The morning bell at the town square chimed six times, and Azerin was already awake—had been for nearly an hour. Sleep, he was discovering, was far more complicated for humans than he had anticipated. Not the deep, death-like slumber of his vampiric rest, but something lighter, more fragile, punctuated by dreams that left him disoriented and occasionally breathless.
He lay in his small bed above the bookshop, watching dust motes dance in the early light filtering through his window, and simply existed. There was no urgency to rise, no supernatural hunger demanding immediate attention, no court politics requiring his strategic mind. Just the gentle pressure of a new day beginning and the knowledge that he had somewhere to be, something useful to do.
This is what humans wake up to every morning. This quiet moment between sleep and obligation. How did I never understand how precious this is?
He rose slowly, his body still adjusting to the consistent comfort of a real bed. The persistent aches from sleeping on cave floors and forest ground were finally fading, replaced by the subtler discomforts of a body learning to trust regular rest. He dressed in the simple clothes Anna had helped him purchase—a clean shirt, sturdy trousers, boots that actually fit—and found himself pausing at the small mirror above his washbasin.
The face looking back at him was becoming familiar in ways both comforting and strange. The gauntness from his wilderness weeks had begun to fill out with regular meals. His hair, which Marcus had insisted on trimming to something approaching respectability, framed his face in a way that looked almost... normal. If he didn't look too closely at his eyes—those gray-blue depths that still sometimes reflected thoughts too old for his apparent age—he could almost pass for what he pretended to be: a man starting over.
The morning ritual of making tea had become something he looked forward to with an intensity that would have baffled his former self. The simple act of heating water, of measuring leaves with the careful precision Marcus had taught him, of waiting for the perfect steeping time—it was meditative in a way that centuries of power had never been.
He carried his cup down to the shop, unlocking the front door and propping it open to let in the morning air. The street outside was beginning to wake—shopkeepers opening shutters, early risers heading to the market, the baker's boy making his deliveries with the cheerful whistling that seemed to be his permanent soundtrack.
"Morning, Azer!" the boy called out as he passed, balancing an improbable stack of bread baskets on his head.
"Good morning, Thomas," Azerin replied, and felt an absurd pleasure at remembering the boy's name, at being greeted like a normal person rather than avoided like a threat.
When did I start caring about knowing their names? When did the baker's boy become Thomas instead of just "potential meal" or "irrelevant human"?
The first customer arrived just as Azerin finished lighting the lamps—Mrs. Patterson, the elderly woman who came every Tuesday morning to browse the poetry section. She never actually purchased anything, but Marcus had long ago decided that providing a warm place for her to read was payment enough for the pleasure of her company.
"Oh, Azer dear," she said, her face lighting up with the particular joy of someone who had found a new person to talk to. "I was hoping you'd be here. I wanted to ask your opinion on something."
She led him to the poetry section, moving with the careful deliberation of someone whose joints didn't quite work as well as they once had, and pulled down a worn volume Azerin now recognized as her favorite.
"This passage here," she said, pointing with a finger gnarled by arthritis. "The one about 'love being the courage to be known completely.' Do you think that's true? Can people really love each other if they're hiding parts of themselves?"
The question struck closer to home than she could possibly know. Azerin looked at the words on the page, at the poet's earnest attempt to capture something fundamental about human connection, and felt the weight of his own deception like a physical thing.
I am hiding everything from everyone. My true nature, my past, the centuries of cruelty that define who I really am. Can any connection I build here be real when it's based on such comprehensive lies?
"I think," he said carefully, "that everyone hides parts of themselves. The question is whether what you show is true, even if it's not complete."
Mrs. Patterson studied him with eyes that seemed to see more than he was comfortable with. "That's a very diplomatic answer from someone who looks like he's spent considerable time thinking about it."
Before he could formulate a response that didn't reveal too much, she patted his arm with grandmotherly affection. "We all have our secrets, dear. The measure of a person isn't whether they've made mistakes, but whether they're trying to be better."
She settled into her usual chair by the window, and Azerin returned to the front counter, her words echoing in his mind with uncomfortable resonance.
The morning passed in a rhythm that was becoming comfortingly familiar. Customers drifted in and out—some looking for specific titles, others just browsing, a few simply seeking Marcus's company and conversation. Azerin was learning to read their needs with an instinct that surprised him, knowing when to offer help and when to give them space to discover things on their own.
Around mid-morning, Emma burst through the door with her characteristic enthusiasm, Henrietta the chicken tucked under one arm like a particularly indignant football.
"Azer! Azer! Look what I taught her!" The little girl set the chicken down on the counter—Marcus would have had opinions about this, but fortunately he was in the back room cataloging new arrivals—and proceeded to demonstrate Henrietta's apparent ability to peck at specific books when commanded.
"That's... impressive," Azerin said, watching the chicken attack a volume on agricultural practices with what might have been precision or might have been random violence. It was difficult to tell with poultry.
"Mama says I'm going to grow up to be a scholar," Emma announced proudly, "because I teach chickens and ask lots of questions. Do you ask lots of questions?"
Do I? I used to demand answers. Used to command knowledge. But asking? That implies uncertainty, humility, the acceptance that I don't already know everything. That's new.
"I'm learning to," he said honestly.
"Good! Mama says asking questions is how you get smarter, but Papa says sometimes asking questions just gets you in trouble." She scooped up Henrietta, who had moved on to pecking at Azerin's fingers with the impartial aggression chickens brought to all interactions. "Which one is right?"
"Perhaps they both are," Azerin suggested. "Questions make you smarter, but sometimes the answers are uncomfortable."
Emma pondered this with the seriousness of a philosopher contemplating universal truths. "Like when I asked where babies come from and Mama turned red and said 'gardens'?"
Despite himself, despite the centuries of cultivated coldness, Azerin felt his lips twitch into what was almost certainly a smile. "Exactly like that."
After Emma left—taking Henrietta before the chicken could inflict serious damage on the merchandise—Azerin found himself straightening books with more care than strictly necessary, his mind lingering on the easy affection the child showed him. She had no fear, no wariness, no sense that he might be dangerous. To her, he was just Azer, the man who worked in the bookshop and said interesting things about chickens.
Is this what redemption feels like? Being trusted by a child who has no reason to suspect what I've done? Or is it just another form of deception, pretending to be harmless when I'm anything but?
Lunch arrived courtesy of Anna, who appeared at the shop with a basket and a determination that brooked no argument.
"Marcus mentioned you tend to forget to eat when he's not here to remind you," she said, unpacking bread, cheese, cold meat, and what appeared to be fresh apple tart. "So I've taken it upon myself to ensure you don't starve to death in a building literally surrounded by food shops."
"I'm capable of feeding myself," Azerin protested, though the smell of the fresh bread was already making his stomach voice its opinions on the matter.
"Capable and actually doing it are different things," Anna replied with the practical wisdom of someone who had managed households and stubborn men in equal measure. "Sit. Eat. Tell me how you're settling in."
They sat at the small table in the back room, and Azerin found himself doing something he couldn't remember doing in centuries—sharing a meal with someone as an equal. Not as lord and subject, not as predator and prey, but simply as two people taking a moment from their day to eat together.
"The town is... quieter than I expected," he said between bites of bread that was somehow both hearty and delicate. "I thought smaller communities would be more insular, perhaps."
Anna laughed. "Oh, we're insular enough when we want to be. But we're also practical. A good worker is a good worker, and Marcus vouching for you carries weight." She studied him with the same assessing look she'd given him that first day. "You're good for him, you know. He's been alone too long, since his wife passed. Having someone to mentor again gives him purpose."
Purpose. When did I last give someone purpose that wasn't about serving my needs? When did I last contribute to someone else's happiness?
"He's been very kind," Azerin said quietly. "More than I deserve."
"Everyone deserves kindness," Anna replied firmly. "The question is what you do with it. Some people take kindness and hoard it, let it make them bitter that they don't have more. Others take it and pass it on, let it make them generous. I have a feeling you're learning to be the second kind."
After Anna left, Azerin sat alone in the quiet shop, surrounded by thousands of stories about people who had loved and lost, triumphed and failed, lived entire lives in the space between birth and death. For the first time, he felt connected to those stories not as a distant observer, but as a participant in the same fundamental human experience.
The afternoon brought different rhythms. Marcus returned from his errands and immediately launched into an enthusiastic discussion of an estate sale he'd heard about—apparently an old scholar had died and his collection was being liquidated. The prospect of acquiring new books made Marcus positively gleeful, and his excitement was somehow contagious.
"We'll need to go out there tomorrow," Marcus said, already making lists with the focused intensity of a general planning a campaign. "Early, before the dealers from the city get wind of it. I'll need you to help me assess the collection—your eye for quality has improved remarkably. And you're strong enough to help with the actual hauling, which at my age is not insignificant."
He trusts my judgment. Values my opinion. When did I last have someone ask for my perspective who wasn't required to by political hierarchy?
They spent the rest of the afternoon preparing for the expedition—gathering coin, finding crates suitable for transport, mapping the route to the estate. It was mundane work, practical and immediate, but Azerin found himself genuinely engaged in the planning. The prospect of discovering new books, of adding to the shop's collection, carried a satisfaction entirely separate from any supernatural hunger for power.
As evening approached, the shop took on the golden quality that had become Azerin's favorite time of day. The setting sun streamed through the windows at an angle that made the dust motes look like floating embers, and the books seemed to glow with inner warmth. It was peaceful in a way that required no violence to maintain, beautiful in a way that didn't involve domination.
The last customer of the day was a young man, perhaps twenty, who approached the counter with the hesitant air of someone about to make a significant purchase. In his hands was a slim volume of poetry—the same collection Mrs. Patterson had been reading that morning.
"Is this... I mean, would this be appropriate..." The young man's face was flushed with what Azerin gradually recognized as embarrassment. "There's a girl. She likes poetry. I thought maybe..."
Understanding dawned, along with something that might have been recognition. How many centuries ago had he bought gifts for someone he hoped to impress? The memory was so distant, so buried under layers of immortality and cruelty, that it barely felt like his own.
"It's a beautiful collection," Azerin said gently. "Thoughtful. The kind of gift that shows you were paying attention to what matters to her."
The young man's face brightened. "Really? You don't think it's too... I mean, I'm just a carpenter's apprentice. Will she think I'm putting on airs?"
How do I answer this? What do I know about courtship, about vulnerability, about the terrifying courage it takes to offer your heart to someone who might reject it?
"I think," Azerin said slowly, "that caring about whether you're putting on airs means you're being genuine. The worst gift would be something that was actually pretending to be more than you are. This is just... you, trying to make her happy."
The young man left with his carefully wrapped purchase and a smile that transformed his entire face, and Azerin found himself oddly moved by the interaction. Such a small thing—helping someone choose a book for a gift—but it felt significant in ways he couldn't quite articulate.
I just helped facilitate human connection instead of destroying it. I encouraged love instead of crushing it. When did that become something I could do?
As he locked up for the evening, Marcus appeared from the back room with two cups of tea and a contemplative expression.
"You're good at this," the old man said without preamble. "At seeing what people need, at helping them find it. Not just with books—with everything. Where did you learn that?"
From watching humans the way a predator watches prey. From studying their vulnerabilities so I could exploit them. From centuries of manipulation refined to an art form. Somehow I doubt that's the answer you're looking for.
"I'm not sure I learned it," Azerin said carefully. "Perhaps I'm just finally paying attention."
Marcus nodded as if this made perfect sense. "Attention is underrated. Most people move through the world half-asleep, barely noticing what's right in front of them. The ones who actually see things—they're the ones who can make a difference."
They sat together in the gathering darkness, drinking tea and watching the last light fade from the sky. It was companionable, this silence between them—not awkward or charged, but simply two people sharing space without the need to fill it with unnecessary words.
This is friendship. Real friendship, not the calculated alliances of court politics. He asks nothing from me except honest work, gives nothing except respect and trust. How did I never understand that this was what I was missing?
When Marcus finally said goodnight and left for his own home, Azerin climbed the stairs to his apartment and stood at the window, looking out over the town as it settled into evening routines. Lights appeared in windows. Smoke rose from chimneys. The sounds of families gathering for supper drifted on the evening air.
He opened the healer's journal Marcus had lent him and found a passage that seemed written specifically for this moment:
'Healing is not always dramatic. Sometimes it's just the steady accumulation of ordinary days—waking up, doing useful work, connecting with others in small ways. Sometimes the greatest medicine is simply being present in your own life, paying attention to the miracle of existence itself.'
Azerin closed the book gently and realized something that would have horrified his former self: he was happy. Not in any grand or dramatic way, not through conquest or power or the subjugation of others. Just... content. Satisfied with the simple weight of ordinary days, with the gentle rhythms of human life, with the small joys of being useful and accepted and part of something larger than himself.
Outside his window, a mother called her children in for supper. A couple walked hand in hand down the street. The baker's boy whistled his way home, his deliveries complete for the day.
And Azerin Valefor, once the Sacred Blood King who had ruled through terror and absolute power, felt tears slip down his face—not from grief or loss, but from the overwhelming beauty of a world he was finally learning to see.
This is what you wanted me to understand, Elara. Not that humans are weak or strong, not that they're prey or equals. But that they're brave. That they build beautiful things knowing how fragile everything is. That they love each other despite knowing loss is inevitable. That they find joy in small moments because they understand how precious those moments are.
He lay down as full darkness fell, his body pleasantly tired from honest work, his mind full of books and conversations and the face of a little girl teaching chickens to read. His dreams that night were peaceful—no screaming victims, no burning villages, no echoes of cruelty.
Instead, he dreamed of dusty bookshops and fresh bread, of poetry given as gifts and children's laughter, of the extraordinary privilege of living an ordinary life.
And for the first time since the curse took hold, he thought perhaps—just perhaps—that extraordinary privilege might be worth more than all the power he had lost.