The morning light spilled through the high windows of the house in soft, honeyed bands. It lit the furniture in gold, kissed the floorboards like an apology. Outside, the town was already awake — the gentle rattle of cart wheels over brick, the distant hiss of boiling water being thrown onto stone, the rhythmic beat of laundry snapped into sunlight. It was the kind of morning that made it easy to forget what the world was.
Viktor stood near the window, one hand resting against the glass. He'd only meant to glance, just for a second. But what he saw held him still.
The town was... functioning. No fire. No panic. No whisper of the war that had torn through other places like wind through dry leaves. Children laughed in the square, dragging ribbons behind them like they had never seen blood. A florist set out baskets of violets and oranges. And just beyond the fountain, a dark-skinned woman in a mustard-yellow shawl leaned up and kissed her pale-skinned partner on the mouth. No one turned to look. No one flinched. Even the soldiers strolling past gave them a casual nod, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it was. Here.
Viktor kept watching. A teenage boy with freckles helped a blind man cross the square. A white woman in a patched apron handed extra bread to a Black child who had no shoes on. A man tipped his hat to a group of women as they passed, their laughter soft and easy in the breeze. Doors were open. Eyes were soft. People moved like they weren't being watched.
It made no sense. Not in the world he knew. Not in the history he'd survived.
He'd been raised in places where difference was punished quietly — not always with fire, but with rules, with glances, with space withheld. Where a kiss like that one could get you marked. Or disappeared. Where people knew better than to touch too freely in public.
But this town? This town walked in sunlight.
It didn't feel like freedom. It felt like a trap dressed in peace.
This house was nothing like his manor — no marble halls, no cold mirrors, no polished floors reflecting back disappointment. And yet… he loved it more.
It was warmer. Smaller. It smelled like pine, fresh bread, and sometimes baby powder if the windows were open. The curtains didn't match. The floor creaked in friendly ways. It felt like the kind of place where people could heal. Where Malik might grow without fear.
And Ayoka?
She would have loved it too — if she wasn't always trying to either kill him or marry him.
Most days, Viktor couldn't tell which it was.
She came to him with soft words and hard eyes. Always circling. Always watching. And when she pressed her mouth to his skin — neck, jaw, chest — he never knew if she meant to kiss him or mark him. Halfway through love-making, she'd sink her fangs into him without warning, pressing poison into his bloodstream like it was part of the ritual.
It didn't paralyze him. It didn't kill.
It just made him feel high.
Like the air had gone honey-slow and the world had narrowed to her breath on his throat.
He could say no. He told himself that, sometimes.
But how do you say no to her eyes? To the way they gleamed gold when she was half-shifted, half-laughing, already planning her next betrayal?
He hated how much he liked not knowing what she'd do next.
So no — Ayoka didn't hate this house.
She might've loved it, if she could ever stop trying to burn it down just to see if he'd rebuild it for her.
Viktor paused halfway through pouring hot water into the steeping bowl when he noticed the shadow near the front door had shifted. Not moved — shifted, intentionally. A weight had settled. He set the kettle down and stepped into the hallway, gaze narrowing.
That's when he spotted him.
Malik sat perfectly still just outside the study door, legs spread, arms perched on his thighs like a small judge taking a break from sentencing the universe. His curls were haloed in soft morning light, and the linen napkin tied around his waist hung on by a thread. He didn't blink. Didn't move. Just stared up at Viktor in absolute silence. What the hell is going on... Viktor thought, brows knitting.
Then the floor twitched beneath him.
Without warning, the Shadow Man exploded from Viktor's own shadow like a snake uncoiling in reverse — all arms, braids, and breathless fury. "HE'S RIGHT THERE!" he bellowed mid-leap.
Malik's eyes went wide, a prophet catching vision. He shrieked with glee and launched himself down the hall.
Viktor didn't hesitate. "Oh shit," he muttered, dropping the mug and breaking into a run.
They tore after him — one immortal shadow being and one exiled nobleman in socked feet — chasing a half-naked toddler who crawled like war was nipping at his heels.
"Come back here, Little Eurichinet!" the Shadow Man shouted. "Third peach of misrule!"
Malik let out a sound between a giggle and a battle cry, rolled under the hallway bench, then darted left, bare feet slapping like war drums. "What is he?" Viktor panted. "A myth!" the Shadow Man hissed, cape flaring behind him.
It took a sizzling blood rat steak conjured midair and Viktor's boots planted like barricades to finally trap the child. Malik stopped, sniffed, and crawled directly into the trap. Viktor scooped him up, laughing, and the Shadow Man collapsed beside them with a groan.
Malik sat in triumph, steak in hand, diaper barely on, beaming like a tiny god.
Both men dropped to the floor, breathless, backs against the wall.
For a moment, the house didn't feel haunted.
It just felt alive.
Viktor and the Shadow Man sat on the floor, panting, recovering from the chaos Malik had unleashed. Their laughter still echoed faintly through the halls when a sharp hissing noise curled through the air — soft at first, then louder, like steam whispering from a cracked pipe. The magic in the walls stirred. Something was shifting upstairs.
The Shadow Man stood and cracked his neck. "I'll watch him," he said casually, nodding toward Malik, who was now chewing contentedly on the edge of his conjured steak. With a flick of his fingers, the room darkened slightly, and twenty shadow-servants bloomed into existence — gangly, eyeless silhouettes shaped like nurses, a few like nannies, two of them barely distinguishable from toy chests.
They gently lifted Malik and began carrying him through the back hallway — toward the space where all the children had been gathered, a temporary crèche of soft mats and flickering light. Their parents worked day and night in the town for the cause, and the children played beneath the veil of the Shadow Man's making.
Viktor didn't ask where the others had gone. He knew better.
Instead, he went to the kitchen, began quietly assembling a tray — a small bowl of rice, a slice of peach, a cup of cooling tea. His hands were steady, but his jaw was tight. As he stepped into the long hallway leading toward her room, the air shifted.
It didn't feel like the rest of the house.
The walls pressed in tighter here. The light was thinner. The wood groaned as if warning him. He didn't need to be reminded. The Shadow Man had already told him: You have to do this. If you don't, she might hurt someone she doesn't want to.
Viktor reached the door.
It was reinforced — double-locked, etched with sigils, sealed with breathless silence. He bent down to slide the tray through the small compartment carved into the lower half.
That's when the door rattled.
"Ayoka?" he said, voice low.
From the other side came a ragged gasp, then a voice — cracked but clear.
"Is it playtime yet?" she asked sweetly.
He froze.
As he pushed the tray forward, a hand shot through the slot, grabbing his wrist — tight, shaking, hot to the touch. Her voice broke.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Please don't leave me. Please."
His fingers twitched — almost held hers. For a second, it was just the two of them. Her voice. Her need.
Then she laughed.
Not a giggle. Not a sob.
A high, cracked, joyless sound that curled at the edges.
He pulled his hand back sharply. Her fist slammed into the door, once, then again. The sound echoed down the hall like gunfire.
Viktor turned and walked away.
The Shadow Man met him at the hallway's end, standing beside someone Viktor didn't recognize.
The figure was tall, lean, and strange — hair black and bristled, ears too pointed, a tail curling lazily behind him like a question mark. His face was sharp, smiling too easily, and Viktor couldn't tell if he was amused or just waiting to be dangerous. His skin was marked in glowing ink, full Aztec tattoowork, spiraling across his arms, throat, and collarbone like ceremonial armor.
Viktor had met a few like him before — back in older days, older wars. Not many remained. Enough to remember.
The Shadow Man gestured casually.
"Meet the doctor," he said. "They'll be helping with Ayoka's powers."