The square was swallowed by shadow, the moonless night lending every corner a velvet blackness. Asahel moved like a whisper over the rooftops, cloak blending perfectly with the dark. His senses reached into the silence: the faint clinking of chains, the shallow, uneven breaths of the humans, the faint thrum of life that would soon be broken. Even for a vampire, the tension was almost suffocating.
Below, the human courier dragged his prisoners through the cobblestones. Their faces were pale, eyes wide with terror, hands trembling against the cold metal of their chains. Asahel's gaze lingered, noting the subtle signs of fear and exhaustion, the way they flinched at every shadow, every rustle of the night.
A figure stepped from the darkness, tall, impossibly still, hood drawn, mask concealing every line of his face. Even from his hidden perch, Asahel felt the weight of authority, the calm menace radiating from the figure. Every movement was precise, deliberate, as if the world itself bent to his control.
The courier knelt, presenting sealed papers. The hooded figure accepted them slowly, nodding at intervals, speaking in low, clipped tones that made the humans flinch. Asahel's mind churned as he watched. Why kidnap them? What could possibly require this much… control, this much fear? Even for a vampire, the thought unsettled him. The humans' life energy was palpable, and yet it seemed as though nothing about their purpose would ever be admitted.
He followed silently, blending into the shadows as the prisoners were herded deeper into the square's hidden corners. Chains rattled softly, breaths hitched, and Asahel's sharp senses caught the subtle lifelessness creeping into their movements. Why drain them? Why return them cold and empty? The question gnawed at him, though no answer came.
The courier departed swiftly, bowing, seals clutched tightly. The hooded figure lingered for a moment, surveying the humans with predator-like precision, then vanished into the night. Asahel remained hidden, recording every movement, every nuance.
Even now, the lord's identity was a mystery, hidden beneath the mask and the cloak. Asahel felt a chill even his vampiric endurance could not shake. Typhon had assigned him to this task, to observe, report, and wait for guidance, but as Asahel melted back into the shadows, one thought clung to him, gnawing at his mind: what are they using the humans for? And why?
***
The snow fell silently, coating the world in a soft, white hush. Sapphire's eyelids fluttered open, heavy and reluctant, her head pounding from exhaustion that had overtaken her hours before. The warmth of the room felt distant, her body still trembling with fatigue. She lifted herself slowly, supported by the chair behind her, her hands barely steady.
Outside the window, snow drifted lazily down, soft and endless, and her gaze found it without effort. A faint smile touched her lips, fragile and fleeting, as memories she had tried to bury pressed through her mind.
She remembered the night her son was born, a night much like this one, cold and white, yet full of shadows she could not shake. Her husband had not been there in her hour of need; he had gone out drinking and returned reeking of wine, indifferent to her pain, ignoring the tiny life she held in trembling arms. When he did glance at the boy, it was with a hollow, disinterested eye.
"Come to the bed," he had slurred, forcing her into a duty she had never consented to, leaving her heart aching in the shadow of his cruelty.
Her hands shook slightly as she pressed them against the sill, drawing herself upright, feeling the lingering weakness in her limbs. The snow outside mirrored her own fragile state, cold, silent, beautiful, and indifferent. She had been banished, separated from her son, accused of a lie she had never committed. The weight of it pressed down on her chest even now, and yet the memory of him, of that small, fragile life, brought a faint warmth to her heart amidst the sorrow.
She let her gaze linger on the snow, inhaling shallowly, letting it anchor her. Even weak, even exhausted, even wounded by a life that had taken so much, she felt the soft pulse of something she could not name, love, loss, longing. A delicate, bittersweet tether to the girl she had been, to the mother she had carried inside her, and to the son she could only hope to see again.
A soft knock broke the silence, barely audible followed by the quiet shuffle of footsteps. Eugene entered as he always did, softly, deliberately, careful not to startle her. In his hands was a thick, woolen cloth, folded neatly.
"The Lord said," he said softly, placing the bundle gently on the chair beside her, "he doesn't want you catching a cold. Here, change into this."
Sapphire's hands trembled slightly as she reached for the warm fabrics. The weight and softness of the clothes were comforting, yet they could not fully touch the ache buried in her chest. She paused, eyes drifting to the window again, the snow falling silently, painting the world in its cold, pristine light.
Even Eugene, in his quiet attentiveness, could sense the depth of her sadness. There was something in the curve of her shoulders, the faint tremor in her hands, and the way her gaze lingered on the snow that spoke of memories too painful to voice. He could almost smell it, the lingering sorrow, the exhaustion, the grief she carried with her like an invisible cloak.
He said nothing more, only waited respectfully, giving her the space to change. Sapphire drew the warm clothes around her fragile frame, the fabric a small shield against the chill, both of the room and of her memories. For a moment, she closed her eyes, letting herself breathe, letting the snow outside and the soft weight of the clothes anchor her.
Sapphire hesitated, fingers tightening slightly in the blanket as though bracing herself.
"How long," she asked softly, her voice still rough from sleep, "does the Lord intend for me to remain at rest?"
Eugene did not answer at once. He adjusted the heavy drape at the window, letting in just enough light, then turned back to her.
"Until His Lordship is satisfied you are well," he said evenly.
She gave a small nod, though a flicker of unease passed through her eyes. Rest had never sat easily with her. Still, she said nothing more.
"I do not wish to be… inconvenient," she added after a moment.
Eugene met her gaze then, his expression gentle but firm. "You are not."
The words settled deeper than she expected. Sapphire looked away, focusing on the that snow continued to fall outside.
"How long does the snow remain in these lands?" she asked tired of the silence.
Eugene's gaze lifted briefly toward the sky beyond the glass. "Two full moons, at least," he said. "In harsher years, it lingers into the turning of the third."
She absorbed this in silence before speaking again. "And your stores, how are they kept when the cold tightens its hold?"
"Below the keep," Eugene replied. "Stone cellars cut deep into the earth. Grain sealed in waxed chests, meats packed in salt, roots buried in sand. Ice is kept beneath straw and shadow, saved from the last frost of the waning moon."
Her fingers tightened slightly at her side, though her voice remained steady. "So nothing is lost."
"Only what is neglected," Eugene said. "Winter shows no mercy to carelessness."
Sapphire turned from the window, her gaze steady. "How about water… is it still in surplus?"
Eugene's expression calm but firm. "No. Since the contamination of the Hivites' streams, the people have lived off reserves. Rations will be made, as they have always been."
She nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of his words. Outside, frost crept over the bare earth, and snow lay heavy on every surface.