The forest was still damp with early morning dew.
Light filtered through the canopy in fractured beams, gold cutting across moss and bark.
Draven walked without slowing.
Behind him—
The cultist kept talking.
"My lord, it is truly extraordinary. Ancient vampire lineages suffer photonic degradation under prolonged exposure, yet you show no dermal combustion, no mana instability, no shadow recoil—"
Draven's steps did not change.
"But of course," the cultist continued eagerly, "it must be because you are no ordinary vampire. Your Majesty's blood must have transcended the common curse—perhaps royal lineage restructures the nocturnal binding at a fundamental level—"
Draven stopped.
The cultist almost collided with him again.
Slowly—
Draven turned his head.
"I thought," he said evenly, "I told you to shut your damn mouth."
The air shifted.
Not violently.
Just—
Heavy.
The cultist's throat clicked audibly as he swallowed.
"Yes, my lord. Forgive me, my lord."
Draven stared at him for a long second.
Then continued walking.
Silence.
For three full steps.
Then—
"My lord, I only meant—"
The forest remained quiet except for the soft crunch of damp leaves beneath Draven's boots.
His voice cut through the stillness.
"You're a mage."
It was not a question.
The cultist straightened slightly.
"Yes, my lord."
"What kind."
The cultist hesitated.
"My specialization is ritual theory and containment matrices."
Draven glanced at him.
"Black magic."
The cultist swallowed.
"…Summoning frameworks, my lord."
Draven stopped.
The word hung in the air.
Summoning.
Of course.
He turned fully toward the cultist.
"What do you work with."
The cultist blinked.
"My lord?"
"Materials. Circles. Offerings. Blood thresholds. What systems."
The cultist quickly nodded, eager to answer.
"Yes, my lord. I work with structural bindings—arrays that stabilize spatial fractures. Most of my research focuses on controlled descents and anchor reinforcement."
Draven's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Controlled descents."
"Yes."
"The last one failed."
The cultist lowered his head.
"Yes, my lord."
Draven studied him.
Not judgment.
Analysis.
If the man truly understood the framework—
He could be useful.
"If you cannot summon," Draven said, "what can you do."
The cultist straightened again.
"I can design the structure."
Draven tilted his head.
"Explain."
"The summoning circle itself is only a conduit. It requires proper alignment of anchors and a stabilized aperture. I cannot force a descent without mages capable of channeling the breach—but I can prepare the framework."
The cultist straightened slightly, eager to prove his usefulness.
"I can design the structure," he repeated.
Draven studied him.
Not with approval.
Not with doubt.
With calculation.
"Explain."
"The summoning circle itself is only a conduit," the cultist continued quickly. "It requires proper alignment of anchors and a stabilized aperture. I cannot force a descent without mages capable of channeling the breach—but I can prepare the framework."
Draven waited.
The silence pressed.
The cultist swallowed.
"If the framework is correct, the channel becomes viable. The other mages would provide the channeling force. I would ensure structural integrity so the descent does not collapse."
Aldric, who had caught up a short distance behind them, snorted.
"So you draw pretty lines on the ground and hope the universe listens."
The cultist stiffened slightly.
"It is more complex than that."
"Sure it is."
Draven's gaze remained on the cultist.
"You failed before."
The words were neutral.
The cultist lowered his head.
"Yes, my lord."
"Why."
The question struck harder than accusation.
The cultist hesitated.
"The previous structure lacked sufficient anchors. The aperture destabilized. The channel collapsed."
Draven tilted his head.
"Insufficient anchors."
"Yes."
"So you built it wrong."
The cultist flinched slightly.
"…Yes, my lord."
Aldric muttered under his breath.
"Not exactly inspiring confidence."
Draven glanced at Aldric.
"Why the hell are you here?"
His tone was flat—not curiosity, but a calculation of usefulness.
Aldric folded his arms.
"Doing my job," he said. "Bodyguard. Ring a bell? Or do you need it carved into stone?"
He smirked faintly, though the edge in his voice remained.
"You got a problem with that?"
Draven stared at him for a second.
Then looked away.
The cultist spoke up before Draven could answer.
"A bodyguard," he repeated, glancing at Aldric. His brows lifted slightly. "Interesting. You are also a vampire, yet you walk beneath the sun without issue."
Aldric's expression tightened.
"So?"
The cultist continued, tone more curious than hostile.
"Unlike my lord, you appear to possess no restriction. Photonic exposure does not degrade your form."
The cultist cleared his throat carefully.
"My lord," he said, "it is… only right that you walk in daylight."
He hesitated.
"But you are far from the lord."
The cultist continued, oblivious to the sarcasm.
"Yet he walks under the sun without issue. Unlike you, my lord, who—by reputation—should suffer photonic weakness. That is… remarkable."
Aldric blinked.
Then laughed.
It was not a friendly sound.
"Listen to you," he said. "'Remarkable.' Like I should be impressed you noticed the sky is blue."
The cultist frowned slightly.
"I meant no offense."
"Sure you didn't."
Draven watched the exchange, expression unreadable.
The cultist lowered his head.
"It is simply… uncommon. Most vampires avoid daylight. The lord does not. You do. Yet you are not his equal."
Aldric's smile vanished.
The air shifted.
"Not my equal?"
The cultist hesitated.
"My meaning is only that you are not bound by the same limitations as the lord. He is… something greater."
Aldric's jaw tightened.
Draven kept walking.
But Aldric stopped.
Just for a second.
Then followed again, voice quieter.
"Is that what you think?" he muttered. "That I'm lesser?"
The cultist stiffened.
"No. I only—"
"You only what?"
Aldric's gaze flicked toward him.
"You really don't think before you speak, do you?"
The cultist blinked.
"I am merely asking—"
"You're implying something."
The cultist straightened.
"I am observing differences."
"Uh-huh."
Aldric stepped closer, voice lowering.
"Here's the difference, genius. I'm not bound by the same rules you read about in dusty summoning textbooks. I don't burn in sunlight. I don't collapse under holy constructs. I'm not some fragile blood-sucker waiting for nightfall."
The cultist listened.
Aldric continued.
"Because I'm not of lowly blood."
The cultist's expression tightened slightly.
"I did not mean to insult you."
Aldric raised an eyebrow.
"Didn't you?"
Silence.
The cultist lowered his gaze.
"I merely noted the disparity."
"Right."
Aldric's tone sharpened.
"Think I'll be looked down on?" he muttered, jaw tight. "By a damn rat like him?"
The cultist stiffened.
"I am not a rat—I'm my lord's savant."
Aldric laughed under his breath.
"Sure you are."
The cultist hesitated.
"I meant no disrespect."
Aldric shot him a look.
"Then think before you speak."
Silence followed.
Not the heavy kind.
Just the kind that came when words had already done enough damage.
Draven kept walking ahead of them, movements economical and silent.
He hadn't joined the argument.
Hadn't acknowledged it.
But the cultist spoke again anyway, quieter this time.
"My lord," he said, "I only meant that you… inspire devotion."
Aldric snorted.
"There it is."
The cultist glanced at him.
"What?"
"Fanaticism."
Aldric's voice carried a bitter edge.
"You people call it devotion. Loyalty. Purpose. Whatever pretty word makes you feel better."
He gestured vaguely toward Draven.
"But it's the same thing. Blindness."
The cultist frowned.
"My devotion to the lord is not blind."
Aldric smirked.
"Isn't it?"