By afternoon, once the attic had been cleared and the discarded remnants of the palace's past hauled away, Mira found herself in the kitchens storage beside Gabriel, grinding cocoa beans into a thick paste.
It was work that demanded patience and strength, the steady rhythm of stone against stone filling the space between them. Gabriel leaned against the table beside her, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brown curls of his hair escaping the tie at the back of his head. He had always carried himself lightly, as though the weight of this place slid off his shoulders instead of settling there.
"You've been awfully quiet today," he said after a moment. "Don't tell me you're finally considering joining us."
Mira glanced up at him sharply before darting a look over her shoulder, her pulse spiking. The kitchens stores were mostly empty, but that did little to soothe her nerves.
Gabriel grinned, utterly unbothered. "Relax, no one's listening."
"I might have relaxed, if your careless words hadn't nearly gotten us into trouble more than twice already."
She muttered.
He sobered then, his voice lowering just enough. "I'm serious, Mira. We could leave this place. Start over somewhere far from here. I could even marry you, if you'd like and we would live happily ever after."
With a straight face, Mira picked a cocoa bean and threw it at him. The cocoa flew from her hand and struck him square on the chest.
He gasped dramatically, clutching himself. "Ouch!."
"I'm not coming with you," she said flatly, her attention returning to the mortar as she resumed grinding. "And can we please talk about something that won't get us into trouble?"
Gabriel laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "Fair enough."
Then, as though a new irritation had struck him, he groaned. "Speaking of trouble, have you seen Ginger? If I find that cat today, I swear I might finally lose my patience, and snap his neck"
Mira allowed herself a small smile. Since Lady Rosetta's death, the care of the cat had fallen to the servants, and more often than not, it was Gabriel who drew the short straw. He seemed to be the only one the cat tolerated.
"There's no chance the king would forgive you if you even thought of harming that cat," she said lightly. "He's oddly fond of it."
That the cat most certainly did not share that affection. She added the last words in her mind.
They worked in silence after that, the rhythmic grind of cocoa filling the room until evening crept in and shadows stretched across the kitchen floor. It wasn't until Gabriel was called away to return to the sheds that they finally stopped, hands sore and shoulders aching.
**********
~Far from the palace walls, beyond the military grounds where fallen soldiers lay buried, a sound disturbed the stillness of the tombs.
Stone scraped against stone. A slab shifted, then rolled away, exposing the mouth of a grave long sealed.
From within, a figure dragged himself into the night.
Cassian emerged slowly, his movements stiff and uncertain, as though his body had forgotten how to obey him. His skin clung too tightly to bone, pale to the point of ash. His lips were cracked, stained dark with old, dried blood. Hair that had once been kept short now spilled down his back in tangled lengths, neglected and wild. When his eyes finally opened, they were sunken and feral, burning with a hunger sharpened by years of deprivation.
A blood-deprived vampire was not merely weak. He was hollow.
Cassian took a step forward, then another, his boots scraping against the earth as though each movement demanded more than his body wished to give. He did not rush. Instinct guided him, urging him to preserve what little strength remained.
The river drew him in, its presence felt before it was seen. Hidden behind a thick wall of trees near the military grounds, its quiet current offered a path, and he followed it without question. When he came upon a narrow bridge, he crossed it and continued deeper into the forest, where the night grew denser and the sounds of life sharpened in his ears.
Small hearts fluttered nearby.
The first rabbit bolted too late. Cassian moved with a sudden burst of speed, clumsy but effective, his hand closing around the animal before it could flee. He fed quickly, without thought or ceremony, draining it dry before its body stilled.
The blood eased the ache in his limbs, but it was not enough.
He moved on.
The second and third came easier, his steps growing steadier, his balance returning with each mouthful. His senses sharpened, the fog in his mind lifting as strength crept back into muscle and bone. By the time he caught the fourth rabbit, his movements were precise again, familiar in their efficiency.
He leaned briefly against a tree once he was done, closing his eyes as his breathing slowed.
Color slowly returned to his skin, the ashen pallor fading. The trembling in his hands ceased. He was not whole, not even close, but he was no longer on the brink of collapse.
Cassian straightened and wiped his hands against his trousers before turning deeper into the forest.
He wandered through the forest for hours until the trees finally thinned and the land opened before him. Cassian stopped at the edge, lowering himself onto the grass, his back resting against the wide trunk of an old tree. From there, he watched the village ahead.
Only a handful of lanterns glowed in the distance, their light weak and scattered, barely pushing back the darkness. The buildings were small and uneven, clustered together as though seeking comfort in proximity. After a long moment, he rose and made his way toward the nearest house.
It was a modest wooden structure, half-hidden by overgrown bushes that had not been trimmed in some time. At first glance, it looked abandoned, but the sound of a steady heartbeat reached him clearly.
Cassian stepped up to the door and knocked.
Upon receiving no answer, he knocked again. Then a third time. Just as he raised his hand once more, the door creaked open.
An elderly woman stood there, wrapped in a thick shawl, her face creased with sleep and irritation.
"Who are you, and what business do you have knocking on doors at this hour?" she demanded, her voice rough.
Her gaze lifted to his face, meeting his dark eyes. She hesitated, something about him unsettling though she could not name it.
Cassian lowered his head slightly, letting his shoulders sag as though weighed down by exhaustion.
"I am sorry to disturb you, I was taken from my family to be sold. I managed to escape, but I have nowhere to go. I only need a place to rest for the night." He said quietly.
The woman studied him for a long moment, suspicion warring with pity. She sighed heavily.
"And what makes you think they did not follow you here?" she asked. "I want no trouble brought to my door, young man."
She began to close the door, but at the same time, Cassian quickly said,
"No one followed me, I have been running for two days. I swear it. Please… just for the night."
Her hand stilled. And after a pause, she opened the door wider and stepped aside.
"Come in," she muttered.
The house was small but clean, warmed by the faint glow of embers in the hearth. She led him down a narrow corridor and opened the door to a room that looked unused, though it carried traces of someone who had once lived there.
"You look like you could use a bath," she said, turning toward him. She left briefly and returned with a folded set of clothes, placing them in his hands. "They belonged to my son."
Cassian nodded in thanks.
"I cannot heat water at this hour," she added.
"Cold water will be fine," he replied without hesitation.
She gave him a doubtful look but said nothing more.
Later, when he had finished bathing, a soft knock sounded at the door. The woman entered carrying a simple meal, cold lamb and a small portion of vegetables. Cassian accepted it quietly, careful to keep his hunger restrained.
"You should leave before dawn," she said firmly. "I will not risk trouble finding its way here."
"I understand," he replied.
As the door closed behind her, Cassian set the plate of food on the small table beside the bed and slowly turned his attention to the room. It was modest and sparsely furnished, yet carefully kept. Against one wall stood a narrow mirror, its surface slightly dulled with age. Beneath it rested a small wooden stand holding brushes, glass vials of scented oils, and a pair of old but well-kept scissors.
His gaze lingered on his reflection.
The face staring back at him was no longer the hollow creature that had crawled out of the grave. The blood he had taken had restored much of his strength, but the years of neglect were still written into his appearance. His hair hung too long now, uneven and wild, falling past his shoulders in dark, tangled strands.
Cassian reached for the scissors.
He worked in silence, the soft snip of the scissors the only sound in the room. Dark strands slipped through his fingers and fell to the floor as he cut away the length that had grown wild and heavy. He kept it shorter now, leaving enough to fall around his face without obscuring it. When he finished, his hair rested at the nape of his neck, still dark and slightly untamed, curling naturally along his temples and jaw, as though it had always been meant to sit that way.