Draven's voice dropped—flat, cold.
"If you so much as **touch** that cup," he said quietly, "I'll kill you."
Silence fell.
The forest didn't stir.
The maid didn't move.
Even Lyriana froze mid-motion, eyes snapping toward him in alarm.
The cat?
It didn't react.
Not even a flick of its ears.
It kept moving.
One careful step.
Then another.
Its purple eyes never left the blood.
Draven stared at it, unblinking.
…No fear.
No hesitation.
No instinctive retreat.
Not even the dull curiosity dulled by threat.
*If it were a normal cat,* he thought, *it would've bolted already.*
His grip on the cup tightened slightly.
"I thought you were supposed to be some kind of magical creature," he muttered, more to himself now. "Not brainless."
The cat climbed higher, claws lightly pricking his sleeve, then paused—its head level with the rim of the cup. It sniffed once.
Elenya shifted in his arm.
Her eyes—wide, red, wet with frustration—locked onto the cat.
And then—
She reached out.
Tiny fingers brushed against the cat's fur.
Draven lifted the cup immediately, pulling it out of reach.
"That's enough," he said flatly. "Scram. This isn't for you."
The cat didn't protest—but it didn't retreat far either, only settling back against his arm, eyes still fixed on the cup.
Draven turned his attention fully to Elenya.
"Ele," he said quietly, lowering his voice. Not harsh. Not gentle. Just firm. "Please. You need this. Just a little more."
He brought the cup back to her lips.
She tried to turn her head away.
Tiny hands pushed weakly against his fingers, brows furrowed, a small, unhappy sound escaping her throat as she resisted.
Draven didn't pull back this time.
He tilted the cup carefully, controlling the flow so it wouldn't spill or choke her.
"Wait," he murmured. "Just a little left."
Elenya was forced to drink.
Not much—but enough.
Her resistance weakened. The pushing grew sluggish… then stopped. She swallowed, chest rising and falling unevenly, eyes watering as she glared up at him in pure accusation.
Draven exhaled softly through his nose.
"…There," he said. "That's it."
He straightened the cup and pulled it away.
Elenya whimpered once, then went quiet, her body relaxing despite herself. Her eyelids fluttered as the tension drained from her small frame.
Beside them, Lucifer had already finished.
Lyriana held him securely as the maid refilled the wooden cup with efficient precision, blood floating cleanly into place under her control. Lucifer latched on again without hesitation, drinking calmly, as if nothing in the world could trouble him.
Aldric stood a short distance away, arms crossed, watching the scene in silence—jaw tight, eyes thoughtful.
Draven looked down at Elenya.
She'd stopped fighting now.
Still unhappy.
Still stubborn.
But fed.
"…You're difficult," he muttered quietly.
The cat flicked its tail once.
The forest remained still, night pressing in around them as the small, fragile normalcy of feeding children continued—under the shadow of everything waiting ahead.
Time passed quietly.
The feeding ended.
Draven carried both siblings now—Lucifer resting calmly against his arm, eyes fixed on Elenya. She was more awake, small hands moving with renewed energy, fingers brushing against the black cat's fur.
Lucifer watched.
Then reached out.
His fingers closed around the cat's tail.
"Mrrrow."
The cat let out a sharp, offended sound, twisting just enough to pull free without scratching. It shot Lucifer a glare, purple eyes narrowed.
Draven glanced down at the scene, unimpressed.
"…Don't bully it," he muttered, though his grip adjusted instinctively to keep both babies secure.
The maid stepped closer and spoke evenly, as if nothing unusual had occurred.
"My lord, if you wish to eat as well, I can prepare something."
Draven didn't look up.
"I don't want to," he said. "We're done feeding them. We're moving."
The maid nodded once, unsurprised.
"I thought you would say that," she replied calmly.
She extended her hand.
In her palm—and spilling slightly over her fingers—rested **multiple red crystals**.
Magic stones.
Refined. Dense. Each one pulsed faintly with contained power.
"Which is why I collected these as well," she continued. "While I was gone."
Draven's gaze sharpened instantly.
Magic stones.
Not just a few, either.
His eyes lingered on them a moment longer than necessary, memories stirring—pain, chaos, and the violent reaction that seized his body every time he tried to touch mana.
"…How many?" he asked.
The cat, now safely out of Lucifer's grasp, hopped onto Draven's shoulder and stared down at the crystals with open interest.
The maid kept her hand outstretched, voice steady.
"I knew you would want them, my lord," she said. "So I retrieved some along the way."
She paused, then added calmly, "They were taken from a group of dire wolves."
Draven's eyes didn't leave the crystals.
Dire wolves.
That explained the quality.
"Eleven," the maid continued. "There are **eleven stones**."
Draven stared at them in silence.
Not greed.
Not excitement.
Calculation.
Eleven magic stones—each dense, volatile, packed with raw mana that would tear most beings apart from the inside. He could feel them already, a faint pressure crawling against his skin, responding to something within him he still didn't fully understand.
*Last time… this nearly tore me apart.*
His jaw tightened.
The cat shifted on his shoulder, purple eyes fixed on the stones, tail flicking once—interested, but wary.