Eugene stirred slowly, the world around him spinning like a bad memory. The scent of blood clung thick in the air—metallic, feral, and fresh. His eyes flicked open, landing on the carnage sprawled across the forest floor. Beast after beast, torn apart with brutal precision. His breath caught.
He didn't remember the battle. But he knew—knew—his lord had knocked him out. For the boy's sake. Why? That part remained a mystery.
He rose shakily, made his way to the carriage. The window was still open.
"Forgive me, my lord," he said, voice steady, masking the truth. "I lost consciousness."
Rhaegal didn't turn. Just a glance, sharp and unreadable. "Stay behind. Bury the remains. Alfred will coach the carriage."
Eugene bowed without another word. He watched the carriage roll away, wheels creaking like whispers. A glint of something dark flickered in his eyes.
Turning, he broke a branch from a nearby tree and began sweeping the torn bodies into piles, one by one. The silence was thick. Then—snap.
A single twig.
He spun around, claws extending instinctively. What emerged was neither beast nor man—both. A werewolf mid-morph, bones cracking into place, sinew stretching, skin knitting itself into a humanoid form.
Eugene's breath hitched, stance low. "Who are you?" he asked, claws bared.
The man raised his hands, a mocking gesture of peace. "I am not your enemy. Not today at least," he said, voice smooth and low, with a grin that curled like smoke.
"What do you want?" Eugene's tone was colder now, edged with threat.
"Not you." The man pointed in the direction of the vanished carriage. "Him."
Eugene's eyes narrowed. "He's under Lord Blackthorn's protection. Not even I can touch him."
The stranger chuckled, a sound like gravel dragged over glass. "I'm not asking you to touch him. I want to know where he goes. What he does. What your lord does. I want eyes in that mansion."
Eugene didn't speak, weighing the offer.
"I'll pay. Five gold coins, every time we meet."
His silence stretched, then snapped. "Fifteen gold. If I'm risking my life—I want something tangible out of it."
The man grinned. "Didn't peg you as a greedy type."
"I'm practical. Not suicidal."
The werewolf nodded. "Then we have a deal. This spot. Every two weeks."
Eugene gave a curt nod. The man shifted again, limbs contorting with unnatural grace, and vanished into the underbrush.
Eugene turned back to the blood and bones. The dead wouldn't bury themselves.
The ride to the mansion was quiet. Too quiet. Rhaegal sat still, but his mind raced beneath the surface. Across from him, Malin slept—curled up like a cat, chest rising gently with each breath. Until that breath changed.
It turned shallow. Uneven.
His body began to twitch, face tightening into a frown. Soft words tumbled from his lips—slurred, frantic.
Rhaegal leaned forward, placing a hand on the boy's forehead—and recoiled. Scalding. His skin burned on contact.
Rhaegal knocked hard on the carriage window. "Faster," he told Alfred.
The horses picked up speed. Inside, Rhaegal turned to Malin, who had curled into himself like he was trying to escape something only he could feel. His skin was burning hot. His breathing, shallow and uneven.
Rhaegal didn't hesitate. He reached out and lifted Malin into his arms, cradling him close. The boy's body was too hot—unnaturally so—and his lips moved, mumbling words that made no sense.
Rhaegal leaned in, bringing his ear close.
"Light tree…" Malin whispered.
Over and over again. "Light tree."
Rhaegal didn't know what it meant, but he filled it away. Right now, what mattered was cooling him down. He closed his eyes and let the cold energy from his vampire core move through his hands and into Malin, hoping it would help.
The carriage came to a stop with a jolt. Alfred opened the door, eyes wide with worry.
Without saying a word, Rhaegal stepped out, still carrying Malin. He moved quickly through the halls of the mansion, Alfred hurrying behind him. Every step echoed like thunder in the hallway..
He reached his quarters and laid Malin on the couch. But the boy wouldn't stay still—he twisted and turned, eyes shut tight, sweat pouring down his face. His breathing was heavy and ragged.
"Malin," Rhaegal called softly, tapping his cheek. "Wake up."
Nothing.
"What happened to him, my lord?" Alfred asked, standing by the door.
"I don't know," Rhaegal said, shaking his head. "He was fine one moment, and the next… this."
"Could it be from the rogue attack?"
"I'm not sure." Rhaegal's voice was quieter but distracted. His mind felt foggy and unable to think clearly. "I think… he's dreaming."
"A dream?" Alfred frowned. "That doesn't seem right."
Rhaegal didn't answer. He just sat beside Malin again and continued to transfer his cold energy into him. Slowly, steadily. The heat was intense, and it was starting to take its toll on rhaegal
"My lord," Alfred said, stepping forward. "You can't keep doing this. It'll hurt you". He said. Vampires are cold blooded creatures and aren't meant to absorb that much heat.
Rhaegal didn't respond. His eyes stayed fixed on the boy in front of him.
Alfred hesitated. He couldn't understand it—why his master was willing to risk himself for a boy he barely knew.
Then something happened.
A spark—small and green—glowed from Malin's chest.
Both vampires froze.
The spark grew, lighting up his entire body in a soft green glow that shimmered like sunlight through leaves. It grew brighter, spreading over his skin like a wave of light, until Malin looked like he was made of it.
But the light wasn't harmless.
Rhaegal flinched as it touched him, a sharp burn racing up his arm. It felt like acid eating into his flesh. He let go of Malin and stepped back.
Alfred grabbed his arm, pulling him farther from the couch as the light continued to shine.
They stood together, watching as Malin lay glowing in the center of the room. The air buzzed with energy. Rhaegal's burns stung, but his eyes didn't leave the boy.
Alfred glanced at his master. ". This is something else."
Rhaegal said nothing. He wasn't surprised. Not really. He'd felt it from the start—Malin was different.
The light flickered a few more times, then slowly faded, shrinking back into Malin's chest until it was gone completely. The room dimmed again.
Malin lay still, peaceful now. His body no longer trembled. His face looked calm, even soft.
Rhaegal approached and placed a hand on his forehead. The fever had broken.
He stared down at him for a moment, silent. Then he lifted Malin again, carried him to the bed, and laid him gently on the soft mattress. He pulled the covers over him and stood there for a while, watching his chest rise and fall with easy breaths.
Then Rhaegal turned and stepped out onto the balcony, the night air cool against his skin. Alfred followed.
"My lord," Alfred said, "we can't keep him hidden forever. Today proved it."
"I don't plan to ," Rhaegal replied, his voice calm but firm.
Alfred opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. There were too many questions. Too many things he didn't understand.
"Send word to Elias," Rhaegal said. ". Tell him to dig up everything on the Light Tree.It might be important."
"Yes, my lord."
Alfred turned to go, but paused. "You took in too much heat. Are you sure you're alright?"
"I'll manage," Rhaegal said. His face gave nothing away.
But the moment Alfred left, Rhaegal staggered.
His hand shot to his chest, gasping and groaning in pain. His breath hitched, golden irises turned blood red. Fangs bared.
The warmth he'd absorbed writhed inside him, disrupting the still cold of his core. It triggered something darker. Hungrier.
His feet moved without thought and suddenly he was beside the bed again, looking down at Malin.
The scent—sweet, potent, alive—called to every inch of him. Fangs bared, breath unsteady, he leaned in—his mind fogged with hunger. He could already taste it—sweet and warm and dangerous.
But then, just before he gave in, he pulled back.
He stumbled away, fists clenched, fighting for control.
With unsteady steps he fled, leaping from the balcony. He landed on the ground and quickly disappeared into the night.