He just keeps coming back.
It's been three weeks so far. Every Sunday, starting at 7 PM, even if he comes in late; he's never missed a single one of Vaelen Ashven's sermons.
Of course, he isn't the only regular here, but for some reason, he just seems different.
He seemed to be about the same height as Vaelen; around 180 centimeters, maybe a little shorter. His hair fell in soft, tousled waves, the kind that never quite obeys a comb yet somehow always manages to look effortlessly gentle.
Dark-brown strands framed his face, feather-light at the edges, as though a quiet breeze had shaped them just moments before. A single rebellious tuft stood at the crown, lifting in a tiny arc like a thought too curious to stay contained, forever reaching upward in quiet defiance.
Scars crossed his lips and left brow. More trailed down his hands and arms, smaller, but hard to miss. His yellow eyes held something deep within those irises, something not quite human. He always comes to Vaelen's sermons with that same annoyed expression, not even trying to hide the fact that he isn't here by choice. Seems like he's here for work. Maybe he's a journalist, here to write about rural churches or something harmless; something Vaelen doesn't need to worry about.
Vaelen doesn't understand it himself. He isn't the strongest dhampir out there.
Is it the family background he's so desperately keeping under wraps without even fully understanding it himself? Is it because his father's a pureblood capable of shaping blood like clay? Or is it because he's hiding his true inhuman identity behind that holy mask of a priest?But that shouldn't be a problem, there's no rule stating that dhampirs can't be believers, right?
He doesn't know; neither does he want to.
He never even wanted to be a priest, the cozy wooden church of a village in the middle of nowhere, the precious cross he always wears on his neck, it was all passed down on to him by his human mother.
All the sermons he's given, all the words he preached, deep down, it's all hollow. He never believed in any of it. Faith, to him, was nothing but a language he'd learned to mimic; fluent, convincing, but empty nonetheless.
It's Sunday Number Four. He came back, as expected. Same expression, sitting at the back row as always, internally forcing himself to listen to Vaelen's preaching.
The sermon ended as usual. The church empties by the second, regulars greeting Vaelen on their way out. But he stays; seems he's too tired tonight to rush.
"Always attending my sermons. The Lord must be calling you to me."
Getting a little closer to where he sat was enough for Vaelen to confirm his suspicions; he isn't human, not fully. He's a half-blood, a dhampir just like Vaelen but way stronger. The way he moves; quiet and precise, each step measured yet effortless, like a predator unused to hesitation.
Vaelen knew the stranger could snap him in half with ease if he wanted to. He knows he shouldn't be around someone like him, yet curiosity got the best of him.
"May He bless you then."
Moonlight filters in through the circular window of the church. The little church glowed faintly, built of humble wood and so obviously human. Humans gather here every day to listen to Vaelen preach. They're simpleminded and naïve, trusting him because he speaks of God.
"You ever kill someone before?" the young man asks suddenly, still seated.
Vaelen froze. The question landed too easily, like a truth long rehearsed. He never expected him to be so straightforward.
"Straight to the point, are we? I like that." Vaelen smiles, and his sharp canines glint more dangerous than human. He sits on the bench beside the young man, keeping a careful distance.
"No, I haven't." Vaelen replies, his voice stern and somehow honest.
"You sure?" asked the young man.
"I'm a priest, that'd be improper of me." Vaelen replies, his voice a bit softer.
"Okay, I hope it stays that way."
Pretty unusual for a first convo, Vaelen thought.
"Will I be seeing you next Sunday as well?" he asks, hoping he doesn't sound too eager.
"I'm a busy man; I can't guarantee it."
"Alright, see you later, then."
"Whatever," the young man mutters, rising from his seat.
The door closes softly behind him, leaving the church emptier than usual. The scent of candle smoke lingers in the air, thin and holy.
Vaelen turns back to the altar, fingers brushing over the wooden cross at his neck.
"Busy man," he murmurs to himself; voice laced with amusement. "Sure enough."
A beat. Then, low and teasing;
"Guess I found something interesting," he murmured, the cross at his neck glinting like a blade dipped in silver moonlight.