Back in the past, the sky above Nyxmoor was a muddy swirl of grey and ash, as if
the heavens themselves had forgotten how to shine. A cold wind hissed through
broken windows and rusted fences, and the smell of damp wood, iron, and old
nightmares clung to the streets like cobwebs. And through it all, two small figures
moved like shadows between the crumbling buildings.
Carmilla walked with the posture of royalty, spine straight, hands folded like she
was attending an afternoon tea… not looting a half-burned pharmacy in the middle
of a survival hellscape situation.
Malek beside her was the contrast in every way. Quiet, dark, unreadable, and
barefoot like he didn't feel cold—or fear—or much of anything anymore.
Carmilla turned to the boy with wide yellow eyes. "Malek, is this... sanitary?" She
held up a canned peach, covered in dust and possibly haunted. Malek glanced at it.
Said nothing.
Just walked past her and kicked open the convenience store's back door like it
owed him money. Carmilla blinked. Then followed with a graceful skip, her steps
echoing lightly on broken tile.
Inside, shelves were half-collapsed, and something definitely made a noise in the
ceiling. Possibly a rat. Possibly not. Carmilla tiptoed like she was walking over rose
petals instead of shattered glass.
"Why must everything be so... tragically disgusting? Do people truly eat these
potato sticks by choice?"
Malek rummaged through a drawer and produced a box of matches. One eyebrow
raised—this was the jackpot in kid-apocalypse terms. He tucked it into his coat
without a word.
"I suppose we need these... sardines. Ugh. Fine. It's survival," Carmilla
muttered, using a gloved hand to lift the tin like it might bite. "Mother would faint
if she saw me now."
Silence from Malek again. Just a slow, sharp exhale through his nose. They walked in
silence for a while. Carmilla hugged herself, but never complained. She wasn't used
to this world, but she wasn't fragile. Not anymore.
Malek stopped suddenly. She nearly bumped into him. Ahead, someone was walking in the mist.
Carmilla tilted her head and knew who he was. One of Dracula's soldiers.
"He's going to see us" Malek tossed a rock. Not at the man. Just far enough to lure him away.
"Whose there!" It worked. He chased the sound. "Impressive," Carmilla said. "You're like a…
very angry, antisocial knight."
Malek looked at her. Said nothing. But the tiniest twitch at the edge of his lip hinted at something. A
smirk? A grimace? Hard to tell with him. They kept on going, avoiding the gazes of the town's people.
By dusk, the fog curled lower, and the town of Nyxmoor stretched out like a rotting corpse. They
crossed a bridge where half the rail was missing. Carmilla peeked over and winced.
"You know, if we fall, I will haunt you. Very politely."
"You already do." Malek finally spoke. A low, gravelly mutter. Carmilla stared. Then laughed so
hard she nearly fell anyway. "Malek! That was humor! Oh, I'm so proud!"
They reached the hill at the edge of town. There, standing crooked and hollow, was the ruin of
Malek's old house. Charred wood. A roof that had almost given up. One wall missing entirely. But to
Malek, it was home. Still.
"I brought the peaches," she said softly. "We can pretend it's a feast."
Malek leaned back, watching the candle's flame dance. The ruined house groaned in the wind, but
didn't fall. Just like them. Two vampires. Playing at survival.
The years passed like forgotten songs—quiet, aching, and ancient. Carmilla, once a noble child of
silken halls and rose-scented pillows, had never known the language of bark and mud. Her hands,
once accustomed to lace, trembled against the thorns of the wild. She walked like she was made of
glass, and the world—this cruel, churning wilderness of Nyxmoor—did not care to treat her gently.
She bled. Often. Her feet, soft and pale, were torn on sharp stones. Her sobs echoed beneath the
trees on cold nights when the winds howled like wolves starved of souls.
And yet, she did not die. Because Malek—silent and brooding was there. He did not speak when she
cried. He did not offer pretty words or empty comfort. He simply wrapped his arms around her
shaking form and let his warmth, that strange and infernal heat that seemed to bleed from his very
bones, soothe the frost in her marrow. He pulled fire from the bones of dead trees and made it dance.
He hunted wild beasts with nothing but his hands and will. He split storms with his will when the sky
turned black and wrathful.
He carried her when her legs failed. Not once did he grunt or groan. Just lifted her. As if she weighed
nothing. As if it was the most natural thing in the world.
She said through tears, "Thank you, Malek." Malek, crouched by the fire, glanced her way with
those blood-red eyes with no responce.
One evening, as the moon poured silver across the forest and cicadas hummed low and lazy,
Carmilla huffed and crossed her arms.
"You could try being a little more romantic," she said, "We're not just animals living in a root
hole, you know."
Malek raised an eyebrow, lounging nearby with a knife in one hand and a hollowed-out gourd in the
other. Without missing a beat, he replied:
"Do you often linger in the dark, my lady, or is this moonlit melancholy just for me?"
Carmilla stared. Her lips curled in horror. "Malek… that was ghastly. You sound like a theater
reject."
He shrugged, a rare grin tugging the edge of his mouth. "You asked for romantic." "Yes. Not
theatrical plague poetry."
More years passed, and they started to get more used to each other. They danced barefoot in the
moonlight, once, twice—then often. The air was warm. Their laughter rang out like it belonged to
children who had never known sorrow. Who had never watched fire consume their homes, or buried
their humanity in the dirt. Carmilla, still delicate in many ways, became strong beneath the bark and
the starlight.
She wove him crowns of rose and thorn, pressing them to his head with regal flair. He carved her
name into a stone slab behind the tree, marking it not as a grave—but a throne.
One night, beneath the branches dripping dew, she lay across his chest as he rested against the
roots, his shirt undone, his chest scarred like a war map.
Her fingers traced the marks slowly, reverently.
"Each one of these," she whispered, "was meant to break you." She kissed a gash over his ribs.
"But they didn't." Her golden eyes flicked up.
"They made you mine."
Malek chuckled, dry and low. "Crawled out of a hole and into another," he said. "You love it,"
she replied. "Maybe," he said, eyes closing.
He gave her some of his powers, he taught her how to read the stars—not with charts
or scrolls, but with his palm on hers, guiding her hand across constellations with
names only monsters remembered.
He showed her how to feel the heartbeat of the land beneath her bare feet, to sense
when death crept too close. He taught her how to cut her own palm, draw blood, and
shape it into a blade with her will alone.
"Your blood is royal," he told her. "Make it dangerous." He sparred with her,
slow at first, then merciless. She bruised. Bled. Cried. Got up again.
And when her fangs grew too sharp… when her thirst threatened to rip control from
her mind, he stood there, letting her snarl, tremble, ache—and did not flinch "Come
on. You have to control it. You are strong." And when he felt it—the serpent rising in
his throat, the scent of her veins a siren call stronger than death itself—he turned
away. He dug his nails into bark. Bit his own arm.
Carmilla would come to him. Place her hands on either side of his face, still soft
despite all they'd seen. Malek was still struggling to control his hunger.
She'd lean close, whisper into the silence "You are not a puppet. You are not a
weapon. You are Malek. Son of the divine…"
Then, with a smirk and a toss of her red hair "I wonder what my father is doing right
now… I'm sure he's sooooo angry." Malek exhaled a huff of dark laughter, breath trembling against her cheek.