Rhaegal waltzed across the polished marble floor with the princess in his arms. His face remained unreadable, a cold mask of duty, while the princess wore a soft, hopeful smile.
"So, what do you do for fun, my lord?" she asked lightly, trying to pierce his exterior.
"Besides drowning in paperwork and slicing open corpses? Not much comes to mind," Rhaegal replied, his tone flat.
"That's quite the exciting hobby, my lord," she said with a teasing smile, savoring the firm, warm pressure of his hand at her back.
"How about lunch? This week?. My threat" she offered, her gaze meeting his with open invitation.
His expression didn't shift, but his eyes dimmed slightly. "I'm not the man you should be inviting for lunch, Your Highness," he said, cool and unapologetic.
"But—" she began, only to be cut off by the final note of the waltz.
Rhaegal stepped back, offered a swift bow, and turned away without hesitation. The princess watched his retreating form, her smile fading. Then, without a word, she turned and walked in the opposite direction.
Social niceties had always frayed Rhaegal's nerves—but tonight, they were hanging by a thread. Slipping away from the ballroom, he exited the castle and ducked behind a statue in the courtyard, cloaked in the moonlight like a shadow waiting to move.
Minutes passed before a figure approached—tall, elegant, with an easy grin.
"It's good to see you, Rhaegal," the man said.
"You walk too slow for a vampire, Elias," Rhaegal said, smirking faintly. A rare softness crept into his eyes.
Elias chuckled, unfazed. "This is what you asked for." He pulled out an envelope and handed it over.
"It looks like Erix was onto something big," Elias said, his voice tense. "What he was investigating is still unclear,but it was something worth silencing him for."
Rhaegal tore it open. As he scanned the documents, his jaw tensed. A storm brewed behind his eyes—fury crashing against grief. His fangs extended. Claws broke through his gloves.
"Rhaegal!" Elias grabbed his arms tightly. "Get a hold of yourself."
It took a few seconds, but the tension bled from Rhaegal's shoulders. He lowered his head. Guilt flickered across his face, raw and unguarded.
Elias exhaled. "You never lose control. Unless it's about Erix." His voice softened. "I shouldn't say this, but… it's been a decade. You need to let go."
"I can't," Rhaegal whispered. "Not until I find the ones who killed him."
Elias nodded reluctantly. "Then I'll keep digging. But these people—whoever they are—they've covered their tracks too well. That kind of precision makes me uneasy. Whoever's behind this… they're dangerous, and very careful."
"They can't hide forever," Rhaegal said. "Check other towns. My guess is that the place where Erix was found is different from where the crime actually took place."
Then, An idea sparked in Rhaegal's mind. "I should join—"
Elias cut him off sharply. "No, it's better if you stay out of it. Whoever's behind this is likely watching you closely. We can't risk drawing their attention."
Rhaegal hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you, Elias."
Elias gasped theatrically. "No! Gods, don't thank me—it sounds creepy coming from you ." He shuddered in mock horror, grinning. Despite the grim business, there was a playful glint in his eyes.
They'd known each other since childhood. Though their personalities clashed—Elias all light and laughter, Rhaegal all shadows and silence—they shared an unspoken bond. A loyalty that ran deeper than words.
After a few more quiet exchanges, a carriage rolled into the courtyard. Eugene held the reins. Rhaegal climbed in wordlessly and shut the door behind him.
Inside, the silence was thick.
Alfred, his butler , sat across from him, stiff and watchful. One glance at his master's face, and he knew—tonight was not the night to speak. So he said nothing, barely daring to breathe.
——————————————
Malin had just finished dinner and was now sitting alone at the back of the mansion, idly wasting time. He was never one to enjoy being cooped up for too long. After days of being confined within the cold walls of the mansion, he felt tired… suffocated.
The repetitive routine made him feel like he'd fallen into a time loop. His days with his parents might not have been perfect, but at least he had freedom. He could go anywhere in Pearl Harbor—take evening strolls, swim in the town's river. He missed those moments dearly.
He knew he wasn't supposed to say this, but what he missed most were his parents.
The mansion, though vast and grand, held no warmth. And the people in it were no different. Lord Rhaegal was like a thousand-year-old iceberg—distant and unreadable. Even though Malin felt a strange sense of fondness for him, it was hard to get close.
Letting out a resigned sigh, Malin stared at the vast landscape before him and wondered if there was anything worth exploring beyond the estate's walls. He got up and began walking—farther and farther—until he unknowingly strayed beyond Lord Rhaegal's land.
The open field welcomed him with a sweeping breeze that kissed his skin. Birds chirped, and Malin playfully whistled along. The wind and fresh air filled him with a sense of freedom, lightening his mood.
Then, he stumbled upon a small stream. Surprised and delighted, he rushed toward it. Though it was nowhere near the size of the one in his hometown, it still brought him joy.
He took off his footwear and stepped into the water, splashing and laughing freely. His laughter echoed through the trees—carefree and bright.
But unknown to Malin, his laughter had drawn the attention of something dark. Eyes filled with primal hunger watched him from the woods—predators waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
something was off.
A sound—a low, rumbling growl—echoed through the trees.
Malin froze. Snapping his head in the direction of the sound. Then he saw them.
Eyes. Glowing yellow. Dozens of them.
They emerged from the shadows like nightmares come alive. Mangy fur, saliva-coated fangs, twisted limbs ready to pounce. Malin's blood turned to ice.
"Werewolves…" he whispered, breath caught in his throat.
One of them snarled, and that broke the spell. Malin ran.
Branches lashed his face, thorns sliced open his legs. He didn't care. He had to run. He had to get away.
Behind him, they howled—high-pitched and feral. The scent of Malin's delicious blood filled the air. The werewolves howled a bloodthirsty chorus that sent chills down Malin's spine.
He wasn't fast enough.
He could hear them closing in. The snap of twigs. The pounding of heavy paws against the forest floor. The ragged sound of their breath behind him.
Panic tightened his chest. His vision blurred.
Something sharp sliced across his back—he screamed. The pain was blinding. His foot caught on a root and he stumbled, rolling hard onto the forest floor.
Then—crunch—a set of claws seized his cloak and slammed him onto his back. Before he could scream again, jagged fangs sank deep into his arm.
White-hot pain tore through him.
He screamed so loud it echoed off the trees.
Another beast lunged forward. Malin threw his hand up, barely holding it off as its jaws snapped inches from his throat.
The first wolf yanked its teeth out of his flesh, spraying blood. More of them circled him now, growling, snarling, their eyes alight with savage glee.
Tears stung his eyes. Was this how it ended? After everything?
"No," he choked out. "I won't die here."
He kicked, punched—futile gestures against monsters—but he fought. Lord Rhaegal hadn't saved him just for him to be torn apart now.
Then—something inside of him shifted.
Heat surged through his veins. A strange hum filled his ears. Light pulsed beneath his skin, bursting outward—
BOOM!
A wave of blinding energy exploded from his body, sending the werewolves flying into the trees.
Gasping, bloodied, Malin scrambled to his feet and ran. He didn't look back.
His arm throbbed violently, blood soaking the tattered cloth. His back burned, his legs screamed with every step, but he didn't stop. The forest felt like a maze. He didn't know the way back—only that he had to keep going.
The werewolves howled again.
They were getting up.
And they were angry.
He heard the snarls behind him—closer. Closer.
"Please…" he whispered. "Someone, anyone…"
And then—he burst out of the woods.
Right onto the road.
A carriage came racing down. Malin barely registered the thunder of hooves before the coachman screamed and pulled the reins. The horses reared violently, inches from crushing him.
The carriage rocked. The door flung open.
Rhaegal.
He stepped out slowly, his sharp eyes scanning—and then narrowing at the sudden realization.
Blood. Malin's blood.
Without hesitation, Rhaegal struck his coachman unconscious with a single blow. The werewolves were already upon them, snarling at the sudden presence of a predator far stronger than they anticipated. they refused to back down, determined to get a hold of the boy, whose blood and flesh is like a drug.
Alfred appeared at Rhaegal's side like a shadow.
The wolves lunged.
And hell broke loose.
Rhaegal moved with monstrous grace—inhuman, fluid, precise. He caught one mid-air, crushed its skull with a single clawed hand, and hurled the carcass into the trees.
Alfred moved like a ghost. Cold. Deadly. The butler mask peeled away to reveal something ancient and merciless. He tore through fur and flesh without hesitation, his clothes soaked in blood, his eyes soulless.
A wolf pounced toward Malin's crumpled body. Rhaegal was faster.
He blurred into motion, intercepted the beast mid-leap, and ripped its jaws apart. Blood sprayed over him like dark rain.
"Stay away from him," Rhaegal growled, voice thick with something dark and possessive.
Two more wolves tried to flank him. He whirled, claws out, slicing deep. Screams—animal and horrible—echoed into the night.
When the survivors saw their pack reduced to shredded limbs and twitching corpses, they whimpered and fled into the forest.
"Alfred," Rhaegal barked.
"Yes, my lord."
"Make chase. Leave none alive." He ordered.
Without a word, Alfred vanished into the trees.
Rhaegal turned to Malin.
The boy was motionless, his body crumpled in the dirt, his arm mangled, his back soaked in blood. His breathing was shallow, uneven.
For the first time in centuries, something like panic gripped Rhaegal's chest.
He dropped to his knees.
"Malin," he whispered hoarsely, brushing damp hair from the boy's face. "Wake up."
He tapped his cheek. "Come now. Don't sleep."
Malin stirred faintly, his lips parting in a weak breath. His face was pale, almost ghostly, but he was alive.
Rhaegal let out a slow breath and gently gathered him into his arms. He climbed into the carriage and shut the door behind them.
He removed his coat, then tore through his inner sleeve with his claws, wrapping it around the bloody bite. His hands trembled as he tied it—careful, precise, but trembling nonetheless.
He tore another piece of fabric, dipped it in water from the flask, and gently wiped the blood from Malin's face.
"Stubborn.." he murmured. His voice cracked ever so slightly.
He removed Malin's torn shirt, exposing claw marks running from shoulder to waist. Rhaegal's jaw clenched. His breath hitched.
He cleaned each wound with tenderness, brushing Malin's skin with more reverence than he'd ever shown in decades. When he got to Malin's feet, it was bruised and bloody—his hands hesitated for a moment before he touched them.
Still unconscious, Malin hissed and stirred slightly from the pain, Rhaegal froze for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
"You get what you deserve," he said softly, pressing the wet cloth against Malin's feet to wipe off the blood and dirt.
After making sure Malin's is alright, he took the coat from the side and covered Malin, he continued to watch him in silence.
The moment was quiet.
Then—Alfred returned.
"My lord. It's done," he said.
Rhaegal didn't look up.
"But who would be bold enough to create rogue werewolves?" Alfred asked.
Rhaegal's gaze flicked back to Malin's resting face, softer now, more at peace.
"The real question," he said darkly, "is why… and who they were meant to kill."
Alfred pondered the word for a while then asked. "Is Malin alright?".
"He'll live," Rhaegal replied, but his voice held something unspoken or perhaps something far more dangerous—something tender.
Alfred hesitated. "I instructed Philip to keep an eye on him. Forgive my failure—"
Rhaegal waved a hand dismissively. "It's not your fault. He's not the type to stay where he's told". Rhaegal said.
He noticed Malin's wounds were healing and felt unexpected relief. He instinctively reaches to brush Malin's hair away but stops himself, withdrawing with restraint.