Avegar lay awake, long after the fire had guttered out.
The sheets were tangled around his hips, sweat drying on his bare chest. Her scent lingered on the air—stormlight and salt, the faint, wild sweetness of someone unafraid of the dark. The ache between his legs had cooled, but something deeper remained—something worse. A weight in his ribs. A heat in his throat.
He turned his face into the pillow and groaned softly.
It had happened.
They had happened.
And he didn't know what to do with it.
His body still buzzed with the memory of her: her fingers on his back, her breath hot in his ear, the way her legs had locked around his waist like she needed him to stay, to never leave, to be hers.
Her hands were small. Too small.
Nothing like a man's.
That should've broken the spell—snapped him back to himself, made his skin crawl or his mind retreat like it always did when he tried to force a shape that didn't fit. But with Elvira, it hadn't.
It had sung.
Avegar rolled onto his back and exhaled slowly. His arm lay across his forehead, eyes half-shut as the shadows on the ceiling shifted. His other hand—traitorous, trembling—curled against his chest.
He could still feel her there. The press of her palm over his heart.
Be careful, she'd said.
But don't hold back.
He hadn't. Gods forgive him—he hadn't.
And yet...
Her hands had touched something he hadn't known was still tender. Not flesh. Not muscle. Something older, something buried so deep he'd sworn it had turned to stone. Her eyes had looked at him—not through him, not around him, but into him, and he'd cracked.
His whole life, Avegar had carried his queerness like armor. Like proof. He'd loved men because he could understand them—fight them, forgive them, fuck them without losing himself. Men had broken him, bruised him, but they hadn't touched him.
Not like Elvira.
And that terrified him.
There were fears inside him he didn't speak of—whole chambers inside his chest barred shut with locks no one could see. He had locked his heart long ago, sealed it behind old grief and harder truths, and hidden the key somewhere even he didn't dare reach.
Because love—real love—wasn't just soft.
It was wild. Unforgiving. Sharp.
And loving her would be too rough.
Too close to the edge of something he wouldn't survive.
He'd nodded once, after the kiss—after everything. A small, stupid nod, like his body couldn't keep the truth from leaking out: She matters. She matters too much.
Avegar pushed his hands through his hair and sat up, heart thudding, lungs hollow.
What she had touched in him wasn't lust. That was simple. Familiar. Safe.
It was yearning.
And he didn't have space for that.
Because somewhere beneath the glow, beneath the moans and murmurs, she'd seen him. Not just the scars. Not just the trembling. She had seen the emptiness—the hole he carried where his hope should be. And she hadn't turned away.
He shuddered.
She doesn't know the whole of you, he reminded himself. Not the part that used to scream into pillows. Not the boy who slit his skin just to feel real. Not the man who loved and lost and never learned how to grieve.
She doesn't know.
And you don't want her to.
His throat ached. His skin felt wrong—too tight, too open. He wanted to pull the night back over his shoulders and pretend it hadn't happened. He wanted to press rewind until he was just her shadow again, just her sword-arm, her silent guardian.
Not her lover.
But every time he closed his eyes, he saw her again: wild hair splayed across the pillow, lips parted, voice breaking on his name. And those eyes—gods, those eyes—deep enough to drown in.
His head bowed, chest heaving.
"I don't know what I've done," he whispered.
"I can't show her who I am."
Avegar sat at the edge of the bed, staring into the cold dark. The air had cooled around him, sweat dried on his chest, but the weight inside him pressed heavier now than it had all night. Every bone in his body felt tight, drawn inward like he was trying to disappear into himself.
He dragged a hand down his face, fingers brushing the long, curved scar that cut just under his cheekbone—shallow now with time, but unmistakable.
Elvira had kissed it.
Gods.
She had kissed it with reverence. With tenderness. With belief in his lie.
He had let her think it was from Elijah—that it was some battle-born wound, a scrape from a fight that belonged to the war between them. He'd let her believe he was brave. That his scars were earned in combat, not carved into him in a cellar by the hand of someone who was supposed to love him.
Avegar clenched his jaw.
Because it wasn't Elijah.
It had never been Elijah.
The scar on his face wasn't from war. It was from shame.
And the man who gave it to him was his father.
The memory rose like bile, too fast to stop.
He was eleven. Not yet a man, not yet able to fight back. The house had been quiet, the halls too long, too dark. He had snuck into the old pantry to escape his brothers' shouting and the stench of boiled meat that always clung to the kitchen walls.
He didn't know his father had seen him earlier that day—lingering too long by the stables, watching the new farmhand, a boy with golden skin and laughing eyes.
He hadn't touched him. Hadn't spoken. He'd just looked. He'd smiled. And that had been enough.
His father had found him in the pantry. Avegar remembered the way the door creaked open like a jaw unhinging. The way the candlelight fell long over the stone.
"I raised you better than this," his father had said. No shouting. Not yet.
Avegar had frozen, the edge of a crate biting into the backs of his knees. "I didn't do anything."
"You looked at him like a girl looks at her wedding dress."
He had tried to deny it, voice breaking on the words. But the lie hadn't mattered.
The belt had already been in his father's hand.
And this time, it wasn't the buckle or the strap.
It was the knife at his side.
"You wanna carry shame on your face?" his father growled. "Let's make it visible."
The cold sting came before the pain.
A quick, sharp line, from the outer corner of his cheek down toward the jaw. Shallow, almost surgical. His father didn't flinch. Didn't look angry. Just precise.
"This," he said, the blood already trailing down Avegar's chin, "will remind you every time you look in the mirror. Every time some boy smiles at you. That you're sick. Gay."
Avegar had screamed only once.
Not from pain.
But from betrayal.
From the knowing that something inside him had just been marked forever—not just the skin.
The soul.
He came back to the present with a quiet gasp.
The ache in his throat burned deeper now. He touched the scar again, fingers lingering.
She had traced it like it meant something.
And he had lied.
Because the truth was too ugly. Too human. Too soft for the legend he had built around himself.
She had looked at him like he was the storm.
But he remembered being small. Shaking. Red-eyed and curled in the pantry, blood soaking the collar of his shirt.
She didn't know that boy.
And he didn't want her to.
Because if she saw him…not the man she wanted, but the child he used to be—he didn't know if she'd still love him.
And worse, he didn't know if he'd survive it if she didn't.
Avegar pressed his forehead to his knees, breath shallow. The weight of memory sat like stone on his chest. The truth clawed behind his ribs.
But still, he said nothing.
He closed his eyes.
And tried not to feel.
And then—
His phone buzzed.
He blinked, disoriented. The screen lit the room with a pale, cold glow.
---
Later That Night — Atelier 7 Garden, the Gazebo
The garden behind Atelier 7 was still, lit only by fractured moonlight and the low flicker of lanterns. The wrought-iron gazebo sat draped in ivy and fog, like a secret waiting to be whispered.
Avegar stood at its center, half in shadow, arms crossed tight over his chest.
Marco arrived with fast, angry footsteps. "You wanted to talk?" he snapped. "Make it quick."
Avegar didn't move. His voice came low. "I'm going after her."
Marco sneered. "How noble. After what you did?"
"I never meant to—"
"To what? Fuck her? Break her? Pretend you were capable of anything real?" Marco stepped closer, voice rising. "You don't even like women. You said that to me once. Do you remember that? Or were you lying then too?"
Avegar's jaw clenched.
"You used her," Marco hissed. "I see it in your face. You needed to feel something, so you took it from her. Like she was a flame you could hold without burning."
"I didn't plan for her," Avegar said tightly. "I've spent years hiding from anything that felt real. Especially this."
Marco's mouth twisted. "And yet, when it suited you, you climbed into her bed. You let her believe she mattered."
Avegar's breath hitched. "She does."
Marco laughed bitterly. "No. I saw you first. I saw you at Anna's party. Alone. Drenched from the storm. Standing there like a ghost waiting to be pulled back to life. You didn't look at anyone. Just her."
He stepped closer. "I thought if I stayed close, if I waited long enough, you'd see me. But you never did. Not then. Not now."
Avegar looked away. "Marco…"
"Don't," Marco spat. "You fucked her, Avegar. Not because you love her—but because you're broken, and she was soft enough to let you inside. You used her warmth like a shield, so you wouldn't have to look at me."
Avegar's voice dropped to a whisper. "That's not true."
"Then what is?" Marco growled. "Why do you flinch when I touch your hand, but not hers? Why do you fuck her like she's some lifeline when you never even looked at me that way?"
Avegar's hands trembled. His voice cracked.
"Because she made me feel." He exhaled hard. "And I didn't want to."
Marco stared at him. "You could've let her go. But you didn't."
"I tried," Avegar said. "Gods, I tried. But every time I walked away, she found me again. Not with her hands. With her eyes. Like she was seeing something I didn't know was left inside me."
Marco's voice dropped cold and low. "Then maybe it's time she stopped looking."
Avegar turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Marco whispered, "if you don't walk away from her… I'll make her disappear."
Avegar stepped forward, barely breathing. "You'd threaten her—just to hurt me?"
Marco didn't blink. "You broke me. So now I'll break you."
Silence pulsed between them. Avegar stared, then spoke with quiet fury.
"You don't know what you're doing."
"Then tell me," Marco snapped. "Tell me why you're so afraid. Tell me what the hell is inside you that you keep hiding behind that calm, perfect mask."
Avegar's chest rose and fell like he'd been sprinting. His voice was dust and thunder.
"I'm a vampire."
Marco froze.
Avegar's voice shook with guilt. "You think I touched her lightly? I didn't. I consumed her. Every breath, every heartbeat, every goddamn inch of her skin. And I hate myself for it."
He looked up, haunted. "I've only ever been with men. It was easier. Cleaner. I never had to face what I really wanted. Not until her. I told myself it was just sex. Just hunger. But that was a lie."
Marco stepped back, face draining.
"I thought I'd locked my heart away," Avegar whispered. "Buried it. I fed when I had to. I lived like a ghost. And then she showed up with her fire and her storms and looked at me like I was still human."
His fangs gleamed now — just faintly.
"And now you want to take her from me?"
Marco's voice cracked. "You lied to all of us."
"I protected all of you."
Behind the ivy wall of the gazebo, Anna's heart slammed against her ribs.
She hadn't meant to eavesdrop. She'd only followed Marco because she heard raised voices.
But now…
Avegar. A vampire.
Marco. In love with him.
And Elvira — the girl he never meant to love — caught in the middle.
Anna stepped away from the lattice, breath shallow, limbs cold.
What am I supposed to do with this?
—--———
Elvira's boots cracked against the loose gravel as she climbed the winding, narrow trail. The air grew thinner with each step, and the wind pulled sharply at the hem of her cloak. The sky overhead was a cold wash of pewter, a storm lingering in the horizon, held just out of reach. Trees twisted around her like skeletal hands, their barren limbs trembling in the cold. The higher she climbed, the quieter the world became. As if even the birds knew this path was one no one should walk.
There had been a conversation.
With Elijah.
It clung to her like ash. His offer, cloaked in polite civility and gilded in venom, still burned behind her ribs. They had made a decision together—a pact born not of affection, nor even survival, but something more desperate. Ego. Wounded pride. An alliance forged in the space where two broken people saw reflections of themselves and chose, instead of healing, to harden.
She didn't love him. He didn't love her. And that was the very point.
And yet she had agreed. Her voice had trembled only slightly when she had said yes.
Now, with every step, that choice crushed her from the inside.
The wind howled louder as the path ended at the mountain's edge. Here, there were no walls. No witnesses. Just the void, vast and cold, waiting.
She stood still, facing the nothing.
The valley far below was cast in shades of charcoal and stone, streaked with rivers like veins, glinting faintly in the dying light. Villages blinked in the distance, their warm yellow lights like faint memories. None of it reached her. Not anymore.
Elvira wrapped her arms around herself, her breath quick and tight in her throat. The memories came fast, unbidden, like knives through silk.
Avegar.
The way his eyes had once looked at her in shadow, that rare flicker of tenderness veiled behind a thousand scars. The way his mouth had tasted like rain and fire and sorrow. The nights he had held her, but his soul had stayed far away, locked behind centuries of silence. She had tried to reach it. Tried to love him enough to pull him back.
But it was never enough.
He had chosen to vanish. To shrink away from the light she offered. To bury her love like it was a threat.
He had given her his body, yes. The heat. The fever. The hunger.
But not his truth.
Not his heart.
And now, what remained of hers was a hollow thing, frayed at the edges.
The betrayal had not been loud. It hadn't come with rage or cruelty. That made it worse. It had come like a slow death—withdrawn touches, unspoken truths, his eyes shifting elsewhere even when his hands gripped her hips like he couldn't breathe without her. Lies shaped like affection. Emptiness dressed as duty.
Elvira staggered closer to the edge. She didn't cry. There were no tears left. Only exhaustion, raw and unyielding.
She sat down on the cold rock and let the silence wrap around her.
"Father," she whispered.
The word was brittle, like glass. She didn't know if the wind would carry it or crush it.
Her hand curled around the pendant at her neck—the last thing she had of him. A sliver of iron and garnet, forged by his hands when she was still a child.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I wanted to save you. I thought I could finish what you started. I thought I could carry your name through fire and ash and make it whole again."
The wind rose.
She rose with it.
One step. Then another. Her boots skidded slightly on the loose stones, but she didn't stop. The edge was there. Waiting. Her breath came quick now, wild, a caged thing trying to escape. Her pulse drummed in her ears, but beneath it was something quieter—a stillness she had not known in months.
She thought of Elijah. Of the hollow future they'd just sealed. A crown of ash. A title soaked in dust. A life of mirrors and masks.
She thought of her father's voice. Strong, warm, laughing in the library. The smell of old books and smoke.
She thought of Avegar.
And something inside her broke open.
"You stole my soul, Avegar," she breathed. Her voice was nothing but breath now. "And you tore it apart."
She stared into the dark below. Her fists clenched. Her heart slowed.
The edge whispered.
And Elvira let go.
Her body left the earth.
Wind roared in her ears. The sky flipped above her. Her cloak snapped around her like wings.
And in that one moment of freefall, in the breath between sky and stone, she spoke her final truth.
"I love you, Avegar," she whispered.
"My heart."
The mountain took her.
And the wind carried her name into the hollow night.