Lord Typhon watched silently, arms folded as Sapphire hurried off, her face flushed with embarrassment, hands clutching her rumpled dress. Amused, his lips twitched slightly.
"Humans," he muttered under his breath, "so easily flustered."
As the first light of dawn began to stretch across the land, it kissed the roofs of the manor, casting long golden shadows.
Moments later, the stillness broke, hooves echoed at the gates. A familiar black carriage, marked with a blue crest, rolled into the manor's courtyard. The doorman straightened, stepping forward to open the door.
Out stepped a young boy — no older than seven with tousled chocolate brown curls with pale and freckled skin. His eyes, old and knowing, scanned the grounds before catching sight of Typhon . Fletcher the fool of Waydell.
The boy's face broke into a rare, genuine smile.
"Uncle Typhon!" he called, and all formality melted away as he ran into the vampire lord's arms
Typhon barely had time to react before the boy crashed into him, throwing his arms around his waist with a reckless grin. For a heartbeat, the ever-composed lord froze, caught off guard by the sudden affection, before letting out a low sigh and giving in.
"Must you always greet me like a pup?" Typhon muttered, though his gloved hand rested lightly on the boy's shoulder.
"I missed you," Fletcher said, stepping back with an exaggerated sigh.
Typhon arched a brow. "Let me guess, you're hiding from your governess?"
"I was bored," the boy replied with a sly smile.
Typhon smirked and ruffled the boy's hair. "Have you had breakfast?"
"Are you offering?" Fletcher teased.
Typhon gave a wry smile. "Can't let you go hungry."
The boy laughed. "Actually, I'm here to call on a Lady."
"A Lady?" Typhon frowned, clearly puzzled. "Who?"
"Don't tell me you fancy a maid."
Fletcher laughed harder, clearly amused by the suspicion in Typhon's tone.
"A maid? Gods, no. I have taste," he said with mock offence, dusting off his tunic like the idea had sullied him.
Typhon narrowed his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched with restraint.
"Pray tell me who?"
"Her name is Sapphire, caught her trying to steal a painting "
Typhon gave him a deadpan stare. "You're seven."
Fletcher raised a brow in return. "And you're Two hundred. What's your point?"
For a moment, silence hung between them before Typhon huffed — a dry, rare laugh slipping from his throat.
"You're insufferable."
"I'm charming," Fletcher corrected proudly, then added with a tilt of his head,
"Will you let me go, then? Or must I run past the governess again?"
Typhon gestured for a servant nearby. "Have breakfast brought early. If you're going to entertain a lady, at least do it with proper decorum."
Fletcher beamed. "See? You do have a heart."
"Temporarily," Typhon muttered, already turning. "Don't stain my name."
"No promises!" Fletcher called as he skipped off.
Typhon watched him go, the smirk lingering longer than usual.
Sapphire sat on the edge of her bed, arms folded tightly across her chest. The memory of the grove, of him, was still fresh, her cheeks warming again despite the cool morning air. She'd stayed tucked away in her room, trying to ignore the shame clinging to her like a second skin.
But then her stomach growled—loud, sharp, and unforgiving.
She sighed.
"I can't starve out of pride," she muttered to herself, standing up and brushing her gown smooth. Her steps were hesitant at first, but the promise of food gave her just enough courage to open the door.
She hadn't taken five full steps down the corridor when a smaller figure rounded the corner at full speed crashing straight into her.
"Oof—!" she gasped, stumbling back slightly.
Fletcher blinked up at her, wide-eyed, then grinned.
"You're not great at watching where you're going, are you?"
Sapphire stared at him, recognizing him instantly—Fletcher, the fool of Waydell.
"You ran into me," she said dryly.
"Technicalities." He waved a hand. "You're the painting thief."
"I wasn't stealing anything!"
As if remembering
"You still owe me lunch, my lady," Fletcher chimed with a teasing grin.
"Lunch I never agreed to," Sapphire shot back, arms folded as she tried to look stern.
"Then how about breakfast?" he offered, ever persistent.
"Not hungry," she replied flatly.
As if on cue, her stomach gave a loud, embarrassing growl that echoed louder than it should have in the silence.
Sapphire cringed, avoiding his amused stare.
Fletcher smirked triumphantly. "Not a perfect liar, my lady."
She groaned, covering her face. "You're impossible."
"And you're starving," he beamed, already tugging at her sleeve. "Come on, I know where the kitchen staff hides the good honeyed bread."
Fletcher tugged her through the corridor, humming cheerfully as they reached the dining room. The rich aroma of freshly baked bread, roasted meat, and warm spice filled the air, making Sapphire's stomach twist in betrayal.
"You smell that?" Fletcher grinned, pushing open the grand door. "Heaven."
She hesitated at the threshold, eyes scanning the room,then froze.
At the head of the table, seated in his usual composed posture, was Lord Typhon. Dressed in dark layers, one gloved hand resting by a goblet, his face glinting faintly in the morning light.
Their eyes met.
Sapphire stiffened immediately, fingers twitching at her sides. Her embarrassment from earlier flooded back tenfold, heat rising to her cheeks.
Fletcher, oblivious—or perhaps not caring dragged her further in.
"Sit," he chirped, already climbing into the seat beside hers. "They made honey-glazed rolls today. You'll regret it if you miss them."
She blinked, still hovering.
"Sapphire," he said more firmly now, patting the chair. "Sit."
Feeling Lord Typhon's gaze still on her, she reluctantly lowered herself into the seat, trying not to fidget, trying not to glance his way again.
"See?" Fletcher whispered smugly. "Told you it'd be worth it."
Sapphire managed a tight smile, though inside, she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
Fletcher leaned closer with a mischievous grin and whispered,
"Don't mind him, we have a third party. He's my chaperone."
Sapphire's eyes flickered to Lord Typhon, who raised a brow but said nothing, simply watching them with a calm, unreadable expression.
"I doubt he wants to be here either," Fletcher added with a sly wink.
Sapphire stifled a smile, her fingers nervously smoothing the hem of her sleeve. "Some chaperone," she murmured.
"Exactly," Fletcher said, already piling bread onto her plate. "Which means we can eat, talk, and pretend he's just another painting on the wall."
Across the table, Typhon's mouth twitched slightly—whether in amusement or warning, she couldn't tell.
But breakfast, it seemed, was happening, with or without her permission.
But Lord Typhon's smirk was there just faint, enough to coil her nerves like a noose.
She cursed herself silently. This was going to be a very long breakfast.
She sat stiffly, fingers clasped tightly in her lap, eyes focused on the plate in front of her. The silence was sharp—too sharp.
Lord Typhon hadn't said a word.
But she could feel his presence, palpable, unnerving, like standing too close to a fire that hadn't yet chosen to burn you or let you be.
Fletcher tore into a roll, cheerful as ever. "You should try the roast, Sapphire. It's seasoned with elder herbs. Typhon's chef is a genius."
She reached for a piece of bread, hand trembling slightly, when Lord Typhon finally spoke—his voice smooth, low, yet laced with something unreadable.
"You seem tense"
The bread slipped from her fingers and hit her plate with a soft thud. Sapphire's eyes widened, flicking up to him in stunned horror. Fletcher looked between them, confused.
"I—" she started, voice barely above a whisper.
"Relax," he said coolly, swirling the dark liquid in his goblet. "It's not the first time someone's strayed too far in search of warmth."
Fletcher blinked. "What are you two talking about?"
"Nothing," Sapphire cut in too quickly, forcing a smile. "Absolutely nothing."