The quiet after the confrontation still clung to the kitchen like smoke. Kieran's breath rasped in his throat, each inhale edged with pain where the in rage had crushed him. Morlith sat across from him, the picture of calm, yet the air around him shimmered faintly—heat without flame, warning without motion.
"I owe you the truth," Kieran said at last. His voice was low, almost hoarse. "All of it."
Morlith said nothing. The faint hum of the refrigerator filled the silence—an odd sound that seemed to irritate him.
Kieran rose slowly, crossed the room, and disappeared down the hall. When he returned, he carried a heavy, leather-bound book whose silver clasp was tarnished black. He set it between them as if placing down a confession.
"This belonged to my ancestor—Alastair Fallowridge," he whispered.
The name struck the air like thunder muffled under stone. Morlith's gaze fell to the book. Beneath his skin, his power stirred, and the faint golden ring of his pupils began to bleed red. The diary pulsed once, as if recognizing him.
"Why bring me this?" he asked, his tone almost kind—too kind.
"Because you should know why I did it," Kieran said. "Why I freed you."
Morlith's fingers brushed the cover. The leather was warm—alive. When he lifted the lid, dust rose like ash. The first page was written in elegant, cruel hand:
"By order of the Angels, we cleanse the world of corruption. Their cries shall be hymns of our deliverance."
Another line below it:
"We burned two of the winged ones at dusk. Their blood glowed like wine. A beautiful sight."
Morlith's eyes moved line by line, but behind them the centuries opened. He saw torches. He smelled iron. He heard the scream of his grandmother—the banished demon—and the silence that followed when the sword struck her heart.
He turned the page.
"The hybrid boy remains. Half demon, half leech. Too dangerous to kill. He eventually surrendered thinking we wouldn't go after his son when the time is right.
The letters rippled. His breath faltered. He saw again the room of mirrors, the paint sealing over his skin, his father's trembling hands.
Keep your heart still, my son. The world is cruel.
The memory tore through him. His chest burned. The power in him rose like a tide. He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached.
Then the script changed—sharper, hurried, broken.
"We are not saviors. We are butchers. The Light demands obedience, not mercy. I have seen children's bones turned to relics."
The next entry bled through with different ink—fresher, more deliberate.
Kieran's handwriting.
"I was born into their vow, but I will not carry it. I will end it. If I find the one that was sealed, I will set him free—not to serve, but to stop the cycle."
Morlith's hands stilled. He stared down at the words until the letters blurred.
"You wrote this," he said quietly.
Kieran nodded. "When I was fifteen. After I found the diary hidden in the church crypt."
"What did you do?"
"I confronted my father. He called it sacred duty. Said our blood would rot if we failed the oath." Kieran's voice cracked; he forced it steady. "So I ran. Took the diary. Burned the sigil off our gate. I've been running since."
He laughed weakly—humorless. "Guess I didn't run far enough."
Morlith closed the book slowly. "And you spent your years searching for me."
"Yes," Kieran said. "Because they would have found you eventually. And if they did, you'd have woken in chains again—or not at all." His eyes glistened. "I couldn't let that happen. Maybe that makes me selfish. Maybe I just needed to prove one of us could choose differently."
Morlith's expression did not change, but the air around him began to hum with restrained power. Inside, fury and sorrow twisted, two voices clawing for the same breath. Every part of him wanted to rage—to crush, to destroy—but the trembling in Kieran's voice anchored him in place.
He saw another image—his father again, standing before the flames. If mercy finds you, trust it.
Morlith blinked, and the memory faded. He looked at the book once more, then lifted his hand over it.
The magic rose. Red light spiraled around his arm, threads of fire weaving into patterns that glowed gold at the edges. The air grew thick with scent of ozone and candle wax.
"What are you doing?" Kieran whispered.
"Binding truth," Morlith murmured. "So it cannot be changed. So I cannot forget what you showed me."
The sigil burst to life on the cover—his mark, half demon and half vampiric rune. The light sank into the leather and cooled.
When he spoke again, his voice was calm, but heavy. "Your bloodline carved this world with cruelty. That I will not forgive."
Kieran nodded once, tears spilling freely now. "I don't ask you to."
Morlith stepped closer. "Then why do you weep?"
"Because," Kieran said, voice shaking, "for the first time, someone's looking at me and I can't tell if I deserve to live."
Morlith froze. The words hit harder than any blade. He reached out without thinking and brushed his thumb along one of Kieran's tears. The drop shimmered red-gold in the faint light, reflecting both of them.
"A hunter's tears," Morlith murmured. "Strange sight."
Kieran gave a faint, shaky laugh. "Maybe I'm not one."
Morlith withdrew his hand slowly. "Perhaps." His tone softened, but the warning remained. "I will watch you, Kieran Fallowridge. Every word. Every breath. One deceit, and I shall consume your soul and wear your memories as clothes."
Kieran nodded. "Then I'll spend my life making sure you never have to."
Morlith turned, the faint shimmer of his aura fading to stillness. At the doorway he paused, glancing back just once. "Tomorrow, you shall teach me how to speak as your people do. But when you speak to me—" His eyes glinted faintly gold. "—you shall call me simply Morlith. And I shall call you Kieran. Not Fallowridge."
Kieran's lips parted. His breath shook. "All right."
Morlith inclined his head once, regal as any monarch, and left the kitchen. The door down the hall opened, hinges sighing softly, then closed.
Kieran stood alone. The diary still glowed faintly, the rune on its cover throbbing like a second heartbeat in the house. He reached out and touched it. The warmth that met his fingers wasn't fire. It was life—ancient, watching, testing.
He whispered, "Thank you," though he wasn't sure to whom.
Upstairs, in the room that had once been painted shut by holy men, Morlith stood by the window, staring out at the sky. Sunlight slid across his skin, no longer burning but heavy. He could feel the weakness beneath it—the fading of the energy that had sustained him for centuries. Yet beneath that, another warmth stirred. Not hunger. Not rage. Something perilously close to faith.
He closed his eyes. For a moment he imagined his father's voice, quiet and distant. Live, my son. Even if they hate you, live.
He exhaled, and the house seemed to breathe with him.
Below, Kieran sat at the table, staring at the sealed diary. The fear still sat inside him, but so did something else: a fragile sense that the curse of his bloodline had cracked, just slightly. Enough for light—or whatever this new thing was—to slip in.
The house, once a monument to slaughter, felt different now. Still haunted. Still heavy. But alive.
And somewhere between the man who had damned the world and the one who had inherited its guilt, a new story had begun.