The phone buzzed sharply on the nightstand, jolting Caveen Landon, Best friend and cousin of Alaric. out of his spiraling thoughts. He blinked at the screen, the name flashing clearly:
Alaric Vaelthorne.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Perfect timing," he murmured, swiping to answer.
"Tell me you're not working again," came the smooth, deep voice of the Duke of Ravenshade, laced with amused authority.
Caveen chuckled. "Alaric, it's past midnight."
"I'm aware. That's when doctors and broken-hearted men drink," Alaric replied. "Which one are you tonight?"
"I might be both."
"Even better. Join me. I had a bottle of that aged noir from the southern cellars opened. I'll be at the manor. Come breathe before you lose yourself in whatever storm is brewing inside that head."
Caveen hesitated only a moment before nodding. "On my way."
—
Vaelthorne Manor stood proud and elegant on a mist-wreathed hill, its stained-glass windows glowing like jewels under moonlight. The estate bore the mark of the Vellaria lineage—ancient, noble, and steeped in both human and hidden supernatural bloodlines.
Alaric's grandfather, Antoine Vellaria once a powerful vampire warrior adopted brother and distant cousin of Valus, had fallen in love with a mortal woman and petitioned the witches to seal away his bloodlust. The magic used was irreversible, and so he became something new—a man bound by love, no longer vampire nor entirely human. The Vellaria family, valuing his sacrifice and loyalty, welcomed him and bestowed upon him title and land in the human world. And that legacy flowed now in Alaric's veins.
Caveen arrived and was immediately ushered into the library. Alaric stood beside a grand hearth, already nursing a glass of crimson wine.
"Doctor Landon," Alaric greeted with mock grandeur. "Punctual as ever."
"And you're still dramatic," Caveen replied, grinning. He took the glass offered and joined him by the fire.
They drank in silence for a moment, the warmth settling into their bones.
"So," Caveen began, eyeing him over the rim of his glass. "You dragged me out of bed for something."
Alaric didn't answer at once. He simply stared into the fire, the golden light flickering against the sharp lines of his face—aristocratic, composed, but softer tonight.
Caveen took a sip and leaned back. "So… You finally did it."
Alaric arched an eyebrow, glass poised near his lips. "Did what?"
"Chose a bride."
Alaric's lips twitched faintly. "You sound more shocked than you should be."
"I am shocked. You've declined half the noble houses across the continent. I figured you'd just outlive them all and adopt a title for your sword."
Alaric chuckled quietly, then downed a sip. "That was the plan."
Caveen tilted his head. "So what changed? Who is she? And don't say it's just duty."
Alaric set the glass down and stared into the fire. "Her name is Seraphine Delacroix."
Caveen stilled.
"The adopted daughter of House Delacroix?" he asked, voice low.
Alaric nodded slowly. "Yes. She isn't noble by blood, and most think I've lost my mind. But she… she's different."
Caveen remained silent, watching Alaric closely.
The duke took a breath—one that carried more weight than he'd ever shared aloud.
"The moment I saw her, everything slowed down. There were other women in the hall, all dressed finer, all trained to flirt and flatter—but she stood quietly at the edge of the room, her hands folded in front of her like she didn't belong there. And when I looked at her, really looked at her…"
He paused, fingers resting on the rim of his glass.
"I felt peace, Caveen. Like my entire life of battles and expectations, of sharp decisions and colder nights… just stilled. Her presence doesn't demand anything. It offers calm."
His voice lowered, almost reverent.
Caveen took another drink to steady himself. "That's the most poetic I've ever heard you sound. Are you sure you're not drunk?"
Alaric smirked faintly, but the look faded just as quickly. "I thought it was infatuation at first. Maybe even curiosity. But I kept seeking her out… quietly. Every time she looked at me, I felt something warm… not desire. Not even longing. Just—home."
Caveen leaned forward, his tone gentler now. "Does she know?"
"No," Alaric said. "Not fully. I don't want her to feel pressured. Her life has been filled with uncertainty. I see it in her posture. In how she avoids attention. But she's strong. She hides it behind silence, but I can see it in her stillness. There's something… powerful buried deep inside her."
Caveen's fingers tapped absently against the base of his glass. The more Alaric spoke, the more conflicted Caveen became.
"She's special," Alaric said quietly. "And not just to me."
Caveen's throat tightened. "And you're ready for what that means? To stand by her, even if things get… complicated?"
Alaric didn't flinch. "I've never been more certain of anything."
They fell into a long silence again, the fire the only sound between them.
Finally, Caveen raised his glass. "Then I'll drink to her."
Alaric mirrored the gesture. "To Seraphine."
And deep within both men—one a healer with forgotten blood, the other a duke bound by fate—a truth stirred quietly.
This was only the beginning.
Meanwhile
The manor was quiet, cloaked in the stillness of midnight. Seraphine lay beneath the silken sheets, her eyes closed but her mind wide awake. A candle flickered low on the nightstand, casting shadows against the carved ceiling.
Then it happened.
A shift in the air.
Her breath caught.
It was faint at first—a ripple in the atmosphere, like a tremor beneath calm waters. Then it deepened, blooming through the corridors like a silent storm. Something—someone—had arrived.
Seraphine sat upright, clutching the blanket. Her skin prickled, not from fear, but from something… warmer. Familiar, though she could not place why. The aura that flooded the manor was immense, ancient, tinged with unmistakable magic. But instead of recoiling, her heart softened. It felt like a warm hearth on a winter night. Like a forgotten memory pressing gently at the edge of her soul.
She moved toward the window, pushing the heavy curtain aside.
Below, at the estate entrance, two men stood facing each other beneath the lantern light.
One was unmistakably Alaric—tall, dark, cloaked in the same quiet authority he always bore. The other was dressed in midnight blue, his long coat swept back by the wind. His black hair shimmered under the moonlight, and his presence exuded both elegance and power.
Seraphine couldn't hear them, but she could feel the bond between them—an old, unbroken thread of trust.
---
"Take care of her, Alaric," Caveen said, stepping back into the night. "A girl with a soul like that doesn't appear in your path by accident."
Alaric watched his friend got on the car and drove away, the silence folding in around him once more.
Above, Seraphine turned from the window, her heart still fluttering from the strange sensation.
She had no name for what she felt… only that it was growing stronger by the day. And tonight, with the arrival of that man—Caveen—something deep inside her stirred, like the slow awakening of long-dormant embers.
She lay back down, the warmth of the aura still clinging to her skin.
Soon, she drifted into sleep, unaware that her past, her bloodline, and the magic buried deep within her had already begun to respond to the forces gathering at her doorstep.