In the midst of the oppressive gloom, the house hidden on the outskirts of the city was the perfect refuge for a being who craved solitude. The structure stood crooked amidst the weeds, rejected by the life of the earth.
The highest room, covered in black tapestries, stifled all natural environments: it allowed no light, no sound, nor any trace of the outside world. The heavy fabrics absorbed the echo, creating an acoustic vacuum where the air had stagnated for decades.
A week had passed since Isaiah crossed the Hand of the Forest. Astilbe knew he would find him there. As soon as he crossed the neglected gardens of the courtyard, a noxious stench awakened his senses. The plants beneath his feet were withered, overcome by an invisible radiation. Not even the night wind was enough to dissipate it: the essence of hell permeated the ground, the walls, and the air. It was the same trail that saturated Isaiah's motionless body, sunken in the shadows with his black hair falling over his face.
Isaiah remained seated in a high-backed armchair, merging with the shadow behind him. His skin had a grayish hue, without a single trace of brightness in his dark eyes.
—His presence is so abominable that not even a pureblood could erase this trail —Astilbe said, his voice both a reproach and a lament—. Do not expect me to mourn your death if Belzblehem discovers you.
Astilbe stopped a few meters away, approaching no further. The air around Isaiah vibrated with a force that made the skin crawl.
The vampire's face remained impassive, barely acknowledging Astilbe's arrival. There was no movement in his eyelids, only a breath so slow it seemed halted. He had expected him since the first day; he was a loyal ally, as he had always been.
—With Lucieno nearby, only Hellery has noticed your absence.
The mention of the name brought a new tension to the room. The shadows in the corners seemed to stir slightly.
Currently, the events at the White Castle painted an uncertain landscape. The immortals walked upon a tightrope, with the hourglass reversing against them. Time was running out for everyone, but especially for the one who bore the mark of hell.
—Tell me, Isaiah, have you thought about what to do regarding Zheir?
Astilbe took a step forward, breaking the safety barrier. His eyes searched for any sign of planning in the motionless figure. Isaiah's mind had been occupied with that subject during his seclusion, but no solution had emerged. His expression remained empty. His eyes stayed fixed on an invisible point on the floor.
—There is nothing to be done. I am unable to leave Caprissia.
His voice sounded raspy, due to the clear disuse over the days. Astilbe hid the shadow of frustration forming in his eyes. His fingers closed slowly, containing a particular urgency.
—Send Janab to Zheir.
The heavy curtains breathed with the frigid wind, as if they had heard the heresy. A cold current ran through the room without an apparent origin. Isaiah looked at him with disdain, unable to tolerate such an absurd idea. His head rose, his dark eyes fixing on Astilbe with scathing intensity.
—Trust a mortal? Trust a secret that even demons can read upon her skin? I have always wondered why you are so easily corrupted by them. Do you not see how ridiculous you sound?
Each question was a verbal blow, loaded with cynicism. Isaiah leaned forward, the shadow on his face deepening.
—She is willing to serve you in exchange for her freedom —Astilbe insisted, firm.
He did not recoil before the hostility. He maintained his posture, shoulders straight, defying the atmospheric pressure that was increasing.
—And what you really want is to let her escape? —Isaiah mocked, with a twisted smile—. I admit, you are fond of that girl.
His laugh was a dry contraction of facial muscles. Astilbe was not fazed by the insult. The sound bounced off the upholstered walls, lifeless.
—You are not going to feed on her yet —he replied calmly—. And she has proven herself useful.
The justification was practical, cold, attempting to appeal to the vampire's logic. Isaiah tilted his face, studying him with the coldness of a butcher.
—I have been merciful until now, but I am far from continuing down this path.
They had been masters of human perdition for so long that each day they moved further away from compassion. Dominated by instinct, their hearts were dead... but Astilbe still embraced traces of the nature to which he once belonged. The difference between them had never been as visible as in that dark room.
Humans—beings who felt fear and clung to hope—were the same ones who committed all kinds of sins believing that the eyes of the one in whom they placed their faith were blind. They were fickle, unworthy of trust. Isaiah knew it; Astilbe expected it.
—If she fails —he said in a grave voice—, I will assume the consequences.
The declaration fell like a sentence. The air exploded. The door shook suddenly, the wind lashed the room as if it had broken an invisible dam. The glass of the sealed windows vibrated with violence, threatening to shatter. The black curtains rose, and the panes rattled fiercely. Isaiah's contained fury materialized in the gloom, transforming the environment into a storm field.
The objects on the table slid across the surface, pushed by the invisible force. Astilbe remained firm, his hair disheveled by the current. He knew he had crossed a limit from which there would be no return... but also that there was no other possible way out. He did not close his eyes before the blast, accepting the risk of the vampire's wrath.
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