The vampire stirred, catching his breath as cold air scraped his lungs.His body ached. The steel and silver dug in cruelly, binding him to the wall, burning through flesh that no longer had the strength to heal.
His eyes opened slowly dry, sore, and stinging. Everything was too bright. The firelight stung more than comforted, leaving no room for shadows to hide in. No escape from being seen.
He tried to shift. Pain shot through his chest sharp, searing, fresh as the moment it was inflicted. The wounds hadn't closed. Not even slightly.
Still, he moved.
Pushed himself upright. Legs shaking, wrists trembling in their restraints. The chains rattled with every shallow breath, the sound unnerving in the otherwise heavy quiet.
There was no darkness here.No comfort. No cover. Just walls laced with silver and spells that hissed softly in the air, whispering to him that he wasn't welcome. That this place was built for things like him.To contain him. To punish him.
He blinked, vision blurred, throat dry enough to crack.
"Anyone… here?" he spoke his throat burning.
It came out as a whisper, but it echoed.Rough. Broken. Not quite a plea—just a voice, trying to reach someone.
And then—movement.
Beyond the glowing enchantment line, three werewolves stood, rigid in their armor. One had his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. Another stood with his shoulders locked, not blinking.
All three watched him. Not like a person. Like a threat. as he scrambled his way into standing and speaking.
He steadied himself against the wall, willing his legs not to give out. He didn't want to fall in front of them. Not again.
He opened his mouth once more.
"Water," he rasped."Please."
A beat of silence passed. Then another. None of them moved.
They weren't ignoring him out of cruelty—not entirely. Their stillness wasn't heartlessness. It was fear. Caution. Maybe confusion.
They had likely never seen a vampire speak like that—not spitting curses, not threatening to kill, not bearing fangs. Just… asking.
And that unsettled them more than any snarl might have.
The youngest guard's grip tightened around his spear, unsure. The one on the left looked away, jaw clenched, guilt flickering across his eyes. Only the one in the center met the vampire's gaze directly—but even he was holding his breath, as though expecting him to lunge.
None of them knew what to do with a vampire who looked more human than monster.
The vampire let out a slow breath. He closed his eyes, not in defeat—but because it hurt to keep them open.
And behind the weight of exhaustion, one quiet thought repeated in his mind:
Where is he?
The one who didn't look away. The one who bound him—not to hurt, but to spare. The one whose magic still pulsed faintly across his chest like a mark left behind.
Lycaon.
The vampire's voice faded into the stillness, swallowed by cold stone and thicker silence.
The guards didn't move.
They just stood there—three wolves in armor, their expressions taut and unreadable, weapons clenched a little too tightly in their hands. Not out of hatred.
Out of fear.
None of them had ever seen a vampire up close before. Not one who bled, who begged for water, who looked… almost human. Pale and worn down. Chained like a prisoner, not a monster. And that was what unsettled them most.
They were expecting a beast. But this? This was something else.
The vampire leaned back against the wall, forcing himself upright though every muscle screamed to rest. The silver still sizzled against his skin, his breathing shallow and uneven.
He could feel their eyes on him—watching for a trick, a twitch, a sign of something wicked beneath the surface. And maybe they were right to be cautious.
But all he felt was the ache.The heat of unfamiliar magic still lingering in his chest. And the bitter taste of silence… it was eating him alive.
It gnawed at the edges of his mind, louder than chains, sharper than silver. This was worse than darkness. Worse than pain. Worse than death.
This was light without warmth. Life without sound. A punishment no vampire dared dream of to be seen, but not heard. To be alive, but unacknowledged.
And yet, here he was. Wishing it had been the dark instead. At least the dark could be kind enough to swallow you whole.
He looked at them again—not to threaten, not to plead. Just to be seen. His voice cracked once more.
"Please." Still, no one moved.
And yet… their hesitation betrayed them.
One of the younger wolves shifted uncomfortably, knuckles white around his spear. Another looked away, jaw clenched, as if hearing the word please from a vampire twisted something in his gut.
The vampire closed his eyes for a moment, the firelight warm against his lids.
They're afraid of me, he realized. But more than that, they don't know what I am. Not anymore. He didn't blame them. He didn't even hate them.
But he was tired. And somewhere above him was the only one who had looked at him and chosen not to kill him.
And so, he waited. For the one who saved him. The one from his memories, though even now those memories were blurred at the edges, frayed like old cloth—too delicate to grasp fully, yet too familiar to forget.
Lycaon.
But not the Lycaon they called Alpha now. No… the Lycaon he remembered was something else entirely. Something older. Not a werewolf. Not a man. But something ancient. A creature carved of magic and starlight—a being who did not belong to packs or politics or borders.
He remembered the way Lycaon had once looked at him. Not like a rival. Not like a monster. But like something sacred. Like he mattered.
He remembered a time—couldn't say when, couldn't say where—when Lycaon's touch had healed, not harmed. When his voice had calmed storms, not commanded troops.
In that other time, that older place, Lycaon hadn't feared what he was. He'd held him. Gently. Like he might slip through his fingers if held too tight. As if the vampire had been made of sand and stardust. Too fragile for violence. Too important to break.
And the vampire—wounded, chained, and alone—found himself wondering:
Had that ever been real?Or was it just a dream the pain had left behind?