Draven lay still for only a fraction of a second.
Then—
A presence.
Right above him.
A shadow standing at the edge of the bed.
His eyes snapped open.
His body moved before thought could catch up.
He vanished from the mattress in a blur, mana flaring violently around him. The air cracked as killing intent exploded outward, pressing against the walls like a tangible force.
The temperature in the room plummeted.
The windows trembled.
He reappeared several steps away, back nearly touching the wall, the twins clutched tightly against his chest. A faint red barrier flickered around them as his arms locked protectively.
His eyes were no longer calm.
They were cold.
Predatory.
Deadly.
The killing intent thickened—dense enough to suffocate.
The cat on the floor froze, fur standing on end.
"My lord—"
The voice cut through the tension.
Soft.
Familiar.
The figure at the edge of the bed came into focus.
The maid.
She held two wooden cups, filled to the brim with dark red liquid.
Blood.
Her expression remained composed, though a thin crack had formed in the floorboards beneath her feet from the sheer pressure in the air.
The killing intent vanished as quickly as it had erupted.
Yet the air remained heavy.
The maid stood where she was, unflinching, holding the cups with steady hands.
"My lord," she repeated softly, "I've brought the young master and miss their meal."
Draven didn't move for several seconds.
His arms were still wrapped around Elenya and Lucifer. His body had shifted instinctively between them and the maid, protective without conscious thought.
Then he clicked his tongue.
"Damn bitch… couldn't you say something before creeping up like that?"
The maid lowered her gaze slightly.
"My apologies, my lord."
Only then did Draven straighten and move back to the bed.
He sat down.
The cat, which had retreated to the corner during his burst of killing intent, cautiously padded back and leapt onto the mattress, watching.
Draven's eyes fell to the two cups in the maid's hands.
Then to the twins in his arms.
"…How the hell am I supposed to feed both of them at once?"
The maid stepped closer—but slowly this time.
"If the Lord wishes, I am more than willing to feed one of them."
She paused.
"I have done so before."
Draven's gaze lifted.
"…What?"
Her expression remained calm.
"I fed the Lord as well when you were a baby. I suppose it has been long enough that you would not remember. You were still very young."
Silence.
Draven stared at her.
Then—
Pain.
Sharp. Sudden. Violent.
It lanced through his skull like something splitting open from the inside.
His jaw clenched hard, teeth grinding together.
A fractured image flashed—
Darkness.
Arms.
The faint scent of iron.
A soft humming voice.
Warmth.
His breathing hitched.
The room seemed to tilt.
Another flash—
Red-stained cloth.
Cold stone walls.
The sensation of being lifted.
Held.
Fed.
The pain intensified.
Draven's free hand shot to his temple.
"…Tch."
The maid's eyes widened slightly.
The pain didn't fade.
It broke open.
Memories—clearer than the fragmented flashes from before—surged through Draven's mind.
Small hands.
Tiny fingers gripping fabric.
Being lifted.
Wrapped in dark cloth.
A soft voice humming something low and wordless.
A cup pressed gently to his lips.
Warm hands steadying his head.
Water running over him while someone carefully washed his hair.
Buttoning his clothes.
Tucking him into bed.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Through infancy.
Through childhood.
Through the years before everything changed.
A voice echoed in the memory—
"Vaelith."
His mother's voice.
Soft. Calm. Trusting.
"Vaelith, take him."
The present snapped back into place.
Draven was staring at the maid.
No.
Not just the maid.
"…Vaelith."
The name left his lips low and rough.
The woman froze.
Her crimson eyes widened—just slightly.
Then, slowly… a small smile formed.
"I had wondered if you truly did not remember, my lord," she said softly.
"It seems you do."
Draven kept staring.
The pain in his head dulled, replaced by something heavier.
That's why she looks familiar.
Vaelith.
She wasn't just some servant who had survived.
She was—
The one who fed him.
Bathed him.
Carried him.
Answered whenever he called.
Before those two came.
Before politics.
Before power.
Before blood.
She was the one he'd always ordered around without thinking.
The one who had always been there.
And he hadn't even—
"…Tch."
Why the hell am I only realizing this now?
His mind moved quickly.
Is it the seal?
Was something suppressed?
Or—
He stared at her face again.
Red eyes.
White skin.
Perfect posture.
Controlled expression.
Then an irritated thought surfaced.
…Or did I just never bother looking?
All the maids look the damn same.
Red eyes. Pale skin. Proper posture.
He had never cared enough to distinguish them.
Never needed to.
They were just—
There.
His jaw tightened slightly.
Vaelith did not interrupt his silence.
She simply held the cups steady.
Waiting.
Lucifer shifted in his arms.
Elenya made a soft sound, tiny fingers grabbing at Draven's collar.
The present reasserted itself.
Draven exhaled slowly.
"…Give me one."
Vaelith stepped closer and handed him a cup carefully.
Her movements were deliberate this time. Announced. Visible.
No sudden approaches.
No silent steps.
Draven took the cup.
His eyes flicked up to hers once more.
"…Next time," he said flatly, "announce yourself."
Vaelith bowed her head slightly.
"Yes, my lord."
There was no fear in her eyes now.
Only something steady.
Familiar.
Draven looked down at his siblings and brought the cup toward Elenya.
But his thoughts lingered.
Vaelith.
So she stayed.
Even after everything.
Even after the seal.
Even after his parents died.
She stayed.
And for the first time since leaving the castle—
Draven did not feel like he was surrounded only by pieces on a board.
He felt like something from his past had followed him into the present.
Whether that was a weakness—
Or a strength—
He hadn't decided yet.
Elenya made a small protesting sound as the rim of the cup touched her lips.
Draven adjusted his grip, holding her a little higher in the crook of his arm.
"Don't start," he muttered quietly. "You've already fought this battle once."
Lucifer watched with wide, alert eyes from his other arm, small fingers gripping Draven's collar tightly.
Vaelith stepped closer—but carefully this time, slow enough for him to track every movement.
"My lord," she said softly, "tilt it slightly. Not too much. Let it touch her tongue first."
Draven shot her a look.
"I know how to feed a baby."
A pause.
"…But do it your way," he added flatly.
Vaelith didn't smile. She simply guided the angle with two fingers beneath the cup.
The blood touched Elenya's lips.
A small pause.
Then—she drank.
Reluctantly at first. Then properly.
Draven watched, eyes sharp, monitoring every swallow as if it were a life-or-death ritual.
Lucifer, apparently unwilling to be ignored, made an impatient sound.
Draven glanced down at him.
"What? You're next."
Vaelith gently took Lucifer from his arm, without resistance this time. Draven allowed it.
Lucifer didn't hesitate. He drank immediately. No complaints. No hesitation.
Draven watched both of them in silence.
His mind raced.
Vaelith. Seal. Memories returning. Mana folding inside him. The empire hunting him. A bounty. A trigger inside his own body that could kill him if he slipped for even a second.
And now—
The people around him weren't just "the maid," "the vampire," "the siblings."
They had names. History. Connections.
Attachments made weaknesses.
He looked at Vaelith again. She was focused entirely on Lucifer, wiping a small streak of blood from his cheek with practiced care. Her expression remained composed—but there was something gentler there now.
Not devotion like Elira's. Not fanaticism. Something steadier. Loyalty.
Draven's eyes narrowed slightly.
"…You stayed," he said.
Vaelith paused.
"Yes, my lord."
"You could've left."
"Yes."
"You didn't."
"No."
Her tone never wavered.
Draven studied her face.
"Why?"
A small silence settled in the room.
Vaelith finished feeding Lucifer before answering. She adjusted the cloth around him and handed him back to Draven. Then she straightened.
"Because I was not serving your father," she said calmly.
"I was serving you."
No emotion. No flourish. Yet it landed with quiet weight.
Draven felt something shift—slightly—in his chest. He looked away first.
"…Tch."
He pulled both siblings closer instinctively.
"Don't misunderstand," he said coldly. "I didn't ask you to stay."
"I know."
"I don't need loyalty."
"I know."
"If staying becomes a disadvantage, I'll discard you."
Vaelith lowered her head slightly.
"As you wish."
No hesitation. No fear. Only acceptance.
Draven stared.
You're either very confident… or very stupid.
The mana inside him folded again—tight, controlled, dangerous. Pain still threaded through his body, thin wires cutting under his skin. He ignored it.
Lucifer finished. Elenya too. Both babies were calm now.
Draven leaned back slightly against the headboard, holding them close.
The cat jumped onto the bed, curling near his hip, tail flicking lazily.
Vaelith gathered the empty cups.
"My lord," she said softly, "you should rest as well."
"I can't."
"I know."
A pause.
"But you can still close your eyes."
Draven stared at her. She wasn't wrong. He couldn't stop folding mana—but he didn't need to move to do it.
He shifted slightly, adjusting the babies against his chest.
The room fell quiet. Downstairs, faintly—the sound of a television. Aldric's voice. Lyriana responding. Normal. Strangely normal.
Draven closed his eyes.
Not fully. Just enough.
The mana continued to fold. Slow. Precise. Relentless.
He would create a mana pool. He would control it. He would grow stronger.
He would not explode. He would not lose again.
And this time—
He would not let anyone die because he was too weak. Not his siblings. Not—
His eyes opened slightly.
Not even Vaelith.
The thought irritated him.
"…Annoying," he muttered.
Vaelith, standing near the door, heard him.
But she said nothing. She simply remained. Watching. Guarding. Like she always had.