Azerin woke to the sound of birdsong filtering through the window he had left open the night before. For a disorienting moment, he couldn't place where he was—the softness of the mattress beneath him, the clean scent of laundered linens, the gentle morning light that spoke of safety rather than exposure. Then memory returned: the bookshop, Marcus's trust, the small room that was somehow, impossibly, his.
I have a home.
The thought was so foreign, so laden with implications he didn't know how to process, that he simply lay there for several minutes, staring at the ceiling beams and trying to understand what this meant. For weeks, survival had been his only goal—finding food, avoiding detection, managing the constant physical demands of his mortal body. But now, with basic needs met and a place to call his own, he was forced to confront a more complicated question: What comes next?
His body, at least, had opinions on the matter. The persistent aches from sleeping on hard ground had begun to fade, replaced by the less urgent discomfort of muscles adjusting to regular physical labor. His stomach, while still prone to reminding him of mealtimes with embarrassing insistence, no longer carried the desperate edge of starvation. Even his hands—once instruments of supernatural destruction, now merely human appendages—had begun to develop new calluses from handling books and boxes.
I'm adapting. Learning to inhabit this body not as a prison, but as... what? A vessel? A tool? No. Something more fundamental than that. This isn't something I'm wearing. This is what I am now.
The realization should have been devastating, but instead, it carried a strange sense of relief. The constant tension between what he had been and what he was forced to be was slowly giving way to something simpler: acceptance.
He rose and dressed in the spare clothes Anna had helped him acquire from the town seamstress—a simple shirt and trousers that fit his lean frame without the uncomfortable bagginess of his original garments. The fabric was rough but clean, practical rather than fine, and wearing it felt like another small step toward becoming the person this town thought he was.
Marcus had given him a key to the shop's back entrance, along with instructions to open up each morning and start the fire in the small stove that provided heat and the means to make tea. The trust implicit in that simple brass key felt heavier than any crown he had worn.
He believes I won't steal from him. Believes I'll care for his books, his life's work, as if they were my own. What have I done to deserve that faith? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And yet he offers it anyway.
The bookshop in the early morning was a different creature than during business hours. Without customers browsing and Marcus bustling about with his cheerful commentary, the space took on an almost sacred quality. Dust motes danced in the slanting sunlight, and the books themselves seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the day to begin. Azerin moved through the aisles with careful reverence, trailing his fingers along spines as he performed Marcus's morning ritual: checking that everything was secure, that no mice had gotten into the storeroom (they hadn't), that the front windows were clean enough to entice passersby (they were).
When the fire was crackling cheerfully and the kettle beginning to whistle, Marcus arrived with a basket that smelled of fresh bread and something sweet.
"Ah, you beat me here!" the old man said with evident pleasure. "Splendid. Shows initiative, that does. I brought breakfast from the bakery—Anna insisted, and one doesn't argue with Anna Mills when she's on a mission of charity."
They sat at the small table in the back room, and Marcus showed him how to properly brew tea—a process that apparently involved more precision than Azerin had anticipated. As they ate bread still warm from the oven and pastries filled with fruit preserves, Marcus outlined the day's tasks with the easy authority of someone who had found genuine joy in his work.
"Tuesdays are typically quiet," he explained, brushing crumbs from his vest with practiced efficiency. "Gives us time to work on the cataloging project. I've been meaning to create a proper inventory for years, but it always seemed too daunting a task to tackle alone." He smiled at Azerin over the rim of his teacup. "Now that I have competent help, perhaps we can actually make some progress."
Competent help. He sees me as useful rather than dangerous. Values my assistance rather than fearing my presence. When did I become someone who could be trusted with something as simple as cataloging books?
The work proved more engaging than Azerin had anticipated. Each book required careful handling—examining the spine for title and author information, checking the condition, noting any unique characteristics or damage, then recording it all in Marcus's elegant ledger. But more than the mechanical process, Azerin found himself drawn into the stories the books themselves told.
A collection of poetry with a dried flower pressed between pages, marking someone's favorite verse. A technical manual with marginalia in multiple hands, knowledge passed from master to apprentice across generations. A children's book with crude drawings added by small fingers, transforming printed stories into personal treasures.
These aren't just objects. They're pieces of people's lives, fragments of love and learning and hope. And I spent centuries destroying things like this—burning libraries, scattering learning, treating knowledge as a threat rather than a gift.
"You've gone quiet," Marcus observed from across the table where they were working. "Heavy thoughts?"
Azerin looked up, realizing he'd been staring at the same book for several minutes without actually seeing it. "I was just thinking about how much care went into creating these. The hours of work, the dedication..."
"And how easily they can be lost," Marcus finished softly. "Yes. I think about that often. Fire, flood, war, simple neglect—knowledge is more fragile than most people realize. That's why those of us who care for books take our responsibility seriously. We're not just shopkeepers. We're guardians of human thought itself."
Guardians. When did I last guard anything except my own power? When did I last preserve rather than destroy?
The morning passed in contemplative industry, broken only by the occasional customer. Azerin observed how Marcus interacted with each one—a different approach for everyone. The young mother seeking stories for her children received patient suggestions and gentle humor. The scholar looking for obscure texts was treated as an equal, engaged in spirited debate about various editions and translations. The elderly man who clearly came more for company than commerce was welcomed with tea and conversation that had little to do with books.
He sees them. Each person who walks through that door, he actually sees them—who they are, what they need, how to make them feel valued. I looked at humans for centuries and saw only categories: threat, tool, food, obstacle. I never once saw them as people.
During the afternoon lull, when the shop was empty and Marcus had retreated to his desk for correspondence, Azerin found himself drawn to a section he had noticed but not yet explored—philosophy and ethics. The titles alone were daunting: The Nature of Good and Evil, On the Conscience of Kings, Moral Philosophy for the Common Man.
He pulled down a slim volume almost at random: Reflections on Redemption by Brother Aldric of the Western Abbey. The book fell open to a passage that had been marked with a faded ribbon:
'The question is not whether we are capable of evil—all possess that capacity. The question is whether, having done evil, we are capable of genuine change. And if so, what does such change require of us? Not merely regret for past actions, but fundamental transformation of the self. We must become people who would not, could not, commit those acts again—not because we fear punishment, but because we have internalized different values, developed different instincts, become someone new.'
Azerin read the passage three times, his hands trembling slightly. Become someone new. Was that possible? Could he truly transform so completely that his old instincts, his old cruelties, his old indifference to suffering would be replaced by something better?
"Found something interesting?" Marcus asked, approaching with fresh tea.
"I'm not sure," Azerin admitted. "It's about... whether people can really change. Fundamentally change, not just pretend to be different."
Marcus settled into the chair beside him with the slight groan of aging joints. "Ah, the eternal question. What do you think? Can people change?"
Can monsters become men? Can a thousand years of cruelty be undone by weeks of fumbling attempts at decency? Can someone like me ever be worthy of the trust you're showing?
"I don't know," Azerin said quietly. "I want to believe they can. But wanting something doesn't make it true."
"No," Marcus agreed. "But it's a start. Change requires first believing change is possible, then having the courage to attempt it. Most people fail not because they're incapable of transformation, but because they're too afraid to try."
Too afraid to try. Is that what I'm doing? Or am I simply going through motions, playing at humanity while remaining fundamentally the same underneath?
The bell above the shop door chimed, announcing a new customer. Azerin looked up and felt his blood run cold—metaphorically now, since his actual blood no longer did anything supernatural.
The man entering was perhaps thirty, with the lean build and watchful eyes of someone accustomed to violence. More significantly, he carried himself with the distinctive arrogance Azerin recognized immediately: vampire. Not Sacred Blood—those were vanishingly rare—but one of the lesser clans. Old enough to have power, young enough to be reckless with it.
He shouldn't be here. Vampires don't frequent bookshops in small towns. They hunt in cities, in places where disappearances can be explained away. Unless...
"Good afternoon!" Marcus called out with his usual warmth. "Welcome to Thornfield's. Let me know if I can help you find anything."
The vampire's eyes swept the shop with predatory efficiency before settling on Azerin. For a long, frozen moment, their gazes locked. Azerin felt the familiar assessment, the automatic categorization that vampires performed when encountering potential prey or rivals.
But something was wrong with the calculation. The vampire's eyes narrowed in confusion, as if the equation wasn't adding up correctly. He could clearly sense something unusual about Azerin, but the curse had apparently hidden his true nature well enough to create doubt.
He knows I'm not fully human. But he can't identify what I am. My scent is wrong, my presence is wrong, but not in any way he can categorize.
"Just browsing," the vampire said smoothly, his attention still fixed on Azerin. "Lovely shop you have here."
"Thank you," Marcus replied, oblivious to the tension crackling between his employee and the newcomer. "The history section is particularly well-stocked if that's your interest."
The vampire smiled, revealing teeth that were just slightly too perfect. "Actually, I'm more interested in local knowledge. I'm new to the area, you see. Looking to... settle in."
He's establishing territory. Marking this town as a feeding ground. And he's curious about me because I'm an anomaly in his new hunting grounds.
Azerin forced himself to speak, keeping his voice level and uninteresting. "The geography section is against the far wall. Several good guides to the region."
"Perhaps you could show me?" The vampire's tone was pleasant, but the undertone was pure challenge. "You seem like you know your way around."
He wants to get me alone, to confirm what I am. If he realizes I'm powerless, that I'm the Sacred Blood King reduced to mortal flesh... Some of the lesser clans would pay fortunes for that information. Others would simply kill me for the satisfaction of it.
"Azer is still learning the inventory," Marcus interjected cheerfully. "But I can certainly help you find what you need."
The vampire's smile didn't waver, but his eyes promised that this conversation wasn't over. "Another time, perhaps. I think I'll just browse on my own, if that's acceptable."
"Of course, of course. Take your time."
As the vampire moved deeper into the shop, Marcus turned to Azerin with a slight frown. "Are you alright? You've gone quite pale."
Paler than usual, you mean. How do I explain that the pleasant customer browsing your philosophy section is a predator who drinks human blood and is currently trying to determine whether I'm prey, rival, or something else entirely?
"I'm fine," Azerin managed. "Just... something about him seems off."
Marcus studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Trust your instincts. I've learned that people who've seen combat develop a sense for danger. If something feels wrong, it probably is."
If only you knew how right you are. And how completely unprepared you are for the kind of danger currently examining your rare manuscripts.
The vampire spent twenty excruciating minutes in the shop, moving through the aisles with deliberate casualness while periodically glancing toward Azerin. It was a calculated intimidation tactic, and it was working. Without his powers, Azerin couldn't defend himself or Marcus if the creature decided to attack. He couldn't even run with any confidence of escape.
This is what humans feel like. This constant awareness of vulnerability, the knowledge that there are predators in the world and you're made of meat. No wonder they build communities, surround themselves with others. Alone, they're helpless.
Finally, mercifully, the vampire selected a book—a history of the region, ironically enough—and brought it to the counter. As Marcus wrapped the purchase and made friendly conversation about local landmarks, the vampire's eyes never left Azerin.
"I'm sure we'll see each other again," he said as he left, the words clearly directed at Azerin rather than Marcus. "It's a small town, after all. Hard to avoid... running into people."
The door chimed shut behind him, and Azerin realized he'd been holding his breath. His heart was racing, his palms damp with sweat—physiological responses his vampire body had never produced.
"Odd fellow," Marcus observed. "Something about him made my teeth itch. You felt it too?"
"Yes," Azerin said quietly. "We should be careful. Some strangers are more dangerous than others."
Marcus nodded, already moving to close the shutters despite it being early afternoon. "My wife used to say I had no sense of self-preservation, but even I know when to lock the doors. We'll close early today. No point taking chances with bad feelings."
He's protecting us. This human, this fragile, mortal man with no powers and no weapons beyond his own judgment, is taking action to protect us both from a threat he can't even properly identify. This is courage. Real courage—not the fearless arrogance of power, but the choice to act despite fear.
As they secured the shop and Azerin retreated to his apartment, he found himself facing a new and unwelcome reality. He had been so focused on learning to be human, on adapting to mortality, that he hadn't considered what it would mean if his past caught up with him.
The vampire would ask questions. Would investigate. And eventually, would either figure out what Azerin was or, worse, would start hunting in this town, treating these people—Marcus, Anna, little Emma—as nothing more than food.
I brought this danger here. By staying, by allowing myself to get comfortable, I've painted a target on this entire community. The responsible thing would be to leave, to draw any threats away before people get hurt.
But even as the thought formed, another rose to challenge it:
Or I could stay. Could find a way to protect them, even without power. Could be the guardian rather than the destroyer for once in my miserable existence.
He pulled out the healer's journal Marcus had given him and opened it to a random page:
'Sometimes healing means staying with the patient even when you're exhausted, even when it seems futile, even when every instinct screams at you to protect yourself by walking away. The courage to remain present in the face of suffering—that's what separates true healers from those who simply know herb lore.'
Azerin closed the book gently and stared out the window at the town settling into evening. Lanterns were being lit, families were gathering for supper, children were being called in from play. All of it so ordinary, so precious, so fragile.
I don't know how to protect them. I don't even know how to protect myself anymore. But perhaps that's not the point. Perhaps the point is to try—to choose to stay even when leaving would be safer, to care even when it makes me vulnerable.
Elara, if you're watching from whatever afterlife witches inhabit, I hope you're satisfied. You've managed to make me care about human lives instead of just calculating their strategic value. It's terrifying and exhausting and I have no idea what I'm doing.
But I'm not running. Not this time. Not from this.
He lay down as darkness fell, exhausted by fear and decision in equal measure. His dreams that night were troubled but determined—nightmares of the vampire returning, of Marcus's blood on the shop floor, of Emma's wooden chicken lying broken in the street.
But in every dream, he was there. Powerless, perhaps. Inadequate, certainly. But present. Trying. Fighting in whatever way a mortal man could fight.
And somehow, that felt like progress.