Upstairs, silence ruled.
The vampire stood at the far end of his private chamber, bathed in the dim blue hue of the moonlight seeping through the tall, arched window.
In one hand, he held a worn book—its leather binding cracked with age—but his eyes weren't moving across the words. His mind wasn't with the text.
Faintly, from below, a scream echoed.
He didn't move.
Another sound followed—a harsh thud, like a body hitting the floor.
Still, he didn't flinch. Only shut the book with calm precision, turning slowly to face the window again.
"She's putting on a show," he muttered to himself. "Desperate little ghost. She wants me to think the girl's fading… classic manipulation."
But then the air changed.
The hairs on his arm stirred.
He closed his eyes, reaching out with the old instinct—not sight, not sound, but something deeper.
He had lived over five centuries; he knew how death smelled before it arrived.
And he could smell it now.
His jaw clenched. "That's not… just her."
He vanished in a blink.
The cellar door flung open with a gust of air, the hinges crying in protest.
His boots hit the stone steps hard, and by the time he reached the bottom, the cold of the magic cage had thickened—dense and sharp like a blade.
Inside the shimmer of the cage, the girl's body was slumped over. Her hands twitched weakly.
Her eyes—no longer silver, but dull and glassy—stared at nothing.
And the ghost?
She didn't even rise to face him.
She was kneeling, head bowed, her grip around the girl's ribs trembling like old wire about to snap.
He stepped closer, frowning. "I told you, tricks won't work on me."
The ghost didn't respond.
Not with a sneer, not with a threat—nothing.
That unsettled him more than all her screaming.
He reached out, placing one hand against the cage's boundary. The glow flared slightly but didn't reject him. His magic recognized him.
"Tilda," he said, voice lower now. "What did you do?"
Her head lifted slowly, and he saw it.
The panic.
Her voice was hoarse. "I didn't… I didn't mean to hurt her this far. I just needed more time."
He narrowed his eyes. "You said you didn't care."
"I didn't… until she started breaking."
He froze at the sight—her breath shallow, her skin pale as moonlight, and her soul… dimming.
The shimmer of life was nearly gone, and with it, the last tether holding Tilda in place.
"She won't last the night," he said flatly. "And if she dies, she'll take you with her."
Tilda flinched.
"Unless you detach willingly," he added.
Her face twisted. "And vanish? No. I… I need vengeance—"
"No," he cut in, sharp now. "What you need is to stop lying to yourself."
The tension held for a long breath.
Then he lowered his hand. The cage shimmered again, reacting to his intention—but he didn't remove it. Not yet.
"You said you were stronger than me," he said. "So figure out how to survive without taking someone else down with you."
He turned without another word.
As he reached the top step, her voice came again—broken, almost human.
"I didn't mean to destroy her…"
The door creaked shut behind him.
He didn't sleep that night.
Sleep was a human luxury, one he'd long abandoned. But even in stillness, in silence, in that ancient manor buried behind wild thorns and forgotten trees, his mind remained restless.
Tilda's voice echoed.
"I didn't mean to destroy her…"
He leaned against the carved stone mantel, staring into the fireplace, though no fire burned.
The cold in his chest had nothing to do with temperature. It was something older, deeper—something grief-shaped and memory-fed.
She reminded him of someone.
Not her face—her fury. That desperate insistence on rewriting fate.
He had once known someone like that. Loved someone like that.
And when her rage outpaced her reason, it had cost him everything—faith, hope, even the man he used to be.
He glanced toward the cellar door. No sound. Just the weight of two souls pressed inside a single body—and both beginning to fade.
He cursed under his breath.
Then moved.
Down the stairs, the light dimmed the deeper he went.
He didn't need torches; the house breathed with old magic, and his presence lit the runes that flickered against the walls.
When he reached the cage, he didn't stop at the edge this time.
The girl was lying on the floor, her skin drenched in sweat, lips trembling. Her body—still possessed by Tilda—twitched in pain.
And behind her eyes, two lights flickered—Tilda's silvery gleam, and the girl's original warmth, now dimming fast.
He stepped to the cage and pressed his palm against the magic sigil. It responded, opening a small doorway.
Not enough for escape.
Just enough for him to step inside.
Tilda stirred, startled, dragging herself back to her knees. "What are you doing?"
He said nothing at first, crouching beside the girl. From the folds of his coat, he drew a crystal vial, sealed with black wax and humming with ancient life.
As he uncorked it, a whisper of wind stirred the runes around them—magic recognizing magic.
"You're dying," he said.
"I know."
"So is she."
She looked away.
He grabbed her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. His voice dropped, low and cold.
"You want revenge so badly you'll become the very thing that ruined you? You want to rot in this girl's corpse because you're too proud to let go?"
She didn't speak.
He released her face and uncorked the bottle. A faint vapor drifted out, glowing greenish-blue.
"What is that?" she asked.
"Something old. Something living," he replied. "It's not enough to free you.
But it can hold her spirit long enough to anchor it while we work."
Tilda stared. "You're helping me."
"I'm helping her," he said flatly. "You're just along for the ride."
He tipped the liquid into the girl's mouth, chanting under his breath.
The runes on the wall pulsed brighter. Slowly, the girl's convulsions ceased—her breathing steadied.
Tilda clutched her chest, panting. "What did you do?"
"Split the thread," he said. "Temporarily. You're still inside her, but you won't take her soul with you if she slips."
She blinked. "Why?"
"Because you're right," he said, standing again. "There is something wrong with this world. People do betray.
They destroy what's pure. And they leave others to suffer in silence."
She watched him carefully now.
"I've seen it. I've lived it. For five hundred years." His eyes darkened. "But I won't let you become one of them."
Tilda looked away, ashamed. "I didn't want this."
"No one starts out wanting to be a monster," he said quietly. "But the line gets thin when you lose everything."
Silence hung between them.
Then she asked, almost whispering, "So what now?"
He stepped toward the barrier again. Now, we work together.
We get her soul back to where it belongs—and you help me do it without killing anyone else.
Tilda frowned. You expect me to just follow your rules?
No, he said, stepping closer, eyes narrowing. I expect you to prove you're still more than just vengeance.
He placed a talisman on the floor inside the cage—iron-forged, etched in blood-bound script.
If you truly want justice… start by choosing mercy.
Then he turned, leaving her behind once more—but not as her warden.
This time, something in his steps said companion, however unwilling.
A reluctant ally.