Moonlight soaked the garden in silver. Petals gleamed like frozen tears. Elvira's breath fogged in the cool air as she stepped into the clearing, heart pounding. He was waiting for her — just as promised.
"Avegar?" she whispered.
He turned. Cloaked in shadows. Moonlight caught his jawline — sharp, familiar. Too familiar.
"Avegar," he said smoothly, voice just right — almost.
She took a step forward. "You came."
A nod. "Of course I did. I said I would."
But he didn't move. Not like Avegar. No teasing smirk. No instinctive reach for her fingers. His eyes — they weren't quite the same color. A flicker of something colder. Too still. Too polished.
A chill slid down her spine.
"Say my name," she said.
A pause. Too long.
"Elvira," he said. Flat. Measured.
Not him.
Her heart dropped. She staggered back a step — but too late. The figure moved fast. Inhumanly fast. A flash of silver. A needle. A sting in her neck.
"No—!" Her scream broke off, mouth suddenly thick with honeyed numbness.
The world tilted. The stars swam.
"Shh," the voice said — deeper now, no longer pretending. "You weren't supposed to come here. Not yet."
Her knees buckled. He caught her before she hit the ground.
She tried to focus. A new face blurred into view. Familiar, terrible.
"Elijah…"
He smiled faintly. "Still sharp, even fading. I always admired that."
"Where's… Avegar?" she slurred, the bond to him roaring like a struck chord in her chest.
Elijah leaned close, breath warm at her ear.
"Gone. Or maybe coming too late. Either way, you're mine now."
Darkness surged. She felt her body lifted, her magic scratching at the edges, wild and unfocused.
Before it all slipped away, she thought she heard water whispering — the pool in the center of the garden glimmering, trying to speak. But her eyes closed.
--------
She awakens in a cold chamber. Candles flicker in a circle. Chains made of silver and blood rune markings bind her — not tight, but ancient. Elijah is there, watching.
"You think Avegar loves you?" he murmurs.
"You're not his salvation. You're his sacrifice."
The first thing she noticed was the scent — not blood, as she might have expected, but jasmine.
Then came the cold. Her wrists ached. Ankles too.
Tied.
A single candle flickered beside her, painting gold shapes on the stone floor. The chair was old — oak, claw-footed. Her body slumped, heavy with a magic-suppressing fog still clinging to her bones.
A voice hummed in the darkness — low, velvet, amused.
"I thought you'd sleep longer," Elijah said.
Elvira didn't reply. Her tongue was dry. Her head still throbbed. But her eyes snapped to his silhouette as he stepped into the candlelight.
He looked the same. And nothing like she remembered.
Elijah was beautiful in a venomous way — sharp edges disguised by soft tones. The kind of beauty that made you forget it could hurt you.
"You're quiet," he said, circling her slowly.
"Usually you're full of fire."
He dragged a fingertip along her bare shoulder — exposed where her dress had slipped from the struggle.
She flinched.
"Don't touch me."
He didn't listen. His hand skimmed down her arm, lingering just above the knot binding her wrist.
"Still spirited," he murmured. "I always liked that about you. That's why Avegar fell so hard, isn't it?"
Her jaw clenched.
Avegar.
She reached for him — not physically, but inwardly. For the bond. The thread that always hummed with warmth between them.
Now it felt… faint. Thin as spider silk.
Something's blocking it.
"Elijah…" she managed, forcing her voice through grit. "You won't get what you want."
He leaned close, mouth near her ear.
"What I want," he whispered, "is sitting right here. Helpless. Glorious. And absolutely mine."
His breath made her stomach churn. But she didn't pull away. She looked him dead in the eyes.
"I'm not yours," she said. "And Avegar will come for me."
He smiled, then — not with amusement, but with something brittle underneath.
"You still don't get it, do you?" he said. "You're not the only one with a bond."
He touched his chest. "I carved one. Stitched in shadows. I can feel him, too. And he's lost."
She tried not to react. But the fear wasn't for herself. It was for Avegar. Was he hurt? Was he being drawn away?
Does he know I'm gone?
"He'll find me," she said softly, not to Elijah, but to herself.
Elijah's hand cupped her chin, tilting it up.
"Let him try," he said. "By the time he does, you'll barely remember how it felt to be his."
She spat at him.
He flinched back — not in anger, but surprised laughter.
"There she is," he said. "My little thorn."
He turned and vanished into the shadows, locking the heavy door behind him. Her arms trembled, not from fear — but from rage.
And in her chest, faint but true — something pulsed.
A spark of Avegar's warmth.
He felt her.
He was coming.
AVEGAR's POV
Anna's apartment was a cathedral of pretension — velvet throws draped over modern furniture, books no one read artfully cracked open on side tables, candles burning too low and spilling wax like tears. The party had swelled past midnight; voices slurred, music tangled into laughter and secrets.
Avegar was drunk. Not tipsy — not pleasantly warm. But truly, disorientingly drunk. Everything blurred at the edges, like ink bleeding on wet parchment.
He leaned against the cool glass of the window, wine glass in one hand, a slow smile playing at his lips. Across the room, Marco was watching him with that same hungry amusement he always wore.
Avegar tilted his head. "Are you going to stare all night, or—"
Marco was already moving, his boots soundless on the plush carpet. He reached him, fingers brushing Avegar's belt loop as if claiming him.
"I was wondering how long you'd play prince-in-a-tower before letting me climb."
Avegar snorted, then took a shaky sip. The burn didn't reach the ache. Nothing ever did.
"Anna's been trying to flirt with me all evening," he muttered. "As if her hand on my arm could erase the hysterectomy in her smile."
Marco smirked. "You're so cruel when you're hurting."
Their mouths crashed together — fast, messy, teeth and alcohol and the faint taste of smoke. Avegar let it happen. Needed it to happen. Needed something to drown out the missing.
They staggered, kissing, into the hallway. A bathroom door slammed behind them.
The tiles were black marble, the mirror smeared from some girl's lipstick touch-up. Avegar pressed Marco against the counter, biting at his neck.
Marco gasped. "Trying to forget him?"
Avegar didn't answer. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. Marco's hands slid under his shirt — warm, eager — but it was all wrong.
Why aren't you him…? His thoughts of Elijah came to his mind.
Avegar grabbed the back of Marco's neck, kissing harder, angrier — trying to pull something from him that wasn't there.
And then—
A sharp, sickening stab coiled in his stomach. Like a hook, pulling.
He gasped, stumbling back.
"Ave?" Marco blinked. "What is it?"
Avegar's hand went to his abdomen. The pain wasn't physical. It was elsewhere, yet it was real — electric and raw, slicing through his fog like cold air in a crypt.
His vision swam.
And then—
He saw it.
A golden cord — not literal, but radiant in his mind's eye — tied from his soul to hers. It pulled, taut and strained, shimmering with panic. Her pain bled into his nerves, making him sway.
"Elvira," he whispered.
The kiss. The wine. The noise — it all fell away.
Avegar pushed Marco off with a force that sent him into the counter.
"What the hell—?"
But Avegar was already gone.
Through the front door, down the apartment stairs, into the breathless night. He didn't know what he was chasing — only that something was wrong. So deeply wrong it screamed through his bones.
He ran.
Through the city shadows, toward the only place she could be.
Her home. The castle.
———
The Smell of Her Absence
Avegar slammed the car door shut, boots striking the gravel as he strode through the castle gates like a storm barely caged in flesh. The tall iron doors groaned open under his hand. The corridors of Elvira's home were soaked in silence — not peace, but absence. That terrible, smothering kind.
The smell of incense had long faded from the hallways. Her footsteps were missing from the marble. The candle sconces flickered as if they sensed it too — something was wrong.
He moved quickly — past the darkened parlors and the cold kitchen — until he reached her bedroom.
The door creaked open.
Moonlight poured in through the tall windows, painting pale silver across the velvet bedsheets. The bed was untouched, but—
There, on the corner, lay her blouse. Carelessly tossed. A soft, delicate thing. He stepped forward, reached for it—
And brought it to his face.
Her scent. Rose and rain and that ancient thing that always pulled at his ribcage.
"Elvira…" he whispered, voice cracking.
His knees almost buckled. The golden thread tugged inside him again — not gently now. It screamed through his blood.
Then — he felt it.
A presence.
He didn't turn. Not yet. Just whispered low:
"Where is she?"
Behind him, Elijah's voice curled like smoke.
"She was always too curious. You know that. Maybe she came looking for something… maybe I let her find it."
Avegar turned slowly, expression unreadable. Elijah stood just inside the doorway, all in black, shadow wrapping around him like a lover. His eyes glittered.
"What did you do?" Avegar asked, his voice deceptively calm.
Elijah stepped further in, half-smiling. "You were too busy drowning in your guilt to notice. You handed her to me."
Avegar's fists clenched. His jaw locked so tight it ached. Inside, his thoughts screamed:
I shouldn't have numbed myself. Shouldn't have left her alone. Shouldn't have let the guilt swallow me.
Gods forgive me. What have I done…?
He exhaled sharply — once — then shouted:
"Where is she?!"
And punched Elijah straight in the face.
The sound cracked through the room.
Elijah stumbled back a half-step — then lunged, grabbing Avegar and slamming him hard into the wooden floor. His breath left him in a violent rush.
Pinned. Pain splintering across his ribs.
Elijah leaned down, his breath hot and cruel at Avegar's ear.
"You'll never know," he whispered.
And then he was gone.
Footsteps retreating, boots echoing down the marble hall.
Avegar gasped, trying to breathe — vision swimming, fury rising like bile. He rolled onto his side, every movement agony.
But he pushed himself up.
He would not lose her.
The castle doors were swinging open as Elijah disappeared down the drive, stepping into his sleek black car. The engine snarled to life — a predator waking.
Avegar stumbled to his own car — threw open the door, slammed the key in, and peeled out of the drive.
The tires screeched.
His foot slammed down on the accelerator, hands white-knuckled on the wheel. Trees blurred past in streaks. The night swallowed him whole.
100 km/h.
130.
160.
His heart was thunder. His breath was glass. His eyes were burning with the only thought that mattered:
Elvira. I'm coming. Wherever you are.
He chased the tail-lights through the twisting roads like a hound from hell.
—--------
Elvira's breath trembled. Her wrists ached from the ropes that dug into her skin, her arms numb from being bound too long. The room around her was cold and dimly lit, the only sound a distant thunder murmuring outside the broken windows of the abandoned house.
She fumbled behind her back, feeling for the edge of her medallion—a family heirloom she wore since childhood, sharpened over time, and now her only hope. Somehow, she'd managed to twist it off her neck and hold it in her palm, gripping it like a hidden blade.
Click. Scratch. She began working the sharp edge against the rope.
But just as one knot began to give—
The door slammed open.
Heavy footsteps. The air shifted.
"Elijah," she whispered.
He stood there, tall, disheveled, furious. His eyes flared as he strode forward and kicked the blade from her hand. It clattered across the floor.
"Thought you were clever?" he snarled. His voice was thick with resentment, venom curling at the edges. He grabbed her by the wrist, his grip cruel and unrelenting. "We're moving. Now."
When she resisted, he yanked her to her feet. "Don't make this harder. You're not in control anymore, bitch."
Despite herself—despite all the fire and steel she carried inside—Elvira's lip quivered. A hot tear slid down her cheek. Then she started to cry bigger tears. Her knees felt weak, not from the pain, but from the grief. Where was Avegar? Her mind screamed for him—not to save her, but to explain himself. To care.
To not have given up on her.
Elijah dragged her toward the hallway—but then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Purposeful. Heavy.
Elvira froze. Her heart knew the rhythm before her mind could form the name.
A single thought lit up her mind like lightning:
"It's him."
Avegar stepped into the doorway, soaked from the rain, his chest rising and falling, hair hanging in dripping strands. His eyes met hers first—wild, filled with guilt, hunger, rage, love—and then they turned to Elijah.
A silence pressed into the room like a held breath.
Elijah chuckled bitterly. "Did you forget all the memories between us?" he asked Avegar. "All our past?"
Avegar's hands clenched at his sides. A tear slid down his cheek, hot and silent. His voice was barely a whisper.
"I should never have numbed myself... never let her go." His jaw tightened. "Even if I'm guilty."
Then he moved.
In a blur, he lunged forward and grabbed Elijah by the neck, driving him back into the wall with a growl.
"Elvira—run!" he shouted through gritted teeth.
She didn't hesitate. Her legs obeyed before her mind could protest, and she bolted through the hall and out the back door, into the woods.
The sky had split open. Rain lashed against her face, soaking her dress. Her bare feet slipped through wet leaves and roots. Her breath came in gasps, panic slicing through her ribs.
She ran—until her ankle caught on a branch and she crashed to the ground, muddy and trembling.
Thunder cracked overhead. And still, her only thought was that he came to resque her.
The rain soaked her to the bone.
Elvira sat slumped in the mud, her body trembling, not from the cold, but from the weight of everything crashing down all at once—fear, exhaustion, heartbreak.
Then—
Arms. Strong. Familiar. Warm.
Avegar dropped to his knees beside her, pulling her to him with a desperation that matched the storm. His hands cupped her face as if it were the only thing left in the world worth saving.
"Elvira... it's done. He's gone. You're safe now," he whispered, forehead pressed to hers.
Her breath hitched in her throat. She wanted to scream, to cry, to punch him—and yet, she melted into his chest, his heartbeat hammering against hers, two rhythms pounding in unison like war drums and lullabies.
He held her tightly, his fingers tangling through her wet hair, as if anchoring her to this moment, to him. For a second, the whole world fell away. There was only the smell of the wet earth, the storm, and him.
And then—his lips lowered to hers, slow, hesitant, full of unsaid words and trembling apologies.
She didn't pull away.
Her breath met his.
Her lips parted—
But then.
A scent.
Faint, but foreign.
Dark lilies. Sweet, almost bitter. Not hers. Not him.
Her eyes opened as his neared hers. Her hand trembled as it slid against the skin of his neck—
And there, half-faded, just barely visible in the cold rain—a hickey.
Elvira's breath froze.
Her heart cracked like thunder.
She didn't kiss him.
Instead, she pulled away, eyes wide, disoriented. The warmth they'd built between them turned instantly to ice. She looked up at him, lost hope seeping through every corner of her face.
Her voice was a broken whisper.
"Avegar… what is this?" she asks, looking with disgust.
His eyes widened.
She stared at him. Not the way a lover looks. Not even like someone betrayed. But like a stranger.
She stood slowly, trembling, wet strands of hair plastered to her cheeks. She didn't wipe the tear that ran down beside the rain.
The last look she gave him was cold, looking for his answer.