Kieran had only attended the gala because Marcus had literally dragged him out of his hibernation.
"Nine hundred and twenty years," Marcus had said, using magic to force Kieran from his cave. "You've been hiding for nine hundred and twenty years. Enough."
"Leave me alone."
"No. You're coming back to civilization. You're going to feed properly, interact with the world, remember what it's like to exist instead of just surviving."
Kieran had resisted, but Marcus was persistent. Eventually, he'd found himself in New York, installed in a penthouse Marcus maintained, forced to engage with the modern world he'd ignored for nearly a millennium.
"There's a charity gala," Marcus had said. "The supernatural community maintains presence at these events. You're attending."
"I'm not—"
"You are. You need to rejoin society. And before you argue, remember that I've tolerated your self-imposed exile for almost a thousand years. You owe me this."
So Kieran had attended. Wearing a tuxedo that felt foreign after centuries in darkness. Moving through crowds of humans who had no idea what walked among them.
He felt nothing. No interest in the art, the music, the glittering people. Just the same emptiness he'd carried for nine hundred and twenty years.
He was about to leave when he saw him.
A young man on the balcony, illuminated by the city lights behind him. Dark hair, elegant features, and a presence that made Kieran's dead heart stutter.
No.
It couldn't be.
But as the young man turned, as their eyes met across the crowded room, Kieran knew.
Adrian.
After nine hundred and twenty years.
After a millennium of waiting.
There he was.
Different face, different name, different life. But the same soul. Kieran could feel it—the bond, dormant for so long, suddenly thrumming to life like a chord struck after centuries of silence.
The young man was staring at him with an expression of shock, of recognition, of something that looked like coming home.
And Kieran, who'd thought himself dead inside, who'd surrendered to darkness and despair, felt something he hadn't felt in nine hundred and twenty years:
Hope.