Malin sat cross-legged on the grassy patch behind the stables, the faint scent of hay still clinging to his clothes. The evening sun slanted low, casting long, lazy shadows over the courtyard. He held a worn slate in one hand, the other smeared faintly with chalk dust.
"I finally got the 'Q' right," he announced, pointing to the crooked letter with a proud grin.
Philip, sitting beside him with his back against a tree trunk, looked over lazily. His hands were stained with the day's labor—calloused, rough, and real. He smirked, unimpressed. "You keep bragging like that, you'll start thinking you're a scholar."
Malin nudged him with his foot. "You could learn too, you know."
Philip's smirk deepened, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nah. I'm happy living like this—quiet, stable, predictable. What use would letters be to someone like me?"
Malin paused. He looked down at the chalk mark, then at Philip. "But don't you ever… want something more? A life outside this estate?
Philip's jaw tensed slightly. His gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the forest met the sky in a dusky blur. "I was born on this estate," he said quietly. "Probably going to die here."
Malin tilted his head, heart sinking a little. "What about havinga family?"
Philip looked at him then—direct, steady, no humor in his gaze. "The world's a mess, Malin. Humans like us? We're scraps in a system built to crush. I won't bring a child into that. I won't watch them grow up knowing they're less than someone else because of the blood in their veins."
A lump rose in Malin's throat. He looked away, blinking against the sting behind his eyes.
"I understand," he murmured. "I grew up with hunger clawing at my ribs. I used to think it was normal to count days without food. No child deserves that."
Philip's voice softened. "You still believe things can change?"
Malin nodded slowly. "I do. I have to. I wish this hierarchy never existed. That everyone had the right to be free… to choose their path."
Philip let out a quiet breath, the corner of his mouth twitching with something unreadable. "That's a sweet dream. But dangerous ones tend to get people killed."
Malin met his gaze. His voice, barely above a whisper, held an edge of quiet fire. "Then I'll dream it alone."
Philip didn't reply. But he placed a calloused hand on Malin's shoulder—silent solidarity, rough and warm.
By dinnertime, the estate was cloaked in the hush of routine. Malin and Philip ate in near silence at the long servants' table. Despite the months Malin had spent here, his relationship with the others remained distant — polite but impersonal, the way colleagues exchanged nods across cold corridors.
He had been a topic of gossip since his arrival, and his work in the stables left him little time to foster connections. But he didn't mind much. Philip was enough. Even if he wasn't the talkative type, he was… present. Steady.
After dinner, Malin returned to the study with a flickering oil lamp in hand. He placed it on the corner desk, its amber glow dancing over the aged parchment and inkpots. The silence wrapped around him like a blanket, thick and lonely. He opened the primer to the next letter of the alphabet, tracing the curves with careful fingers.
Still no sign of Lord Rhaegal.
He told himself not to worry. Rhaegal often returned late. But as the shadows lengthened and the wick grew shorter, his fingers trembled slightly, turning pages without reading. He abandoned his book and started to pace about the study room. His mind unable to rest. After pacing for quite sometime, malin sat back on the chair and eventually, he rested his head on the table. His eyelids sagged.
Sleep claimed him quietly.
Meanwhile, In the outskirts of town, deep in the dark maw of the forest, Lord Rhaegal moved like a ghost. His footsteps made no sound against the damp underbrush. Alfred walked beside him, silent and sure, his cloak blending with the shadows.
Ahead, through the dense trees, a strange cluster of bamboo houses rose like a secret village.
Rhaegal's golden eyes narrowed. "They're nesting," he murmured.
Alfred gave a slight nod. "The guthey have to form a secret camp."
Inside, around fifty figures in crimson hoods turned slowly to face him. The room tensed like a drawn bowstring. Several rebels reached for blades, but one figure raised a hand, halting them.
"Well, well," said a smooth voice from beneath a black hood. "The king's loyal dog has sniffed his way here."
Rhaegal's jaw clenched. "Show your face."
The man laughed, the sound low and mocking. "Why? So you can kill me quicker?"
The leader stepped forward, remaining just out of the lantern's reach. "Still taking orders, Blackthorn? Still cleaning the king's mess with your bloodstained hands?"
the hood still casted shadows across his features. "How long will you chase ghosts for King Aldric? How long before you realize his kingdom feeds off corpses?"
"I don't care about your speeches," Rhaegal said coldly. "Forming a rebel cult won't fix a broken world. You claim you're better than the king, but you still spill innocent blood."
The hooded man's tone sharpened. "One death to save millions is a bargain I'll make every time. And what about you, Rhaegal? How long before you're discarded like the weapon you are?"
Rhaegal tilted his head. "You talk too much."
"I have no illusions," Rhaegal said coldly. "And I don't care about your ideology. You're a threat. And threats are meant to be destroyed."
The rebel leader let out a sigh. " Then, I'm Afraid I can't let you walk out of here alive," he said and snapped his fingers.
Chaos erupted.
Alfred stepped in front of Rhaegal. His smile was calm. Too calm.
The first rebel lunged—only to be caught mid-air. Alfred's hands closed around the vampire's throat like iron vices. Then came the sound of tearing flesh and a gurgled scream as Alfred sank his fangs into the vampire's neck, draining him dry.
The others froze.
"What… what is he?" one whispered.
Alfred turned slowly, his fangs stained, lips curled in something between hunger and satisfaction. "Your worst nightmare."
Alfred dropped the body, licking the blood from his lips with a smirk. Unlike others of his kind, he fed not on humans—but on vampires and werewolves. A predator among predators. This was a secret by both Rhaegal and his butler.
Panic swept the room. Rebels screamed. Alfred descended like a storm—fast, precise, merciless. Limbs cracked. Blood sprayed. Bones snapped.
Rhaegal barely moved, eyes fixed on the hooded leader now slipping through the rear exit.
"Coward," he muttered, and took off after him.
When the figure turned to flee, Rhaegal moved.
He dashed after him, boots pounding against dirt and leaves. The night blurred around them. The figure leapt over fallen logs, weaving through trees, but Rhaegal was close behind.
Then he vanished.
Rhaegal skidded to a halt, eyes darting.
Silence.
Then—movement.
The figure burst from the shadows, attacking with a roar. His claws extended for a killing blow but Rhaegal ducked, countered his attack, and drove his fist into the man's ribs.
A vicious clash of strength and speed. Blows traded. Blood drawn. The black-cloaked rebel was no mere recruit. His strength was calculated. Brutal. Rhaegal could feel it in every punch — this man was old. Possibly older than him.
They circled.
Still trying?" Rhaegal goaded. "Your people are dead. This cause is dead."
"I'll find more. There's always more," the man growled.
Rhaegal laughed darkly. "You poor fool."
The man lunged again—but Rhaegal had baited him.
He twisted, pinned the man, and slammed him into the ground. One swift move, and the hood was torn away.
Rhaegal stared into familiar eyes. Recognition spread across his face followed by disappointment.
"It's you," he breathed.