The battle concluded swiftly, yet the lingering metallic tang of blood and the scent of scorched air hung heavy in the room. The distorted shadows had been utterly vaporized under Alaric's roar, leaving the dining hall in a deathly silence, save for the few surviving candles gasping in the freezing draft.
Alaric remained standing, his spine straight as a blade, but his fingers gripping the edge of the mahogany table were trembling. His knuckles were a ghostly white from the sheer strain.
"Alaric?" I whispered, venturing out from behind him, my voice still unsteady.
He didn't answer. Suddenly, an oppressed groan escaped his lips. His frame swayed, and he collapsed toward the side. I lunged forward, catching him before he hit the floor. The unnatural cold of his body instantly pierced through my lace gown, sending a violent shiver through my bones. He was colder than usual—like a stone freshly pulled from an icy tomb.
With great effort, I guided him back to the master suite. He leaned against the headboard, eyes clamped shut. His pupils had returned to their normal state, yet they looked hollow, devoid of their usual predatory light. What terrified me most was the dark, viscous liquid seeping from beneath his silver skull brooch, staining the burgundy velvet of his suit and smelling of bitter sandalwood.
"The medicine... behind the red door in the attic..." His voice was so raspy it was barely audible, each word sounding like it was being clawed out of a broken bellows.
I froze. The red door—the very place he had forbidden me to enter. But looking at his face, pale as parchment and beginning to show faint, spiderweb-like cracks, my terror was eclipsed by a sudden, frantic panic. I was afraid he would truly shatter. I was afraid he would crumble into ash right before my eyes.
I ran like a madwoman to the attic. I shoved open the heavy red door, ignoring the whispers of a thousand restless souls within, grabbed the crystal vial of dark violet liquid, and raced back.
By the time I reached the bedside, he had drifted into a semi-conscious state. I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands shaking as I poured the liquid onto my fingertips. I applied it gently to the wound on his chest. My palm rested against his porcelain-cold skin; the chill seeped into my fingertips and traveled straight to my heart, but I didn't pull away. Instead, acting on a ghost of an impulse, I leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his furrowed brow.
His eyelashes fluttered. He opened his eyes slowly, revealing a rare, raw vulnerability.
"You didn't run," he croaked, his hand clamping around my wrist. Even in his weakened state, the grip was undeniable. "Evangeline... are you pitying a devil?"
"I just... didn't want to see you break," I whispered, looking down as a single tear splashed onto the back of his hand.
A faint, ghostly chuckle escaped him. He pulled my hand to his lips, kissing my fingertips with a mouth that was far too cold. "Then you must pay a higher price. Do not leave this room tonight. I need your warmth... even if it's just a flicker."
He pulled me into his arms, dragging the heavy black velvet duvet over us both. In that moment, within the walls of this malicious manor, we were like two cornered beasts huddling together for warmth in an arctic wasteland—absurd, yet lethal.