The garden lay in a bruised half-light, its roses curled in on themselves as though the air still burned. Faint ribbons of crimson shimmered over the fountain where Morlith sat hunched, one hand braced against the cracked stone rim. His breath came uneven; each exhale left a mist of power that dissipated too quickly.
He could still taste Kieran's heartbeat. It sickened and steadied him in equal measure.
Footsteps whispered through the gravel path. Kieran stopped a few paces behind, cautious, the scent of his mortal warmth threading through the cooling air.
"You shouldn't be out here," Kieran said at last.
Morlith didn't turn. "And yet here you stand."
"I thought you might vanish again."
"I considered it," Morlith murmured. "But the world is smaller than I remember. There is nowhere to go."
The human took another step forward. The dying sun cast long stripes of amber across his face. "I shouldn't have done that to you."
Morlith's eyes lifted, gold dimming toward bronze. "No. You should not have."
Kieran hesitated. "I don't regret it."
Silence followed, sharp as a drawn blade. The air between them thickened until the roses shuddered. A red pulse rolled outward from Morlith's feet, rippling through soil and vine. "You mistake mercy for affection," he said. "You think you can tame what was born from defiance."
Kieran's jaw tightened. "You're not something to tame. You're someone who's forgotten what being alive feels like."
That struck too close. Morlith's magic flared, shadows leaping up the fountain walls. "Every mortal I've touched has burned," he said. "Why did you not?"
"Maybe," Kieran answered softly, "I was already burning."
The fountain gurgled once, the sound almost like laughter, then stilled. Morlith's strength faltered. He swayed, catching himself on the rim. The gold in his eyes dulled to amber; faint veins of red crept beneath his skin.
"Kieran," he whispered, "go inside."
"What's wrong?"
"The light… the air… I can feel it pulling." His body trembled. "My strength is fading."
Kieran knelt beside him. "You haven't fed."
"Silence," Morlith hissed, but the word carried no force. "Leave before I take what I should not."
Kieran rolled up his sleeve and held out his wrist. "Then take what you need."
Morlith's pupils thinned. "You would offer your blood?"
"You need it more than I do."
"You have no idea what you're inviting."
"Then show me," Kieran said. "I trust you."
For a heartbeat, the ancient creature only stared. Then hunger broke through restraint. His hand shot forward, catching Kieran's wrist. "Forgive me," he breathed—and his fangs sank deep.
Fire. Warmth. The taste of light itself. The garden erupted around them: roses flared open, petals gleaming gold at their edges; the fountain blazed with liquid luminescence. Kieran gasped, vision swimming, yet the pain he expected never came—only a strange exhilaration, like the moment before thunder breaks.
Inside his mind, images flashed: a boy locked within a painted world; a father's hand glowing with divine sigils; the scent of ash and holy fire. Then it was gone.
Morlith tore himself free, stumbling backward, breath ragged. His lips were dark with Kieran's blood, his eyes blazing twin suns. "You fool," he rasped. "You could have died."
Kieran pressed his wrist to his chest, heartbeat thrumming. "You didn't want me dead."
Morlith stared, power faltering. The roses remained open, haloed in faint light. "You tempt ruin."
"Maybe ruin needs company."
Morlith turned away, wiping his mouth, shame flickering across his face. "I do not understand you."
"Then stay until you do."
He looked back—ancient fury and bewilderment meeting something gentler. The corners of his mouth lifted a fraction. "You are impossible."
"So I've been told."
A small sound escaped Morlith, halfway between a scoff and a laugh. The garden exhaled. Wind stirred the leaves; the heavy scent of roses softened.
Night bled fully over the estate. Moonlight silvered the cracked stone, painting their shadows long across the grass. Neither moved for a while. The silence between them had changed; it was no longer a wall, but a thread.
When Morlith finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "You should rest. You lost blood."
"So did you," Kieran said.
"I will recover. I always do."
They began walking back toward the house. The path wound through marble arches and broken statues that glimmered faintly with trapped runes. Kieran glanced sideways. "Does the estate still answer to you?"
"It remembers me," Morlith said. "Whether it obeys, I cannot tell."
"Then it remembers kindness."
He gave a soft, incredulous snort. "Kindness is not what binds stone."
"Maybe not. But maybe that's why it's still standing."
At the threshold, Morlith paused. The air shimmered, faint ripples of divine and infernal power colliding where his aura brushed the doorframe. "This place was once a prison," he said. "Now it feels like something worse."
"What's worse than a prison?"
"A home."
Kieran smiled faintly. "You'll get used to it."
Inside, the air still carried the faint ozone tang of his earlier outburst. Broken bulbs glinted on the floor. Kieran stooped to gather the shards while Morlith watched, motionless, from the doorway. The human's movements were slow but steady, deliberate—like someone trying to mend more than glass.
When the last piece was gone, Kieran looked up. "See? Not all destruction lasts."
Morlith's gaze softened. "You speak as though you believe that."
"I have to."
The words hung between them. Then Morlith turned away. "Sleep. You will need your strength."
"And you?"
"I will keep watch."
"You sure you don't just mean 'brood'?"
A flash of dry amusement crossed Morlith's face. "Perhaps both."
He left Kieran standing by the bed and walked to the window. The moon caught in his hair, turning it almost silver. Outside, the garden glowed faintly from the magic still bleeding through the earth. He placed a hand on the glass; it warmed beneath his palm.
Why did his blood not burn me? he thought. Why did it taste of light instead of sin?
From somewhere deep within the estate came a low hum—the wards shifting, restless. The flare of his feeding had not gone unnoticed. Distant powers would feel it soon.
Behind him, Kieran had stretched out on the bed, exhaustion overtaking him. His breathing slowed, steady and human, grounding the air around him. Morlith turned slightly, watching.
He whispered to himself, "Every time I close my eyes, I see him."
And then, unbidden, the faintest echo answered—his father's voice carried on memory and moonlight:
"Do not fear the light, my son. It remembers love as well as wrath."
Morlith's fingers curled against the glass. The glow from the garden dimmed, settling into calm. He looked back once more at Kieran, sleeping unguarded in the bed they had shared earlier. The sight made his chest tighten.
"I should have left you in peace," he murmured. "But peace is a lie I no longer crave."
He crossed the room, silent as mist, and lowered himself into the chair beside the bed. Hours passed. The house, the garden, the night—all seemed to breathe with them. The old wards whispered, shifting like dreams.
When the first trace of dawn touched the horizon, Morlith finally closed his eyes. Not to sleep, but to listen—to the heartbeat across the room, the fragile rhythm that somehow kept the storm inside him still.