It had been six days since he arrived at Greystone House.
Not long by most standards. But to Caelum, it felt like a quiet eternity.
He wasn't cold, not exactly. And not aloof. He talked when the caretakers asked questions. He said thank you when they gave him meals. He nodded politely when the older children ignored him—or whispered about him behind his back. He wasn't trying to be distant.
But come on. Who would be in the right mood after waking up chased by vampires in the middle of a dark forest?
He hadn't cried. Not once. But the feeling was always there, like pressure behind the eyes. Heavy and unwanted. He didn't know what he was mourning—his old life, perhaps. Or the fact he couldn't even remember it well enough to know what he'd lost.
The room they gave him was small but functional. A bed with clean sheets, a desk, a wardrobe, and a single glowing rune etched into the wall that hummed softly at night—a containment sigil, he assumed. Subtle. Polite. But clear.
He checked the corners each night before sleeping. Not for monsters—he didn't believe in those anymore. But for cameras, for listening charms, for eyes. The Ministry said he was safe, but they had also said he needed monitoring.
There was always a trade.
Tonight, he stepped barefoot onto the cold stone floor and padded into the bathroom.
It was simple—tiled floor, plain mirror, old brass taps with a wand-reactive sink. The lighting charm glowed faintly as he entered.
He looked at himself.
A five-year-old boy. Pale skin. Dark hair, thick and messy, curling slightly at the ends. His face was too thin, eyes too sharp for his age. And his eyes—
That was what always caught him.
Golden yellow. Not like sunlight. Like animal eyes—feral and reflective, a predator's gaze. From the right angle, they caught light unnaturally, glowing faintly like a wolf in torchlight. Mirren had warned him not to panic when he saw it. "Just the vampiric alteration. Some features lock in early," she had said.
He leaned closer to the mirror.
It was him. But not. A boy who shouldn't exist in this world. Not just magical—but foreign. An outsider with no past, no roots, no claim to the name stitched into his Ministry file.
He touched the glass.
His skin was cold, but not corpse-cold. Just… cooler than it should be. Mirren said his internal temperature had dropped three degrees below baseline since the transformation. His senses were sharper at night. His heart rate was slow, steady. He didn't feel hunger much anymore. Or thirst. Just… a dull emptiness that never really went away.
Sleep didn't come easily. It was nearly midnight now, and he wasn't tired.
He went back to his room and curled onto the bed, arms tucked behind his head, blanket half-kicked off. The ceiling above him was marked with faint runic etchings—security wards, probably. He stared at them until his eyes blurred.
The night was quiet. Greystone was always quiet after nine.
He listened to the silence like it was music. The soft hum of containment charms. The faint shuffle of someone turning over in a neighboring room. A mouse skittering through a wall. The world had volume now, even in stillness.
He wasn't afraid.
But he wasn't at peace either.
What now?
He didn't belong here. Not really. Not with the other magical children. Not with the vampires either. Not in the forest. Not in the Ministry. Not anywhere.
He didn't remember his past life, but sometimes… he felt the weight of it. Like a coat he couldn't see but was still wearing. Heavy. Familiar. Foreign.
Was I kind? Was I selfish? Did I love someone? Did I deserve this?
No answers came.
He stayed awake until dawn, watching the ceiling fade from dark gray to pale blue. Sleep never came.
But neither did fear.
Only the long, humming quiet of a life not yet lived