Lord Rhaegal moved swiftly through the dense woods, his boots crushing fallen leaves as he carried Malin in his arms. The weight of the unconscious boy was nothing compared to the burden in Rhaegal's mind. By the time he reached the clearing where the carriages were stationed, the night air had grown thick with the scent of blood.
Hayles, who had just returned from the blood bank, turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. His sharp eyes immediately took in his lord's disheveled state—Rhaegal's coat was in tatters, his once-pristine white sleeves soaked in blood. Crimson splatters painted his sharp features, making him appear more like a ghost risen from battle than the composed enforcer he was known to be.
But what stunned Hayles the most was the boy in Rhaegal's arms.
"My Lord," Hayles greeted, his voice steady despite his confusion. He instinctively craned his neck, searching the shadows behind Rhaegal for the others.
"They're all dead," Rhaegal said, his voice like a blade slicing through the cold night air.
Hayles stiffened. "What?" The word barely left his lips, his mind scrambling for answers. It was clear from Rhaegal's silence that no explanation would be offered. His lord was not a man who spoke unnecessarily. And yet, his presence alone told a story—one of violence, loss, and something far more unsettling.
Hayles turned his attention back to the boy. The pale face, the soft rise and fall of his chest—who was he? What made him important enough to be carried by a man who had never shown mercy?
"My Lord… who is he?" Hayles asked, unable to suppress his curiosity.
Rhaegal didn't answer. Instead, he stepped past him and climbed into the carriage, laying Malin carefully onto the cushioned seat. Only then did he turn his sharp, golden gaze to Hayles.
"Head back. We're finished here."
Hayles hesitated. "Yes, my Lord… but—our men, they…?" His words trailed off, his voice uncertain. Losing men on a mission was nothing new, but this—this felt different.
"I will handle the report," Rhaegal stated coldly. "Let Lord Reinhard deal with the rest."
With that, he gave the coachman a slight nod. The carriage jolted forward, wheels grinding against the dirt path as they began the long journey back to Ravenwood.
Outside, the night was eerily silent, the world painted in shades of black and silver. The only sounds were the rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels and the steady hoofbeats of the horses. Inside, Rhaegal sat by the window, his gaze shifting to the boy beside him.
Malin slept soundly, his delicate features relaxed despite everything he had endured. The stab wound was gone, not even a scar left behind. His body temperature had returned to normal, and he showed no signs of pain. It was almost as if nothing had happened to him.
Rhaegal studied him with an expression impossible to decipher. Why had he taken the boy? Was it pity? A sense of duty? He wasn't sure. Rhaegal was not a man ruled by emotion, and yet… here he was.
With a quiet sigh, he turned his gaze back to the passing landscape. His mind wandered to the night's events. The cult was eliminated, but it was only a matter of time before another group rose in rebellion. The cycle would never end.
Hierarchy had never mattered to Rhaegal. In this world, strength dictated survival, and the weak were merely prey. Humans might claim to be at the bottom of the food chain, but he knew better. They could be just as dangerous as any creature that walks the earth.
The carriage veered left, passing through the iron gates of a vast estate before rolling to a stop before a towering mansion.
The coachman opened the door, and Rhaegal stepped down, still carrying Malin.
As soon as his boots hit the stone pathway, the mansion's butler, Alfred, hurried toward him.
"Welcome back, my Lord." Alfred bowed, his sharp eyes quickly assessing Rhaegal's state. The sight of his bloodied coat and torn sleeves made his brow crease in concern. But it was the unconscious boy in his master's arms that gave him a pause.
Never in all his years had Rhaegal brought someone home.
Rhaegal returned his greeting with a curt nod and strode past him, making his way inside. Alfred followed without question, his mind swirling with unspoken thoughts.
Upstairs, Rhaegal carried Malin into his quarters and laid him gently onto the couch.
"Alfred," he called.
The butler stepped forward immediately. "Yes, my Lord?"
"Bring me a bowl of water and a towel."
"At once, my Lord." Alfred disappeared down the hall.
While waiting, Rhaegal stripped off his ruined coat and blood-soaked sleeves, tossing them carelessly aside. He turned back to Malin, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The boy still slept, oblivious to the world around him.
Rhaegal examined the area where the stab wound had been. Not a single mark remained. A human should not have been able to recover that quickly. There was something different about Malin—something Rhaegal needed to uncover.
Alfred soon returned with a bowl of water and a towel. Setting it down, he straightened and turned to his master.
Rhaegal nodded, taking the towel and dipping it into the water. With slow, careful movements, he began wiping the dried blood and dirt from Malin's body and hair, mindful not to wake him.
Once Malin was clean, Alfred handed Rhaegal a fresh set of clothes. With the same level of care, Rhaegal dressed the boy in the soft, warm garments before stepping back.
Alfred watched his lord in silence, his mind filled with questions. This was not the Rhaegal Blackthorn he knew. His master had never allowed anyone into his personal space, let alone cared for them with such attentiveness.
Finally, Rhaegal turned to him. "I can feel your eyes on me. Just ask."
Alfred looked down, as if caught in the act. "I'm merely curious, my Lord. What happened?"
Rhaegal exhaled. "I wiped out a group of rebels."
"And the boy?"
"His name is Malin," Rhaegal said, his voice quieter. "I saved his life. But there is something strange about him. Something I need to uncover."
Alfred nodded, understanding the unspoken meaning. If Rhaegal had brought someone home, then this boy was no ordinary human.
"He will be staying in the mansion for now. Take him to the room downstairs," Rhaegal instructed.
Alfred carefully lifted Malin into his arms and carried him away. Rhaegal watched them go before turning toward the large window. He poured himself a glass of wine and took a slow sip, his mind drowning in unspoken thoughts.
The next day, Malin's eyes fluttered open. A soft mattress cradled his body, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and polished wood. His eyes darted around the elegantly furnished room, confusion tightening his chest.
Where was he?
His breath quickened as memories of the previous night surged forward—the cult, his entrapment, the golden-eyed vampire.
The door swung open, breaking his thoughts. A tall man dressed in a neat brown coat entered.
"Who are you?" Malin asked warily.
"My name is Alfred. I am the butler of this esteemed mansion. My lord brought you in last night."
Malin frowned. "By 'lord,' do you mean the man with golden eyes?"
Alfred's expression hardened slightly. "You will address him as Lord Rhaegal Blackthorn."
Malin hesitated before nodding. "Can you take me to him? I need to thank him."
"I'm afraid Lord Blackthorn has already left the mansion."
"What? But—" Malin turned to the window, realizing the sun was already high in the sky. He had slept through the morning.
Alfred sighed. "Come. You missed breakfast. Lunch will be served soon."
Malin followed him out, marveling at the grandeur of the mansion. The high ceilings, the polished marble floors, the chandeliers—it was unlike anything he had ever seen.
As Malin walked through the grand halls, his mouth hung open in awe. Never in his life had he set foot in a place like this. The towering ceilings were adorned with intricate gold-leaf designs, and massive crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the flawless marble floors. Rich velvet curtains draped the tall windows, their deep crimson hue adding an air of quiet luxury. Every detail, from the carved wooden panels to the gilded furniture, whispered of wealth and power.
His eyes sparkled with curiosity as he quickened his pace, closing the distance between himself and the butler.
"Is Lord Blackthorn part of the royal family?" he asked, unable to contain his wonder.
Alfred barely turned his head. "And why do you ask?"
"This place is enormous and beautiful," Malin replied. "I've always heard that only royals live in places like this."
Alfred studied the boy out of the corner of his eye. His ruffled blond hair and bright blue eyes spoke of innocence—an innocence Alfred knew could be fleeting. He had seen purity twist into cruelty far too many times to believe in its permanence.
He suddenly halted, forcing Malin to stop as well.
"I'm afraid you won't find the answers you're looking for," Alfred said, his voice calm yet firm. "And if you wish to stay in this mansion peacefully, you would do well to speak less. My lord despises noise and talkative people the most."
Malin pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. "I'll be quiet," he promised.
But his eyes gleamed with mischief, betraying his words.
With a sigh, Alfred resumed walking, leading him through the grand corridors until they reached the dining hall. The air was filled with the rich aroma of freshly baked bread and seasoned meats. Several servants were seated at a long wooden table, finishing their breakfast.
Alfred gestured for Malin to take a seat. The boy happily complied, sliding onto one of the benches. Moments later, a plate of steaming beans, soft bread, and freshly cooked fish was set before him.
The sight made his stomach tighten.
He couldn't remember the last time he had been given so much food at once.
Without hesitation, he picked up his spoon and began eating, savoring every bite as though it might be his last.