines of his face had hardened over the years, boyishness carved away by study, by grief, by stubborn determination. a man now, not the fragile child sylus had once carried kicking and screaming into a library.

and yet.

still fragile. still human. still pushing his limits as though daring the world to break him.

sylus’s jaw tightened. humans aged fast, burned bright, then vanished. that was their nature. he should find it amusing, should relish watching his little master exhaust himself in a futile attempt to outrun time. that was what he told himself.

but watching him like this irritated him in a way nothing else did.

“you’ll never make it to your end of the pact if you keep burning yourself out…” he murmured, voice barely more than a growl under his breath.

and yet his gaze betrayed him.

not annoyance. not mockery. something quieter, heavier, almost dangerous.

he stayed crouched there longer than necessary, studying the slow rise and fall of zayne’s chest, the faint crease in his brow even in sleep. his hand twitched—tempted to brush back the hair that had fallen across his face—before he caught himself and curled it into a fist instead.

“still reckless… after all these years.” he whispered finally, the word softer than ever before.

he stood, silent as a shadow, and pulled a blanket from one of the shelves to drape it over zayne.

on twenty-two, zayne caught a fever.

nothing deadly. nothing even that serious by human standards.

but to sylus—who had no concept of human frailty—it felt like watching something fragile slip through his fingers every second.

he hated it.

he hated the way his chest tightened every time zayne coughed, the way his throat burned with a nameless irritation he couldn’t quite name. he hated that the sound of ragged breath made his skin crawl worse than the stench of silver.

and he especially hated that the others had left him in charge.

rafayel and xavier had gone out to hunt down medicine, muttering about rare herbs that worked better for humans with “peculiar constitutions” since zayne's body has been proven to be unresponsive to all the meds they've given him.

caleb had been tasked with restocking food, and, with his usual pragmatic streak, had gone digging for natural remedies in the woods.

that left sylus.

sylus, who had no patience for weak creatures.

sylus, who had lived long enough to know how easily humans broke.

sylus, who didn’t understand why three immortals were trying so hard for just one human who had less than a century to live.

it was foolish. it was stupid. they were wasting their time.

and yet—when zayne coughed again, turning in the bed, muttering something half-delirious, sylus was already on his feet before he even realized it.

he trudged over, scowling as though the expression could keep the concern out of his voice.

“it’s hot…” zayne rasped, eyelids heavy. his voice cracked on the words. “i need some air.”

he tried to sit up, fumbling weakly at the sheets, but sylus’s hand was already pressing him down. firm, unyielding.

“you can’t walk by yourself like that.” his tone was sharp, but his touch—his touch wasn’t.

zayne groaned softly, head rolling against the pillow. “…please. just some air.”

sylus froze, caught in that gaze—even fever-dulled, it was steady enough to disarm him.

for a moment, silence stretched between them. the storm in sylus’s chest thundered louder, strange and unfamiliar.

“…fine.” his voice came out rougher than he intended. he shifted, crouching slightly so zayne could reach him. “grab on to me.”

zayne blinked, sluggish. “…what?”

“i’ll carry you.” sylus’s gaze flicked away, the words low, almost irritated. “don’t make me repeat myself, master.”

there was a moment of hesitation, but sylus felt those weak hands finally reach for him, clutching at his shirt. the boy’s body pressed against him—warm, far too warm. damp with fever-sweat. fragile in a way that made sylus grit his teeth.

“hold on tightly, or you’ll fall.”

a faint sound of acknowledgment, little more than a hum.

sylus huffed under his breath, but his grip adjusted, cradling him more securely. “this is the second time now…” he muttered, half to himself, half to the night air. as if carrying his master was some terrible burden when in truth, he felt no strain at all.

he stepped onto the balcony, the curtains brushing against his arm, the night’s cool breath spilling into the room. a chair waited there, and for a heartbeat sylus considered setting him down.

but then—

zayne stirred. shifted faintly against him. and with the softest sigh, he pressed closer, cheek brushing against sylus’s chest.

“…you’re cold.” the words were drowsy, slurred. “feels nice.”

sylus froze, every muscle taut.

it was a simple thing, innocuous. just a feverish human chasing relief. but it rattled him, more than he’d admit.

cold. yes. that’s what he was. cold like stone, like steel, like the grave. not comfort—not warmth.

and yet zayne leaned in as though he found safety there.

sylus’s jaw tightened, his throat working against words he didn’t speak. he glanced down, studied the boy’s face in the silver wash of moonlight. lips pale, lashes damp against flushed skin, brow furrowed even in half-sleep.

“…fool,” he muttered, but his arms tightened minutely. “you should be cursing me, not clinging.”

the night stretched quiet around them, broken only by the chirping of cicadas and the faint rustle of trees.

zayne’s hand twitched faintly, curling into the fabric at sylus’s shoulder.

“…not… alone.” the whisper slipped out, almost too soft to catch. fevered, maybe. or maybe not.

sylus stilled, the words landing heavy, sharp, cutting straight through the armor he wore so carefully.

his lips parted as though to answer, but no words came.

so instead—he lowered himself into the balcony chair, settling with zayne still in his arms. the boy shifted once, instinctively, finding comfort against him.

and sylus let him stay there.

silent. cold. and entirely unable to explain why he didn’t mind the warmth.

“quite the luck you have, master.” sylus huffed, low, almost to himself. his hand hovered for a moment, then—against his better judgment—brushed the damp strands of hair from zayne’s forehead. “getting sick on your birthday. someone out there must’ve cursed you.”

he waited for the sharp retort, the usual bite that always followed his words. but none came. only the sound of shallow, fever-weighted breaths.

it was strange. too strange.

“…couldn’t you just wish for something else for your present?” he muttered, as though the boy could still hear him.

but he could.

zayne stirred faintly, lashes trembling, eyes opening just a crack before the effort dragged them closed again. his lips moved, dry, but he managed to force the words out.

“i wished to see snow.”

a breath, ragged. then—

“i still do.”

the faintest curve of a smile touched his mouth, worn and weak but so achingly earnest.

sylus went still.

snow.

it was such a human wish. simple. fragile. beautiful. something that vanished the moment you tried to hold onto it.

his gaze lingered on the boy’s face, then drifted outward to the night sky, the stretch of stars beyond. his lips pressed into a line, and something old, something restless shifted inside him.

“…snow, is it?” his voice dropped, quieter, carrying an edge of something uncharacteristic—longing, maybe, or resignation. “you’re asking the wrong devil for miracles, master.”

still, his hand lingered against zayne’s hair, brushing back once more, slower this time. he couldn’t remember the last time someone had wished for something so small, so human. not power. not riches. not eternity. just snow.

and for reasons he didn’t dare name, sylus thought—

if it was within his reach, he would’ve given it to him.

when zayne turned twenty-three, it was sylus who accompanied him to the cemetery.

he didn’t know why he agreed. maybe it was because the others were gone, or maybe—he didn’t want to admit it—because the thought of zayne among graves, alone, had sat wrong with him.

he always wondered why the boy would waste his time here. visiting stones, whispering words to names carved into them, as though the corpses buried beneath still cared. sylus knew better. he’d seen bodies rot, bones bleach, faces dissolve into nothing. the dead didn’t listen. they didn’t linger. they were gone.

that was why, in all the years of zayne’s quiet pilgrimages, sylus had never followed. it was always caleb or xavier. sometimes rafayel, if he was in a mood to play guardian.

but now he was here.

he stood a little ways off, back against the rough bark of a tree, arms crossed. he didn’t speak, didn’t intrude. he just watched.

zayne knelt in the grass, arranging flowers carefully across three graves. his movements were steady, reverent, each stem placed as though it mattered. his lips moved sometimes, low, private words that never carried far enough for sylus to catch. or at least he pretends not to hear.

not when it wasn't meant for him.

sylus’s jaw tightened. the air here was thick with silence, with the weight of endings. and yet—here was zayne, breathing in it, softening it, filling it with something warm.

they were surrounded by death. sylus was death itself, wearing a body that had long since stopped belonging to the living. a heart that hadn’t beat in centuries, a body that refused to decay.

and zayne—

sooner or later, zayne would be buried too.

the thought slid into him like a blade, catching him off guard. he pictured the boy lying still beneath the soil, name carved into stone, flowers wilting over him. he pictured soil pressed against lashes that had never closed on their own

for once, it wasn’t the pact that came to mind. not obligation, not survival.

it was after.

after zayne.

after this fragile, burning life blinked out.

sylus’s hand twitched at his side before he lifted it, slow. his fingers curled in the air, reaching, pretending he could grasp zayne’s shoulder from here, hold onto him, drag him back from the inevitable.

but the space between them stayed empty.

his throat worked as he stared at that unfilled distance.

what was it he wanted from zayne now?

it wasn’t blood. wasn’t obedience. wasn’t even the damn pact anymore.

the wind stirred again, gentle and restless, rustling through the trees and scattering brittle leaves into the air. they spiraled down in lazy arcs, catching the pale sunlight, shadows dancing across the gravestones.

zayne lifted his hand, palm open, fingers spread. a few leaves drifted into his grasp, fragile things that would crumble if pressed too hard.

he smiled.

it wasn’t a wide grin, not the kind he showed when mocking rafayel or when xavier praised him. it was soft, private, touched with something almost childlike.

sylus found himself staring.

he shouldn’t. he never lingered on anyone’s face, never cared enough to. but that small smile… it caught him off guard, pierced through armor he hadn’t realized was still there.

a single expression, worth more than all the diamonds, gems, and gold he had seen kingdoms slaughter themselves over.

the question clawed at him again, insistent. what do i want from him?

and then, unbidden, the answer surfaced.

…i want to see him smile more.

i want to stay by his side longer.

to see what tomfoolery he's up to now. to see what kind of mess he got himself into. and to see...

see more of him.

his hand, which had been half-curled as if trying to seize something out of reach, shifted slowly. the gesture softened. no longer grasping, but offering—an open palm, quiet, empty, waiting.

zayne caught another leaf. it fluttered delicately into his hand, as though it had chosen him. sylus’s gaze fixed on that sight, and he wondered—ached—if one day, the boy would let himself fall the same way.

not into death. not into an ending.

but into him.

sylus huffed softly, the barest ghost of a smile curling at his lips, bitter and wry.

damn human.

why do you make me remember what it was like… to want something to last?

Chapter Text

the carriage rocked gently, lantern light swaying with every bump in the road. outside, the woods stretched endless and black, shadows layered upon shadows, broken only by the occasional gleam of moonlight off the branches.

zayne sat stiffly against the seat, gloved hands folded tight in his lap. his luggage rested by his side, still faintly smelling of herbs and smoke from the village he’d left behind. he should’ve felt relief—his work there was done, the patient saved, the crisis over. but instead, the closer he drew to the manor, the heavier his chest felt.

home.

the word slipped unbidden through his thoughts.

when did i start calling it that?

he wondered, bitter and soft at once. the manor was where he was born, was where his mother’s voice echoed or his father’s papers scattered like breadcrumbs. but no more of that now, he'd long accepted it. instead, it was where he returned to. where four shadows, stubborn and unyielding, waited for him.

yet this time, one of those shadows was fractured.

caleb’s face rose in his mind, uninvited—jaw set, eyes burning with a storm that wasn’t truly meant for him. his tone from that night echoed sharp and clipped, like steel drawn too quickly.

"it’s a village in the woods, we don’t know what dangers are in there."

"do you know the people? they could be hostile towards you."

"doctors like you will most probably be looked at with suspicion. they will try to harm you—"

each protest had carried weight, but not for zayne. for someone else. someone caleb still saw every time he looked at him.

zayne’s teeth clenched. he hadn’t wanted to snap—truly, he hadn’t. but the words had torn out anyway, colder than he meant.

"i’m not her, caleb. whoever it is, stop seeing her in me."

the silence afterward had been worse than the argument itself. caleb had gone still, as though struck, and zayne hadn’t looked back. the wound wasn’t fresh anymore, but it hadn’t scabbed either.

how would caleb greet him now? would he avoid his eyes, bury himself in duty as though nothing happened? or worse—would he try to pick up the argument again, that same haunted fire burning behind his gaze?

zayne closed his eyes, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose.

he didn’t know which possibility unsettled him more.

“here is fine.” zayne leaned forward and rapped his knuckles against the wooden wall.

the coachman twisted in his seat, surprise clear even in the dim light. “eh? you sure, doctor? the manor’s still a good walk up. i can take you straight to the doors.”

zayne pushed the latch open and stepped down with his bags before the man could insist. “it’s fine,” he repeated, firmer this time. his boots crunched softly on the gravel path.

the coachman hesitated, watching him a moment longer, then gave a little nod. “as you wish. travel safe.” with a flick of the reins, the horses started forward again, leaving zayne in the quiet night air.

the gates loomed ahead, wrought iron dark against the pale wash of moonlight. his breath clouded faintly in the chill, his body aching with the familiar weariness of travel. yet none of it mattered. because standing just beyond the gates—unmoving, like he had been carved there from shadow and patience—was caleb.

zayne stopped.

he only looked. the tall, broad figure framed by iron and stone. the glint of the lantern catching silver in his hair. the set of his shoulders, perfectly still, like a sentinel that had been waiting not hours, but days.

of course he would be here.

zayne’s grip tightened on the handles of his bags. he felt the words pressing at the back of his throat, but none of them fit. not i’m home. not thank you for waiting. not even the apology that had sat, unspoken, heavy in his chest since the moment he left.

he forced his feet to move, each step bringing him closer until he stood before the gates. he lifted his eyes, meeting caleb’s.

there was no accusation there. no reproach. just that steady, unreadable calm that made zayne feel as though every layer of him was being seen through.

and yet—beneath it, just barely, zayne thought he saw something else. something tired. something waiting.

“…caleb.” his voice came out quieter than he intended.

the other man inclined his head once, a gesture both restrained and deliberate. “master.”

the title landed between them like a wall.

caleb reached out, silent, and placed his palm against the iron bars. the metal groaned lightly, breaking the silence, and the path ahead yawned dark and familiar.

zayne hesitated only a moment before stepping through. when he drew close enough, caleb reached out—not to stop him, not to hold him back, but to take the weight of the bags from his hands. his fingers brushed briefly against zayne’s before pulling away, and then the luggage was slung over his shoulder as though it weighed nothing.

his measured stride had already begun, silent boots on gravel, leading the way toward the manor.

zayne's steps falling into rhythm behind.

it was quiet. too quiet.

normally, he would fill the silence with thoughts—notes, cases, patients, formulas circling endlessly in his mind. but now, his head was empty. or maybe just too heavy.

so he counted his steps instead.

he’d done it as a child, trailing behind his mother in the hallways, trying to match her stride.

one, two, three. count until the garden.

five, six, seven. count until the fountain.

eight, nine, ten. count until the door.

it grounded him. back then, when grief had hollowed him out. and now, when tension hung like a blade between him and caleb.

“mmph.”

zayne stumbled forward, colliding against something solid.

the butler had stopped abruptly, his back broad and unmoving as stone. zayne blinked, startled, and stepped back.

“…have you had dinner yet?” caleb’s voice was low, careful.

zayne blinked again, processing the simple question that somehow weighed heavier than any lecture. “…no.”

caleb turned slightly, the faintest motion of his shoulders, then pivoted fully to face him. his expression was unreadable in the lantern light, but his words carried something almost tentative.

“i prepared some. not much, but…” he hesitated, just long enough for zayne to notice. then softer, “come eat?”

the offer hung in the night like an open hand.

zayne looked at him and the words he’d wanted to say earlier rose like a tide against his throat.

but they stayed unspoken.

“…alright,” he said instead. he adjusted his coat and followed when caleb started walking again.

counting his steps no longer seemed necessary.

they reached the front door, and caleb pushed it open, stepping aside so zayne could enter first. the air inside the manor was warmer, the faint scent of polish and herbs clinging to the walls—a familiar comfort he hadn’t realized he’d missed until now.

zayne glanced around. no footsteps, no other presences lurking in the corners. the absence of the other three was… noticeable.

“they went hunting,” caleb said simply, almost as though he’d read the question in zayne’s eyes. “they won’t be back until dawn.”

zayne nodded, relief tinged with unease. hunting. he forced himself not to dwell. as long as it wasn’t humans, he could let it pass.

caleb gestured toward the dining room. “go ahead and sit. i’ll take your things up to your room.”

“you don’t have to—” zayne started, but caleb had already lifted the luggage from his hand, vanishing down the corridor without waiting for an answer.

persistent as always.

left alone, zayne exhaled, shrugging off his coat and draping it neatly over the back of a chair before moving toward the dining room. he pushed the door open—

and stopped.

the table was set.

not just set, but crowded—plates laid out, dishes spread in neat order, steam still curling faintly from the most recent. meat, vegetables, bread warm enough to scent the air, and soup glistening beneath the glow of the chandelier.

zayne blinked, thrown off guard.

not much, caleb had said.

zayne’s lips twitched, a breath of laughter escaping him despite himself. this was already more than enough for three people, let alone one.

he stepped closer, fingertips brushing the edge of the tablecloth, gaze drifting over the food. everything was precise, deliberate—caleb’s work, no doubt. every cut, every garnish, lined with the exactness of someone who couldn’t afford to falter.

he pulled out a chair, the legs scraping softly against the polished floor. but he didn’t sit. his hands gripped the backrest instead, palms pressed flat against the wood until the veins along his wrists strained pale.

zayne’s throat worked, struggling against a lump he couldn’t swallow. it burned, sharp, bitter, like a splinter that refused to be pulled out.

“stupid,” he muttered, low. not even sure if the word was aimed at caleb or at himself, for letting it matter so much.

the sound died quickly in the empty room.

he lingered there, shoulders hunched slightly, chin bowing toward his chest.

an apology clung to the edge of his tongue, but it tasted wrong. sour. because what would he even apologize for? for saying the truth? for not being her? for resenting the way caleb’s gaze sometimes reached through him, past him, into a grave he’d never seen but could feel between them?

he wasn’t wrong. he knew he wasn’t wrong.

and yet—

the memory of caleb’s silence, that night, had followed him. not angry silence, not heated. but something worse: stiff, cold, like the snap of a thread pulled too tight.

it had dug at him every day he was away.

and now he was here. standing before a table full of food that spoke louder than any words caleb had offered.

zayne’s chest squeezed again, his fingers loosening against the chair.

he should apologize. or maybe not.

the sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts.

the door creaked open behind him. zayne straightened instinctively, though he didn’t turn right away.

caleb’s steps were even, unhurried, as though nothing at all had weighed between them. the rhythm was the same as always—predictable, grounding. infuriating.

“sit,” caleb said simply, already reaching to uncover one of the dishes. steam curled up between them, fragrant and warm.

zayne sat, more out of obedience than hunger, and watched as caleb served portions. the clink of porcelain. the lull drag of utensils. each sound filled the space where words should have been.

and after that… silence.

even when caleb set a plate before him. even when zayne bowed his head, whispered his short prayer, and picked up his fork. even when he chewed, swallowed, even when the food—seasoned well, made with care—slid down without taste.

he ate. caleb watched, not hovering, not distant—simply present, hands folded lightly against the table as though keeping vigil.

but still no words.

maybe caleb didn’t want to talk about it. maybe he thought silence was enough. maybe this—cooking, sitting near—was all he intended to give.

and honestly, zayne felt… disappointed.

he shouldn’t. he knew better than to expect anything more. but still, the longer it stretched, the heavier it coiled inside him—guilt tangled with stubbornness until it was one tight, unyielding knot.

he reached for his napkin, wiped his mouth slowly, carefully. stalling.

then he pushed his chair back, intending to stand.

“i never saw you as her.”

zayne froze mid-motion, his chair half-pushed back from the table. his fingers tightened on the napkin in his lap, knuckles whitening as the words echoed.

"not once."

soft, almost reluctant, but steady in a way that was unmistakable. caleb’s eyes stayed lowered, lashes dark against his pale skin, carrying no hesitation now—only a raw honesty that felt heavier than silence.

“i may have said before that you reminded me of her,” caleb continued, his hands curling lightly around the edge of the table, as though grounding himself. “but that is all.”

zayne’s lips parted, but the lump in his throat kept his answer rough, muttered, half-broken.

“and yet you mourn and grieve for someone each time you see me.”

the words struck harder than he intended, sharper than he thought they’d sound aloud. he half-regretted them the moment they left his mouth, but he didn’t look away.

caleb’s hands, unwavering just moments ago as he set aside a serving spoon, stilled.

for a heartbeat, there was nothing—just the faint crackle of the fireplace in the next room, the tick of the old clock on the wall.

“…i don’t,” caleb said at last, low but firm. his jaw tightened, as though he needed to hold the words in place to keep them from faltering. “i don’t mistake you for her. i never have.”

zayne’s gaze flicked to him, searching, doubtful.

“because i remember,” caleb continued, the words slipping out quicker, sharper than his usual control. his eyes lifted now, meeting zayne’s with something unflinching. “every time i look at you, i remember what i failed to protect. what i lost. what i swore i’d never lose again.”

zayne’s breath hitched, though he kept his face carefully composed. still, the admission dug past his defenses, unsettling something he’d buried deep.

“so yes,” caleb continued, hushed this time, his hand lowering back to his side. “there is grief in me. there always will be. but not for you.” his voice gentled. “never for you.”

the words hung, stark and unyielding.

zayne’s wanted to speak, to snap back, to deny that any of it mattered—but the truth was, it did. more than he wanted it to.

the knot inside him didn’t loosen, not completely, but it shifted again. less bitterness now. more… ache.

and against his will, a quiet question trembled in him, one he wasn’t sure he dared to say out loud.

if not for her… then what was he to caleb now?

ha. for a fleeting second, zayne almost wanted to laugh at himself. to ask such a question—what was he? what place did he hold in their lives?

how could he even forget?

his blood. that was all. that had always been all. for a while, foolishly, he had let himself wonder why they had been acting differently around him. kinder. closer.

but in the end, it all came back to that one truth.

“…i see.”

he let the words fall, quiet, clipped. his eyes lowered to the empty plate before him, the last trace of warmth from caleb’s cooking already gone cold. “thank you for the meal.”

“zayne—”

“caleb.”

he cut sharp across the table, silencing the man instantly.

and when zayne finally lifted his head, it wasn’t the man caleb knew—the young master who, for all his coldness, sometimes softened when he thought no one noticed. no. what caleb saw was the same look he had first seen on a child of ten years old: betrayed, abandoned, a gaze that had no reason left to trust.

only now, it was colder. hardened by the years. a wall that reached far higher than before.

“i don’t know what happened to you in the past,” zayne said, detached, “nor do i want to know.”

the words landed like ice between them. caleb froze where he stood, shoulders taut, the faintest furrow carving deep between his brows.

zayne didn’t stop. couldn’t stop.

“all of you,” he pressed on, quieter but laced with steel, “you speak as if i matter. as if i’m someone irreplaceable. but in the end…” his lips curved bitter, self-derisive. “…it’s my blood. that’s what makes you hover, suffocate, linger around me.”

the silence that followed weighed heavy, suffocating.

it made him think of those long years: caleb waiting in the shadows, caleb standing watch at his clinic, caleb’s words through every doubt.

and yet… and yet…

“…i don’t want to be someone’s promise,” zayne said finally, the words quieter than he intended. his fingers loosened around the napkin, letting it fall limp onto the table. “i don’t want to be someone’s penance for a failure i wasn’t even alive to see.”

his throat burned, but he forced the words out anyway. “if you’re here for me, then be here for me. not for a ghost.”

the final syllable hung between them, sharp as the crack of a whip.

caleb’s expression didn’t falter—but his silence did. it stretched long, unreadable, until the faintest shift broke across his face. it felt almost—almost—like pain.

“…understood,” he murmured at last. his bow was shallow, stiff, but not insincere. “then i will remember that.”

caleb stepped back, out of the bare recognition that zayne had drawn a line.

on zayne’s twenty-fifth birthday, the manor felt like a mausoleum.

he had changed. they could all see it—feel it—in the way he moved through the halls. no longer with the petulant avoidance of his boyhood, nor the sharp resistance of his teens, but with a distance that was worse. indifference. absence.

rafayel’s sketchbooks sat untouched, open pages curling at the edges from lack of use. xavier’s piano lingered silent, dust beginning to gather on keys that once rang beneath zayne’s hands. sylus found himself with less and less to do, no long discussions to sink his fangs into, no sparks of stubbornness to provoke.

and caleb… caleb cooked. each day he prepared meals, laid them out, waited. and each day the food grew cold and was cleared away, untouched.

it felt less like serving a master and more like watching a flower wither behind glass—still there, still visible, but out of reach no matter how they tried.

that night, zayne returned home late. he gave them barely a glance before retiring straight to his room. the door shut. he did not emerge again.

silence pressed heavy over the manor.

caleb remained in the dining room. he stared at the food arranged on the long table, steam long faded into nothing. his hand brushed across one of the plates, fingertips tracing the porcelain now gone cold.

another day. another waste.

"why is it," a voice cut from the shadows, low and edged with disdain, "that whenever he’s upset, it always has something to do with you?"

caleb did not flinch. he didn't need to turn to know the speaker. his voice, smooth as it was sharp, had already named him.

"…a coincidence, perhaps," caleb said after a pause, his tone flat, as though the word itself meant nothing.

sylus scoffed and stepped into the flicker of candlelight. his presence was a blade unsheathed—sharp, dangerous, gleaming in the dim. "coincidence? don't insult me. it's you. always you. you wear your grief like armor, and he feels the edge of it every time you turn near him."

caleb's eyes remained lowered, on the reflection of the flame in the untouched food. his jaw tightened, but he remained calm.

"…you speak as though you are any better. we are all monsters here, sylus. what difference does it make whose shadow cuts deepest?"

“the difference,” sylus countered, “is that i don’t clothe my chains in gentleness and call it care. i don’t mistake the boy for someone buried six feet under. you bind him to a dead girl every time you breathe too close.” 

caleb looked up then, his gaze cold as the steel he so often carried. "…and you think your hunger is kinder?"

they faced each other now, the air heavy with the weight of years neither of them ever dared to speak of. sylus's eyes burned with something darker, closer to rage, though there was no fire in his voice—only ice.

"i wrap him in reality," sylus said at last. "in the truth that he is ours, whether he wishes it or not. that he was born to carry blood the world would tear itself apart to claim. that pretending otherwise will not spare him from the price."

caleb's fingers curled around the edge of the table, faint cracks groaning in the wood beneath his grip. "and in that truth," he said quietly, "do you see him as anything more? or is he only a vessel to you, a contract dressed in human skin?"

sylus tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "you're projecting again. do you really want to drag me down into that pit with you?”

the silence that followed was sharp, like glass threatening to break.

caleb finally pushed the plate away, the sound of porcelain scraping wood cutting through the tension. "think whatever want," he said, but his shoulders were rigid. "but it is you who cannot admit what you want from him. and that makes you more dangerous than me."

he paused. his voice lowered into something quieter, cutting sharper than anger.

"…you've gone soft. whether you admit it or not. you've changed. we all have. but you… the night you made the pact, did you ever predict you'd fall for a mortal? for your own prey?"

sylus went still.

for the first time in the entire exchange, his composure cracked—not in his stance, nor in his voice, but in the breath he didn't take, the heartbeat of silence that stretched too long.

"falling?" the word came out quietly, dangerous. his fangs caught the candlelight as something flickered behind his eyes—not anger, but something rawer. "don't mistake—"

"obsession for affection?" caleb's tone was quiet, almost gentle, which made it cut deeper. "is that what you tell yourself at night? when you stand at his door, listening to him breathe? when you vanish to prowl, but never too far, because the thought of him gone claws at you?"

sylus's hand slammed against the table, hard enough to crack the wood down its center. plates rattled, one tumbling to shatter against the floor.

"you want to talk about obsession?" he muttered lowly. "a dog will always be a dog... biting the hand that feeds it." he stepped closer, closing the distance until they were inches apart. "remember who saved you from being rendered to ashes. just like your dead little—"

the snarl ripped from caleb's chest before he could stop it, low and guttural, vibrating through the air like a warning growl. his fangs bared, catching the dim light, his eyes burning crimson.

sylus only smirked, leaning that last inch closer. "there it is," he murmured. "the mutt finally remembers his teeth."

caleb's hand shot up faster than thought, seizing sylus by the collar and slamming him against the wall. the impact sent a portrait crashing to the floor, glass scattering across marble. the table between them overturned, dishes shattering in a cascade of porcelain and silver.

"say her name," caleb hissed, his voice shaking with fury barely leashed. "say it and i'll tear your tongue from your mouth."

sylus didn't flinch. his grin widened even as caleb's grip tightened. "struck a nerve? i almost forgot how easy it is to rattle you when the past comes knocking."

caleb's fist drove into the wall beside sylus's head, cratering the stone. dust rained down between them. "you don't get to speak of her."

"and you deserve to cage him with her ghost?" sylus's voice dropped, losing its mockery. "you think i don't see it? every time he looks at you, hoping you'll see him, and you're staring through him at something dead?"

the accusation hung between them, sharp and true.

caleb's grip loosened, just slightly. his breathing was ragged, his eyes still burning red but beneath the fury cracking open—grief, raw and old.

sylus saw it. and for once, his smile faded entirely.

"we're both broken, mutt," he said quietly. "but i don't make him pay for it."

caleb's hand trembled. then tightened again. "what you want," he said, voice dropping, "is to own him."

"and what do you want?" sylus shot back. "to protect him? or to protect yourself from failing again?"

the question struck like a blade between ribs.

caleb's hand shot out, claws extended, aiming for sylus's throat—

—and stopped.

inches away. trembling in the air between them.

because the truth was, he didn't know the answer anymore.

the manor groaned around them, ancient wood and stone settling as if in witness to the fracture that had opened between them.

“…both of you. enough.”

they turned at once.

rafayel stood at the threshold first. xavier, just behind him, leaned half in shadow.

the wreckage was plain before them: shattered plates and silverware scattered like bones, food wasted across the marble, the wall cracked beneath caleb’s fist, sylus pinned but still smirking.

“…children,” rafayel murmured, almost sing-song, though his eyes were glacial. “brawling over scraps like mongrels. does it amuse you to tear each other apart while he’s upstairs?”

sylus’s grin twitched. “better than pretending everything’s fine while the boy rots in silence.”

caleb’s jaw clenched, but his hand finally released sylus’s collar. he stepped back, shoulders heaving once before he stilled.

“you’re loud enough to wake him,” xavier said, finally stepping forward. his voice was quiet, but his words cut like wire. “is this what you wish for him to see? that the guardians of his blood are nothing more than beasts snapping at one another?”

for once, neither sylus nor caleb had a retort ready.

rafayel crouched near the overturned dishes, idly plucking a piece of broken porcelain between two fingers. he turned it, letting it catch the candlelight. “do you know what i think?” his smile curved sharp, but his eyes were unreadable. “i think you’re both cowards. you fight each other because it’s easier than admitting what he means to you. easier than facing the day when he’ll leave us behind—whether by choice or by death.”

the shard snapped in his hand, dust scattering like fine sand.

sylus, unusually quiet, just leaned back against the cracked wall, arms folding across his chest as though holding something in.

“you will cool off,” rafayel ordered, his voice brooking no defiance. “both of you. i will not allow this place to be reduced to ashes because you cannot keep your ghosts leashed.”

neither moved.

then sylus tilted his head and laughed. a low, dangerous sound that slithered along the wreckage like smoke.

“fine. no fun if the audience is this stiff anyway.”

he pushed off the wall, rolling his shoulders as though the fight had been nothing more than a passing scuffle. then, just before he turned away, he let the words slip like a dagger.

“for the record, mutt—” sylus glanced over his shoulder, eyes locking onto caleb, grin splitting his still-healing face. “i do adore him.”

the words hit harder than any blow.

sylus’s grin only widened, bloody teeth flashing. “and that goes the same for all of you, doesn’t it?”

he didn’t wait for their answer. he didn’t need to.

footsteps echoed down the hall, unhurried, careless, until the darkness swallowed him whole.

the silence he left behind was heavier than his presence.

xavier's hand remained firm on caleb's shoulder. rafayel's eyes tracked sylus until he disappeared, then swung back to caleb with an expression caught between anger and something almost like pity.

"clean this up," rafayel said quietly. "before he sees."

caleb stood frozen, staring at the space where sylus had been, at the blood on his hands, at the ruins of what should have been a simple dinner.

"…understood," he said finally, voice hollow.

the smell of blood still lingered faintly in the air despite their efforts, seeping into the cracks of the old stone as if mocking their attempts to erase it. caleb had done his part—cleared the wreckage, replaced the linens, even let rafayel bark instructions at him until there was nothing left to scrub or fix. and yet, when his hands were clean, they still felt stained.

he didn’t return to his quarters. he didn’t retreat to the kitchen. his steps carried him elsewhere, silent and heavy.

up the stairs. down the corridor. past doors that led to empty rooms, to libraries filled with books no one read, to a life that had calcified around duty until he'd forgotten what else he might have been.

he stopped outside zayne's door.

his hand hovered over the wood, knuckles still split and healing slowly. he could hear it—the whisper of breathing on the other side. alive. safe. untouched by the violence that had erupted below.

i adore him.

sylus's words echoed in the silence, and caleb's jaw tightened.

was that what this was? this ache that had no name, this instinct to stand watch, to ensure zayne's chest kept rising and falling even when it meant nothing to the pact, nothing to their bargain?

he didn't know. couldn't let himself know.

his hand dropped to the doorknob. turned it slowly, carefully, as though the metal itself might shatter under too firm a grip.

the door opened without a sound.

the room was dark, lit only by the thin wash of moonlight through parted curtains. the hint scent of medicine, parchment, and something undeniably zayne filled the air—warmth that had no place in a house of the dead.

there he was.

zayne lay beneath the sheets, chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm, one arm curled slightly as if he'd drifted to sleep mid-thought. his brow twitched faintly with dreams, lips parting to murmur—unintelligible, broken fragments of words. then silence again.

caleb stepped inside. the door clicked shut behind him, soft as a exhale.

he should leave. should let the boy sleep without a monster's shadow falling across him. should return downstairs and scrub away the evidence of what he was—what they all were.

but instead, he moved closer.

the chair at zayne's bedside waited, and caleb lowered himself into it. the wood creaked under his weight, but zayne didn't stir.

caleb sat forward, elbows braced on his knees, and stared.

the moonlight caught on zayne's features—the sharp line of his jaw, the furrow between his brows even in sleep, the way his hair fell across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, more fragile than he ever allowed himself to appear while awake.

caleb's hand lifted on instinct, fingers hovering just above that stray lock of hair. he could brush it back. such a simple gesture. the lightest touch.

but his hand trembled.

because what right did he have? what right did a creature who had just torn through furniture and stone, who had bared his fangs and threatened murder over a dead girl's memory—what right did something like that have to touch something so carefully mortal?

his fingers curled back into a fist. dropped to his knee.

i don't mistake you for her, he'd said. and it was true. he didn't.

but sylus had been right too. every time he looked at zayne, he saw the weight of his own failure. saw what he could lose again if he wasn't vigilant enough, wasn't strong enough, wasn't—

enough.

"he is wrong," caleb whispered, voice so quiet it barely disturbed the air. his eyes never left zayne's sleeping face. "whatever he thinks, whatever he spits out of spite… love is not for things like us."

the words should have felt like truth. they'd been his armor for centuries.

but here, in this room, with zayne's breath the only sound—they felt hollow.

his gaze drifted to zayne's hand, lax on the blanket. the fingers slightly curled, as if even in sleep he was holding onto something. caleb's own hand moved, wanting—

he pressed his palm against his chest instead. where a heart no longer beat. as if he could hold down the ache that had no rhythm, no reason.

"i swore i wouldn't fail again,"his voice cracked on the edges. "even if you never forgive me. even if you never know—i will keep that vow."

zayne shifted slightly in his sleep, turning toward the moonlight. his lips moved, shaping words that never quite formed, and settled again.

caleb leaned back in the chair, exhaustion creeping through him though his body would never truly tire. he let his head tilt back, eyes fixed on the gentle rise and fall of zayne's chest.

a moment suspended. between confession and silence. between what he was and what he wished he could be.

his claws had retracted fully without him noticing.

being here—watching zayne breathe—was enough to gentle the monster, if only for a fleeting while.

the crisp air of early fall tugged softly at zayne’s coat, bringing with it the scent of damp leaves and distant earth. he sat at the balcony table, posture straight but gaze far, watching the forest behind the manor slowly trade its lush green for gold and crimson. the leaves drifted down one by one, like time itself unraveling before his eyes.

caleb poured the tea, the trickle of liquid filling the silence. when he set the pot down, his voice broke the quiet, low and even.

“master.”

zayne didn’t look at him, not immediately. caleb didn’t expect him to. he’d grown accustomed to the way their master’s eyes wandered, as if weighing the world against his own silence.

“you’ve turned twenty-six today.”

the words were simple. plain. but they felt heavier than the steam curling from the porcelain cup.

zayne’s eyes followed a single leaf as it fell in a slow spiral through the air, and caleb let the silence linger. he’d learned patience centuries ago. this—being allowed here, this close—was already something he would not risk by forcing.

so he continued instead, his voice gentling, carrying with the wind.

“i used to have one too.”

that caught zayne’s attention. his brow shifted, his eyes flickering to caleb’s hands where they rested on the teacup.

“…a birthday?”

caleb hummed. a sound almost like agreement, though laced with something heavier. his eyes didn’t meet zayne’s yet. instead he looked outward, at the forest’s slow decay, the leaves giving themselves back to the earth. “everyone has one. even if you don’t celebrate. even if you’ve long forgotten the exact day. there has to be something. a day you came into this world. a day you began.”

the words rolled from memory, not invention. he remembered them, bright and innocent, from a voice long gone.

back then, he hadn’t remembered how he came to be. had he been human once, before his curse? or had he been born a monster, as he was now, eternal and restless? he never found the answer. he doubted he ever would.

but she hadn’t cared. she had only smiled at him, with all the stubborn warmth of someone too small to carry the world but trying anyway.

“just share with mine, caleb!” she had said once, holding up a tiny cupcake with one flickering candle, its sweetness modest but offered like treasure.

and for a time… he had.

but the years bled together after she was gone. he had buried the day along with her, never to be unearthed again.

caleb’s lips tugged—not a smile, but a shadow of one—as he drew the teacup closer and pushed it toward zayne. “i do not celebrate it anymore,” he admitted quietly. “some things… lose their meaning when the person who gave them to you is gone.”

zayne’s fingers brushed the porcelain as he accepted the cup. he didn’t drink, only watched the steam curl upward into the fading autumn light.

but in the green-gold of his eyes there was a sharp clarity, the kind caleb always struggled to meet without faltering.

“you should keep it then,” zayne said, his tone carrying none of its usual flatness. “otherwise, it would be forgotten.”

the words struck harder than caleb expected. he let himself look, truly look, at the young man before him—the boy who had grown under their care, the master he’d sworn to protect, the one who carried too many ghosts for his age.

caleb’s eyes dropped to the floor before he lost himself in those eyes. his hands curled together on his lap, tense in a way he couldn’t quite disguise. “…it feels a bit lonely,” he admitted, voice lower now, almost reluctant. “to be the only one who remembers.”

the admission slipped out before he could choke it down. yet the moment it did, he realized—it was true. perhaps it was the first truth he’d spoken aloud in years. to remember her laughter, her stubborn little smile, her candlelit offering of a birthday that wasn’t his… all of it living only in his chest now, with no one else left to share in the memory.

perhaps this was what zayne felt too. to be the only heir, the only li left standing, keeping vigil over a name and a house that should have been filled with family, with warmth.

zayne’s face softened. he didn’t look away. he didn’t let caleb sink back into silence.

“then i’ll remember her with you.”

the offer came so easily, so freely, that for a moment caleb could only stare.

a laugh slipped from him, low and rough—more like a chuckle born of disbelief than amusement. “…you don’t even know her.”

“then tell me,” zayne said, a thread of sincerity binding each word.not a waver, not even when caleb finally looked back at him. “it doesn’t have to be now. it doesn’t have to be everything all at once.”

the breeze rustled through the trees beyond the balcony, scattering a cluster of leaves past them like drifting embers. caleb followed them with his eyes, listening to the clink of porcelain as zayne finally sipped his tea.

and against his will, caleb felt the knot in his chest ease just slightly.

tell him.

the thought lingered, dangerous and tempting. to lay bare something he’d kept locked in shadow, something that had shaped him more than he’d ever admitted even to himself.

he should have started with her name. the simplest truth. the most honest beginning. but the syllables caught, jagged in his chest, refusing to pass. too sharp. too heavy.

so he reached for the closest memory instead, the one that surfaced no matter how much he buried it. a memory so small, and yet so defining.

“…she always wanted to eat cake on her birthday.” caleb’s voice was low, almost reverent, threaded with something softer than zayne had ever heard from him. a smile ghosted across his lips—brief, wistful, but undeniably real. he let his eyes close, letting the breeze brush across his face as though it might conjure her there again, just for a moment. “a big one. always a big one.”

the wind shifted, carrying away the words and filling the silence with its cool breath.

then, suddenly—fingers in his hair. light. brief. plucking something loose. caleb blinked his eyes open, startled, and found zayne leaning closer, holding a brittle leaf between his fingers before letting it go to the air.

“then we’ll get her one,” zayne said simply. his tone was matter-of-fact, but his gaze… his gaze was certain. and when the wind caught him—his hair, his face, his quiet calm—zayne looked like he belonged to the season itself, the embodiment of autumn’s melancholy grace.

caleb felt the breath catch in his throat.

who do you see now?

his own voice whispered back to him from somewhere deep within.

zayne. it’s always been zayne.