when night comes

"Vaine." Saylor choked out through her sobs as she crawled towards her sister, who lay on the dark sands of the ring. "No, no, no. Vaine. Vaine!" Arms circled her, grabbed her and lifted her. They held her tight, carrying her away from the ring. Away from her sister. She struggled in her brother's arms, shaking her head back and forth, uttering the word no over and over again. It couldn't be happening. Her sister couldn't be dead. Not after everything they'd gone through.

"We'll take her off your hands, your Highness." Words meant for Greyson. "You have another fight to prepare for." Saylor had no idea who was speaking, nor who was now forcefully yanking her away from her brother. There was a pinch in her neck again and the little strength she'd had dwindled into nothing. Saylor's body sagged limply in the person's arms.

Vaine. Tears poured out of the eyes she couldn't even open as the person holding her brought her elsewhere. Vaine, please don't die. Please don't be dead. But were there any healers around? Did the person who was putting on the event care about ensuring the health and safety of the contestants?

A door opened. Closed. Saylor was lowered down onto a throne, her wrists and ankles wrapped in silveriron. Saylor knew what it was without even having to force her eyelids open. It burned as it was tightly clasped along her skin.

"Open those beautiful eyes and show some appreciation." Fingers tangled into her hair and pulled her head back slightly. "You have the best seat in the house, Queen Saylor."

She managed to open one eye to notice just how high up she was positioned above everyone. It seemed as though the box had been made recently, considering Saylor had never seen it before in the Slaughter Ring. They were right. She did have the best seat. But it was to view a horrific show that she had no interest in.

"We'll be back. Sit tight."

The door to the box opened. Closed. And Saylor was now alone. Everything her mother had taught her flooded to the forefront of her mind. She knew how to fight. She knew how to stand up for herself and get herself out of tough situations. Unfortunately, her captors had ensured that she couldn't move her body. Every time she tried, nothing happened.

She was paralyzed.

Her brother was entering his next fight.

And Vaine was dead.

He thought as his attention lingered for only a heartbeat on Vaine’s motionless body. He knew her. Not well, but enough to know she'd deserved better than dying in a spectacle built for someone else's amusement. Adrian barely registered the cheers, the outrage, and the blood staining the sand below. He didn’t mean the Slaughter Ring, not even dryland, it was the whole of Calamity he dreaded in that moment. It was a selfish thought, but it made no sense at that point. He had grown to care for a handful of people since his return, and he had an objective. He needed to be there.

Later.

He could mourn later. He could ask why Saylor had never mentioned another sibling later. Right now—"Saylor."

He turned toward the backstage corridors where she'd been taken, only to find empty passageways and attendants who refused to meet his gaze. Greyson was surrounded by people, some of his men, some of the ring’s staff. Adrian didn’t even bother asking where they’d taken Saylor because the Prince looked as disoriented and shocked as one would expect.

Later.

Adrian went back to the VIP section, wishing they’d guided Saylor back there, but she was nowhere to be seen. And then something tugged at his instincts—his gaze swept upward through the balcony. There, above the arena, a viewing box suspended over the ring. And there she was. Restrained. Even from the ground, he recognized the pale gleam biting into her wrists. Silveriron. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

His thoughts were racing, but Adrian didn’t panic. On the contrary, he went completely silent, cold.

"What kind of sick bastard..." he muttered, his eyes searching the room for someone in particular. Not to blame, but to command. "Jiayi. With me."

Every prison had a lock. Every lock had a key. And every key belonged to someone foolish enough to think it couldn't be taken. He started moving, expecting the advisor to follow him.

“I don't care who built that thing.” Contained fury tinted his voice. “I don't care who owns the bloody key. I'm getting Saylor down." They only needed to find an alternative way in, a different route than the main door. A maintenance ladder, a support pillar, a rope. Anything.

He barely registered when his next match was due to begin until the gates opened and he was once again stepping out into the ring. The Prince walked with a limp, his thigh still bleeding heavily from the first fight, unable to heal himself between matches—whether that was the orchestrator's intentions or not meant little.

His eyes locked onto his opponent, but Greyson didn't register much beyond the scent of sulphur and smoke that always clung to demon-kind. A filthy abomination he'd have no issues killing—but Greyson knew he was already at a disadvantage. His mind unsteady like a storming ocean, body already pushed—perimeters no soldier should fight under.

The jeers and taunts from his opponent didn't appear to rattle the Prince, but beneath the hard mask—they burned. "You demons talk too much." Greyson replied, fingers gripping the hilt of his glaive, taking a step to make an attack when he saw an opening but his leg gave out, blood oozing from the wound, almost bringing the Commander to his knees, a growl of pain slipping from his throat.

A low chuckle escaped him. "You’re not wrong," he agreed shamelessly. "Someone's gotta keep the audience entertained." His crimson gaze flickered briefly toward the wounded thigh before returning to Greyson's face. The injury had already decided the pace of the fight. "I'd tell you to stand your ground..." he mused, taking another unhurried step forward. "...but it looks like your leg's already made that decision."

Smoke unfurled around his boots as his form dissolved for the briefest instant. Embers scattered across the arena floor before gathering again only a stride away from the Commander. No dramatic flourish. No warning. Just an impossible burst of speed. Demonic teleportation he had to measure if he didn’t want to run out of stamina before reaching the top of the podium. Naj's hand shot toward the glaive, grabbing the shaft to guide its point off line while his boot drove into Greyson's injured leg. Not hard enough to shatter bone, just enough to make him bleed some more. Enough to force his balance onto the very limb that could no longer bear him.

"There."

As he stared at the Prince from above, hellfire bloomed lazily around Najelon's free hand, black at its heart and crimson around its edges, casting an unnatural glow across his grin. He didn't hurl it like some reckless brute, he let it burn close to Greyson’s face, to let him feel the overwhelming heat of hell itself.

The flames hissed across the air between them. His smile widened. "Don't worry, little fish." His voice dripped with mock reassurance. "I'll try not to overcook you."

The hand around Greyson’s glaive summoned fire as well. The flashing black and red spread over the weapon and the Commander’s hand in the blink of an eye, engulfing both in a searing wave.

When she'd seen it scratched upon the wall, in crass, ugly handwriting, bile had threatened to choke her. Gods shit, what do I do? A wolf stirred to life, hungry to know who had done it. But Kit didn't need to look far, or know the faces in the room, to deduce who would be cruel enough to throw her to the wolves, other than the self-proclaimed Emperor of them.

She cannot see the Alpha who destroyed her life in the crowd, but if Izara sniffed deep enough, she expected to find her, smug in the crowd. You think this will bring me to your cause? Sending her to fight the bloodthirsty creatures of the city. Kit could not forfeit, because she had seen a hundred fights, and understands the consequences of a beast who cowered, and ran.

By the time her heart is pounding in her earts, and the sand beneath her feet sinks between her toes; barefoot, because she knows that pushed to the edge, she cannot control claws or teeth, or how messy it could get. She'd hoped for someone who felt the same as her; that they did not need to put on a show, or make it a deathmatch.

Izara hoped Axel had saved himself from the sight, but she imagined that with so mant of his own in the Slaughter Ring, he'd never be anywhere else.

She could smell demon a mile away. Things that could reach inside her, and pluck out everything that had made her who she is. Stolen. Like Jack had told her that Ophelia's had been; torn from her, and left her half a person. No. She could stand her ground against this demon, for a little while. She had to. Just long enough that when she beat the ground, it was not without showing them all that Kit had a little fight in her, still.

Focusing with a steadying breath, she grounds herself to the sands, when he taunts.

She scoffs, because she does not exude his cocky confidence. Even if there's something about getting close to him, that makes all her hairs stand on edge; she hasn't decided if it's because she's ready to claw his eyes out, or because she'd kneel before him and allow him to do the same.

Fuck. Shaking her head, she growls; it's primal, and involuntary for the most part because she will not be sucked into the magics of monsters.

"Yeah. Don't we all."

Dark blood rushed through his veins as her stance shifted, announcing the true beginning of the match. After everything that had happened in recent days, the most primal part of him demanded release. Not merely victory, but spectacle.

Then the wolf attacked first.

Claws carved through the air right where his throat had been a heartbeat earlier. His body unraveled into smoke and glowing embers, the attack scattering him instead of finding flesh. The cloud twisted around her momentum before condensing behind her once more, boots skidding lightly across the arena.

"Not bad," he praised with a grin that showed his many sharp teeth. "Again."

The next exchange happened fast enough that the cheering crowd blurred into meaningless noise. That’s all they were to Najelon: a mass of brainless lowlifers aching for some violent entertainment to give meaning to their sad existence. With a few exceptions. Claw met claw, momentum carried them past each other, and for the briefest instant it looked as though neither had gained the advantage. That was the illusion.

Otsana was in the room where it happened; decisions regarding the State, the species, the peace treaties - all being handled for the wolves by her. By his count, the speakers were still down some, too. Thaddeus wondered about her level of control, if she could shift here and now if she wanted, bite him and mark him for death. That possibility wasn't worth trying to drag this out by making a statement. It would show her weakness just to beat her, and that would have to be enough for now.

"Bored, now." He drawled, a slight sing-song tone to his voice as the vice around her neck pressed down harder, slowly cutting off the oxygen supply. Thad didn't want this one dead; he had no qualms, and it would only serve to bring some mutt drama if he finished her off. The vampire just wanted her down and out, so he could get to the real fun in the next fight.

As long as he didn’t try to kill her, it would be fine, right?

“Sure, that’s exactly why,” she muttered at his guess. It wasn’t, but it didn’t matter what he thought, or how he tried to taunt her. She had her own private reason to prioritize survival. “Never heard of delegation?” she grunted, struggling against his hold. “I guess not, with your freaky maker–bonds.” She was one to talk… trapped in the same kind of servitude.

When he tightened his grip, Otsana dug her growing claws into his arm, but she could already feel the lack of oxygen clouding her senses. Good, that was enough. If he was planning on simply knocking her off, she could get behind it. It could look like a fair fight instead of an easy way out.

Still, her instincts kicked in, as one should expect. Panic drowned her brain as her vision darkened, and with half the strength she had previously, Otsana dragged her claws down his arm, ripping his skin until her hand fell limp.

"You sure you don't just wanna walk away now, little wolf?" Thaddeus smirked as he entered the ring, looking his opponent over carefully. From the stench of her, he had figured out she was a wolf - not one that he'd encountered before, but that didn't matter to him. In his mind, he was winning this fight no matter what, even if he had to sink his fangs into her mutt blood and drain her dry.

The grin that came to his lips was wide and wrong, fangs unsheathing so she could see him for what he truly was, and know what she was up against. Thaddeus liked to play with his prey, and she was prey. "Aw, come on, darling. It'll be fun. You might even like it when I sink my fangs into you. You'll like it more than I will, that's for sure. Mutt blood tastes disgusting but... Needs must."

He moves faster than most can see, coming up behind her and wrapping an arm around her neck, his hand gripping his own shoulder. She wasn't worth the effort, not if he was going to go far in this fight. He needed to conserve his energy for those he considered the big hitters on the board - Otsana wasn't one of them. Thaddeus could just choke her out and move on, easy as pie.

But she didn’t have time to think. Her first fight, and probably the only one, had begun. One moment she had been tending to her orchard, and the next she was traveling to the Slaughter Ring at silveriron knife point. Who even had the means for that nowadays?

“Believe me, bloodsucker,” she grumbled, fully annoyed by his demeanor. A speaker ought to be more diplomatic, she was certain of that, but the situation at hand left no room for politeness. “If I could just leave, I wouldn’t be here in front of you.” Reputation preceded the Davenport vampire clan. Otsana didn’t personally know any of them, but her Alpha had warned her about the infamous rumors surrounding them, as well as their establishments.

Scum.

“You won’t find it so fun when I bite you back, vampire,” she grunted the last word as if it were a slur.

Adopting a defensive position, she wondered what her chances of coming out alive were. Otsana could fight, she had been trained as an assassin—against her will—and she had learned how to kill a man efficiently in her wolf form. But she wasn’t a brawler. That was going to be a problem.

Her stomach flipped as she felt his hand catch hers. Saylor's gaze tore away from his lips, lowering down to their now joined hands. She should pull away. She knew she should. If Josiah were to walk into her cottage and see this... Is this cheating? More heat seared underneath her skin, creating goosebumps along her flesh.

"Funny. Very funny." Was all she could manage when it came to commenting on her being flustered. She couldn't deny it. She was flustered. But she'd argue that it was his doing, not her own. The way he talked to her now, in private, was different. And now, he was pulling her hand and placing it on him. Purposefully. She'd only done it accidentally but this--

"Oh." The response was barely a breathe as she found herself focused not on the book, but the scar that was now underneath her fingers. "They still... um--" She swallowed hard. "It's not as bad here, no. But some still... still do." She hated it, how they were seen by others. Their tails were beautiful, as was their whole form, but that didn't mean they should be put on display or kept as pets. "I'm sorry." Her voice cracked as her fingers trailed gently over the scar for another moment before she pulled away.

This was... well, it felt inappropriate. It wasn't. She tried to remind herself that it wasn't. Adrian was her husband. Anything that happened between them was supposed to happen. And if she kept avoiding getting close, then they'd never give the Forgotten what they needed to. A King and a Queen, joined together and united. Heirs, eventually. Saylor's eyes lifted to meet his, wondering if that's what he wanted. If this was his attempt to try to get closer to her. To, potentially, try to consummate their marriage.

There was a bed nearby.

At the thought, Saylor bit down on her lower lip and quickly turned her face away from his, placing her hands on the book in front of her. Pride and Prejudice. That's what they were there for. To fix the book. Not to touch. Not to fall into bed together. And yet, she'd brought him here. To her safe space. What if he was expecting something more, now?

The warmth that had settled comfortably between them evaporated in an instant, replaced by concern… and mild akwardness. His grip loosened immediately, releasing her hand completely as he leaned back against the table. Long forgotten was the matter about their species struggles.

"Hey," he called her attention, his voice was gentler now. The playful glint disappeared from his eyes. H didn’t look hurt or offended, just surprised. "I wasn't askin' for that." A hand rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. Saylor’s own flusteredness seemed contagious, as a light rubor colored Adrian’s cheeks.

Truth be told, the possibility of being intimate with her in that moment hadn't even crossed his mind, he'd been enjoying the conversation. Enjoying her company, and the fact that she was finally looking at him directly instead of through him and what his intentions might be. The realization that she'd interpreted things differently made him wince internally. Do better, ye scallywag.

"You don't ever need to apologize for touchin' me, Saylor." A small breath escaped him, his brow was furrowed with concern for her. "Or for not bein' ready.” His gaze drifted toward the nearby books instead as his head tilted to the side, deliberately giving her room to breathe. "We've only known each other a couple of months." Which, considering they were married, was still absurd to think about. Adrian picked up the damaged copy of Pride and Prejudice again, turning it over in his hands. "If I wanted somethin', I'd rather you wanted it too." The statement came simply, almost casual. It was a given for him.

Then, perhaps sensing she'd continue spiraling if he left the silence untouched, he tapped the cover of the book. "Now," he continued with a small and cautious smile. "You were supposed to be teachin' me how not to destroy literature."

The art piece in front of her, though, was one she'd never experienced before. Nisha's head tilted to the side as she noticed the man inside the painting, who appeared to have moved. The Vampire took a step forward, her fingers brushing along the frame of the painting. It couldn't be... right?

But then, he blinked; his eyes flickering ever so slightly until their eyes met. "What is this magic?" Nisha practically hissed as she stared at the man who was now smiling. Surely, it couldn't be anything else. Not a trick of the light, but magic. Maybe even an illusion.

If only.

This one was self–assured, confident in her own sense of authority. Nestor wondered if she was a respected figure of society like he once was. Should he indulge her curiosity? Or perhaps it was wiser to go perfectly still and play with her mind? Where did he currently stand in the line between ‘why even bother’ and ‘bored out of his mind’?

“I have the impression you are a woman accustomed to obtaining what she seeks,” he remarked, his voice low enough that she might have mistaken it for imagination were it not for the movement of his lips.

"A year. Clearing the entire Forgotten of blood will require heavy lifting on my part and you'll not find another sorcerer capable of the feat." Obi negotiated, his smile as dangerous as it was devious.

It wasn't even boasting, just simple fact—there wasn't any other as powerful as him within the state, not with a speciality in blood magic either.

"Although I feel you should charge an exuberant fee to those little fish for doing all this hard work for them." He laughed.

“A year then,” she agreed, trying to hide her discomfort with a solemn nod, but the woman was an open book. Then she snapped again, golden eyes challenging the inconceivably mighty sorcerer. “Charging refugees is exactly the kind of wretched thing someone who asks for werewolf poison in return for help would do.”

She sighed then, trying to bite her tongue for the rest of their exchange. Contempt wouldn’t get her anywhere, and while Oberyn seemed entertained by defiance, she doubted he enjoyed disdain.

“Do we have a deal, then?” she asked in a calmer voice.

The man she had encountered when she first set foot on the ship would have done anything to ensure she obeyed his words. And yet… he was gentler again. Back to the Adrian that she knew as a husband. Whiplash hit her suddenly -- her insides twisting with confusion.

Saylor was half tempted to tear the blindfold off. She hated not being able to see what was happening. Where he was taking her. Not only that, but his hands on her skin -- sliding up her thighs and cupping her ass -- caused the fire surrounding her body to increase. It was more than what she thought it would be. It felt like more. And she was suffocating.

His words tore her out of her own bodily sensations. "I don't believe that for a second, Captain." She grumbled as she nuzzled her forehead against his shoulder. At this point, she wasn't sure what to believe when it came to the King. When was he telling the truth? When was he lying? When was he trying to just get what he wanted? Who was he? Did he actually come from the Dryden family?

As he lowered her down, she anticipated something harsh. More wood, or a metal chair. Chains that he'd wrap around her wrists or something that might be more alarming. But instead, she was placed onto something soft and smooth. Her fingers reached out, stretching along the sheets and blankets. A bed. He'd placed her on a bed. She froze as his words caught up to her. Love. Her head jerked towards the direction of his voice, as if she could see him. She couldn't, of course. They'd been married for almost half a year and never had either of them used such a word with one another.

He's messing with me. Saylor thought to herself as she shook her head, choosing to ignore it, along with the rustling he was making around the room. Instead, she focused on what was underneath her -- smiling as she grabbed the blanket and pulled it over herself. She patted around on the bed until she found what felt like pillows and she sighed as she lay her head on one of them. It was more comfortable than what she thought it would be. Better than the one in her cottage.

As she curled in on herself in the bed, she silently wondered how many women he'd brought to this exact bed in the past. Or perhaps, men. That thought gave her pause. She'd never considered being with a woman. And while she wouldn't shame anyone for it, something like that could pose an issue for her and him. They were expected to have a family. Heirs. And if he wasn't attracted to her, then they'd have to figure out other ways to make it happen.

Saylor shoved it out of her mind quickly, choosing not to dwell on it any longer. "Can I take my blind fold off now?" She said into the empty air around her. "Or am I forced to keep it on the whole time I'm here?" If that was the case, she'd begin crawling around the room on her hands and knees, searching and seeing with her touch, instead.

“Spoiled Queen,” he murmured, the words edged with mock annoyance as he tugged the blindfold from her eyes.

He sat on the edge of the bed, one brow raised, a smirk curving his lips. The same one that carried a hint of danger. This Adrian was like a knife glinting in the dim light of his cabin. From the first–aid kit, he plucked a small tin of salve before setting it beside him on the floor. “Stay till,” he ordered, the commanding tone returning to his voice, not as harsh as before, but just enough to remind her who she was dealing with.

He wasn’t a brute, but he wasn’t harmless or a pushover either. And he had the feeling that she was starting to realize that. He wouldn’t blame her for being extra–cautious from now on, even as his rough and calloused touch spread the healing salve over the cuts on her arms. When he reached her cheek, his fingers caught her chin, guiding her face up to him. He tilted it, studying her as his thumb brushed over her skin. The anger was gone, but the intensity wasn’t.

When their eyes fmet, something in him gave way. He leaned down, closing the distance, and kissed her again. Slowly this time, but no less hungry. She’d covered herself with a blanket, so he didn’t push further. If she just wanted to simply kiss, to cuddle, or to lay there and talk to him, he’d let her. But he couldn’t pretend he didn’t want more. Not anymore.

“Saylor…” he whispered against her lips, letting the tin clatter to the floor. His arms caged her in, close enough that she could feel the warm tension in every muscle. “I won’t do anything you’re not ready for.” The fire in his eyes said he was barely holding himself back. “But you need to know that I want you more that I’ve ever wanted anyone.”

He knew she deserved gentleness, deserved to be cherished like the Queen she was — that he didn’t deserve her in turn— but that didn’t stop his hand from tracing her silloutte through the damp blanket, down her sides, over her hips, along her thighs and back up again, deliberate and slow.

“Say you want this,” he murmured, voice dropping into a grumble, “call me Captain again—” his lips brushed the corner of her mouth, “—and I’ll show you what real pleasure feels like.”

His gaze held hers, restrained and utterly captivate. Something coiled beneath his skin, tight and waiting, like a tide poised to break the moment she said his name.

A chuckle escaped him, her cheekiness always put a smile on his face. A playful one, but more genuine than any other. He remained leaning back, his crimson eyes taking in every shift in her expression.

“Arguably,” he said fondly, a cheeky smirk stretching his lips as she pinched him. Her insanity was, after all, one of her most compelling qualities in the eyes of her demon. There was nothing she didn’t dare try, even when it meant her own detriment. “I would be more careful than ever, Raven.”

His smile thinned for a moment as he truly weighed the possible outcomes. From experience, half the people he possessed had gone completely mad, but the other half recovered shortly after. Najelon still wasn’t sure what determined their fate, and using Raven as a test subject wasn’t in his plans, but if it went well… She had a point, it would be more fun than anything they had done before. Frowning in consideration, his eyes followed her hands. Cute, he thought, as she tried to tease him.

“I do want to… so we’ll do a three seconds test first.” His gaze met hers again, more serious than a second ago. “If I feel your mind breaking apart even for a split second—I'm calling it.”

It wasn’t often that mortal girls like this one stumbled directly into the wolf’s den, foolish enough to think places like this were safe. There was no safe place in a world crowded with demons and creatures of the night, all of them ravenous for innocent blood.

The tip of Liliana’s tongue swept a drop of crimson off the corner of her lips, as her midnight eyes dragged slowly over the human.

"You won’t last a second in there, baby." A dare, everything that crossed Liliana’s lips sounded like one.

The risks were many, not just in the Dominion but all across the state. Every step she took could land her in trouble, just like she appeared to be in now. She should be afraid, her fight–or–flight instincts should be kicking in. She knew that. And yet her heart kept beating steadily, not a single pump out of rhythm. No sweat formed on the surface of her skin, no dilation of her pupils, no breath catching in her chest. She remained impassive, yet observant.

Her new circumstances were a complete mystery even to her.

“I want to go there,” she insisted.

"What is it, Mireia?" he asked, broken and yet unwavering beneath the devastation threatening to spill out of him. "What is it that you see in there?"

Because he knew she had done it. She had crossed that fragile line between them—that truce they had drawn in sand, that just as easily could be washed away by the tide at any moment.

A jarring movement, his arm reaching out to hook rough fingers around her wrist, his touch burning with aggravation and impatience. "Was it worth it? Tell me, was it worth it? Are you satisfied now?" No. She never would be. It unsettled him to know she had wandered the crossroads of his mind and found the treasure chests buried beneath the sand, every lock broken open, every crawling thing stuffed inside waiting to spill free at the first splinter of wood.

Every single flash played again in her mind; the Queen, his strong feelings for her—more powerful and entangled than Mireia could ever imagine. Someone she could only assume was the new King, and nothing but suspicion and hostility toward him. But there was something else… something strange, almost alien, that she couldn’t quite understand: Josiah’s face covered in tattoos, looking back at him with empty eyes. Grief and sorrow so potent they reminded her of her own.

His justified anger startled her, bringing her thoughts back to the present, to the friend she betrayed and the boundaries she crossed. But Mireia didn’t back down. She wanted to help, and Josiah clearly needed it, even if her methods were questionable.

“You left me no choice,” she hissed through gritted teeth, fully believing in the good intentions behind her actions. Her icy gaze locked on his, steadying with resolve. “You bottle everything inside like there’s no bottom, but there’s so much one can take before drowning in self inflicted isolation, Josiah.” Spoken from experience.

She didn’t fight his grip as it tightened around her wrist, as she had no intention of escalating their fight any further. But despite her determination, that tattooed face kept nudging at her. Was that Josiah’s distorted self–image?

For a moment, Josiah looked stunned, as stunned as any man pursuing another man’s wife might be when said husband casually slung an arm around his shoulders and invited him out for a drink. Of course, the advisor did not know how much Adrian understood about his wife’s extracurricular affairs. During those endless meetings drowned in politics and strategy, Josiah had followed Adrian’s gaze lingering on the space between him and Her Majesty. Perhaps he had noticed a stolen glance or two. They had nearly been caught before.

Josiah had taken drastic measures to ensure a secret of that magnitude remained exactly that — a secret, belonging to him and her alone. He had never intended for any of it to happen, but his heart had spoken louder than his morals, and for once in his life, Josiah had listened.

Whatever Adrian wanted now, he would receive. For the sake of the secret. For the sake of keeping his head attached to his neck long enough to rest it against her chest again.

"Are you truly that lonesome, Your Grace?" he asked.

"I would suggest finding more suitable company. As you so kindly pointed out, I am merely a servant with a stick up his ass. How entertaining could someone like that possibly be?" His eyes gleamed with something devilish.

There were layers to Josiah, and if the king wished to spend the entire night peeling them back one by one, he certainly could.

Slowly, Josiah lifted a hand and, with the gallantry he had been known for, removed Adrian’s arm from his shoulders and lowered it neatly back to his side.

The King didn’t condemn it, he couldn’t even judge it. Who was he to do so? A scoundrel used by his parents to climb the social ladder, a liar, and a fraud. He only wanted the truth so he could hide his own shame better.

“That I am,” he simply admitted. The cheeky smile on his lips softening with genuine wistfulness. “Anyone would be if they had to leave everything and everyone they knew behind. Twice I’ve done that in my life. Wasn't any less lonely the second time.” He sighed as if reminding himself that he had already given up. That there was no going back to his old life. There really wasn’t. “So humor me for once, will ya?”

Then again, Josiah wasn't going to do that. He had expected as much. For a moment, he simply stared at the arm Josiah had deposited back at his side. Then at Josiah. Then back at the arm.

A look of genuine offense crossed his face, he was a better actor than he gave himself credit for. "Did you just reject me?" The question came out far more scandalized than the threat deserved. "That's cold, mate."

Adrian clicked his tongue and resumed walking as though nothing had happened. He tried suppressing a smirk, but irony dripped with every word he said.

"I offer you alcohol, riveting company, and an opportunity to escape whatever miserable little thoughts keep you awake at night, and this is the thanks I get?" The King shoved his hands into his pockets and continued forward. If Josiah wanted to continue following him, it would be inside a tavern. Or a bar. Definitely not one of those loud clubs. "If you're threatening me already, we're definitely getting that drink. Normal people threaten me after the second round." His grin widened. He was feeling cheeky, as if Saylor accepting his roguish background had freed a small part of him.

"And if you've got enough confidence to threaten your King in a sewer, you've clearly been needing a night out."

“Right.” Heathcliff’s tone was flat as he acknowledged her timid change of tune from friend to something more impersonal as 'an acquaintance'. He quietly put the kettle over the fire of the stove as she got lost in her thoughts for a moment. “Of course I cannot be absolutely certain. There could be other vampire Malcoms out there. But a Davenport indeed runs the Firelight. It all depends on whether what your… acquaintance has told you is the truth.” He gave her a meaningful look at that, just a subtle reminder of another thing to be wary of - that silly little habit everyone else but their kin had, which was to tell lies.  But he did not like seeing her get this anxious. He reached an insecure hand to place long fingertips over her interlaced ones, almost comfortingly so. “If you are given trouble, by anyone, even a Davenport, come to me. Come to me and tell me. But as always, do not tell them that you have any connections to me.” It was an advice Heathcliff had given Mireia decades ago, when Myre Grove became... more. First and foremost for her safety. The gentle touch of his cold fingertips retreated, point hopefully made well enough.  He scoffed then, his upper lip curling in mild disgust. “Like humanity is any better. A plague of locusts, the lot of them. Breeding like flies, eating resources away like termites.” It was no secret that Heathcliff had a thing or two to say that was not so flattering to say the least about any species. What else was to be expected of a jaded paranoiac? But he understood the feeling of being tired of being scared and angry well. He was too. After five hundred years, enough was enough. But that was also the catch - it was, at the same time, never enough. Because that was when you stop fighting, stop kicking and clawing your way up and out and above and away from what aims to harm you.  He picked up a ceramic teacup for Mireia, the saucer it went on shaped like a pond leaf, the cup itself reminiscent of a moss-stained log but smooth and delicate against the hold of a hand. Mireia would know it was made and hand-painted by Heathcliff himself. He crouched by a small cabinet near the stove then, opening it up to reveal it was stock-full of glass jars of teas. With a wooden spoon he began filling up a tea bag - fragrant dried rose petals, lavender, holy basil, nettle leaf, skullcap and oatstraw. A delicate aroma rose as jars got opened for a scoop. “If you are tired of being angry and scared, you must pick another emotion to keep you going. My only advice is to not make it a desperation of any kind. Especially for connection.” He left it at that, knowing full well Mireia will do what she wanted to in the end. And who was he to stop it?

Like it was becoming in that same instant. She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly to calm down her nerves and avoid that creeping anxiety she knew all too well. There was no point dwelling on what could have happened that night, it was in the past now. And she was tired of living in the past. Heathcliff’s comforting touch was welcome, her shoulders almost instantly eased at the familiarity. Leaning on him had become second nature, but sometimes she wondered if it was bordering on emotional dependency. There was a fine line between she didn’t want to cross, one that turned Heathcliff into a crutch she needed every time she took a new step.

That wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

“I know, thank you,” she said softly, her expression brightening as a small smile curved her lips. “Surprisingly enough, I haven’t gotten into any trouble for… most of the this century, now that I think about it.” One of her giggles escaped her, but it came to an abrupt halt when he expressed his opinion on humanity, a mentality Mireia knew all too well, but didn’t fully share. “I still believe they’re more capable of kindness than other creatures.”

She didn’t want to start a debate, but a part of her was certain of it, from what she had witnessed in her lifetime. Maybe she was being biased. Lately, all Mireia could do was question everything she used to believe in, consciously or not, and it was starting to take a toll.

Her eyes mindlessly followed Heathcliff’s every motion as he continued their small tea ceremony. It was therapeutic, in a way, watching someone familiar doing something so mundane. She wondered if other people felt the same when they watched her work in her atelier, like Jasper, Nabi and even Baekyong. She recognized the cup Heathcliff chose, and the aroma of every single herb he picked up, like a balm for her broken soul.

Connection. That was exactly what she was missing. His words washed over her like a jar of cold water, contrasting the previous coziness. The word itself made her tense. It wasn’t the first time that words like ‘ungrateful’ and ‘needy’ popped into her head, shaming herself for wanting something that was already available for her, just not in the flavor she wished. She was surrounded by chosen family and friends who openly loved her, so why did she keep looking for a sort of love that belonged in the past, with her dead spouse and child?

The light in her eyes dimmed, and she became smaller, quieter. She didn’t say anything as her feet took her toward the sewing kit she brought. She fumbled over the different pockets and pouches, neatly displaying her tools for later alterations that some of Heathcliff’s robes needed. All to keep her mind from wandering grim thoughts.