Perhaps it was the boy's startling yellow-green eyes—too vivid to be common—or maybe it was the nervous flicker in his movements. Whatever it was, suspicion bloomed in the vendor's mind.
A runaway noble, maybe? Or better yet—a commodity for those willing to pay. A boy with eyes like that could fetch a fortune among the slavers. The man rubbed his hands, the thought lingering like smoke.
Sylene felt the shift. His fingers hovered over the counter, uneasy, though he couldn't quite say why. He glanced around and caught sight of a customer at a nearby stall. Their exchange was precise—small bronze and copper coins, not gold.
Realization struck him like cold water. He had some smaller coins gathered from the lab—scraps left behind by careless scientists—but in the leather pouch from Sir Draven, only gold coins remained. Nothing about him said he belonged in this part of town.
The vendor's grin widened as he slid a handful of change across the counter, deliberately holding back the full amount. Sylene's eyes narrowed. He extended his hand, silent but firm in his demand.
A flicker of irritation crossed the old man's face, but with a muttered curse, he tossed a few more coins into Sylene's palm.
The boy pocketed the change, unaware he'd still been shorted. The cloak settled heavily over his shoulders, a welcome shield against the world's prying eyes. He couldn't help but feel a little safer wearing it.
His small, fragile-looking shadow melted into the crowd—until the rich scent of something delicious—spiced meat—pulled at his senses, luring him toward an inn. These foods were nothing like the bland nutrient solutions he'd been fed in the lab. The first real bread he'd ever tasted was the one he'd taken when he hitchhiked on the coal train, stolen quietly from the dining car.
He remembered the mouthwatering smells of cooked meals back then too, but fear of being discovered had kept him hidden. All he'd managed were scraps—broken cuts of bread he'd taken in silence.
Now, a loud growl erupted from his stomach, drawing a glance from a passing merchant who raised a brow at him. Sylene's cheeks burned. He ducked his head and followed the scent, stopping just outside the inn's glowing windows.
Inside, warmth radiated from the fire-lit hearth. The clatter of dishes and the low hum of conversation made his ears twitch. Sylene pressed against the window, watching as patrons leaned across tables, gesturing with knives and forks.
A man and a woman descended the stairs, their laughter carrying above the inn. In the corner, a figure in a dark cloak ate alone, his head bent low over a steaming plate.
Sylene's eyes sharpened, tracking every movement—how much coin exchanged hands, how the servers poured ale, how the patrons gestured when calling for more bread. His brain quietly gathered the information, committing it all to memory as he calculated the value of his bronze coins against the dishes being served. When it came time to eat, he wouldn't have to remove his cloak—he could keep it on.
Finally, he braced himself and pushed open the door. The innkeeper, a gruff man with a face like weathered stone, glanced up from behind the counter.
"Staying or eating?"
Sylene's voice came quieter than he intended. "Both."
The man didn't care. The transaction was quick, the silver coin exchanged for a key and a promise of meals. The man barely spared him a second glance as he waved him toward the dining hall. Sylene pocketed the bronze change, the weight of his small triumph warming him. Only later would the sting of realization come—that cloak vendor had robbed him blind.
Two silver coin can buy 4-5 days at the inn with meals, and he still got a lot of bronze as change! There was silent anger in his heart, but he decided to put that away when a loud growl came from him again, and he walked to the dinner.
The scent of freshly baked bread wrapped around him as he stepped into the hall. A middle-aged woman placed two plates of food on a nearby table, the sight of them making his knees weak. Before he knew it, Sylene was seated, led to that table, his hands trembling as he reached for the first piece of freshly baked bread.
The flavors were overwhelming. Butter melted against his tongue, rich and salty, mingling with the sweetness of herbs baked into the crust. The steak was tender, its juices pooling on the plate, the charred edges crackling with every bite. He ate like a starving animal, tearing through the meal with little care for decorum.
Soon laughter rippled around him, soft at first, then louder, rolling like waves through the cozy tavern. It swelled from every corner, but the middle-aged woman who had served him his meal laughed the loudest, her voice bright and full of mirth. "The cook will be pleased to see your plate wiped clean like that."
"It's only our most standard meal that comes when you stay at our inn," she added proudly.
A man nearby leaned back in his chair, grinning wide. "What? Don't they feed you at home?"
Another voice chimed in, thick with good-natured teasing. "Next time, try the pork sandwich. Best thing on the menu."
Heat climbed up Sylene's neck, blooming in his cheeks, noting the name of the dish. His ears burned as crimson as the blood he carried. He dropped his gaze to the empty plate before him and focused on finishing his drink, the low hum of chatter buzzing in his ears. The laughter lingered as he slipped out of the room, climbing the creaking staircase to the quiet sanctuary above.
The corridor stretched before him, narrow and dimly lit. The floor groaned softly underfoot, each step a whisper in the silence. Sylene's wide, curious eyes darted between the rows of doors, tracing the weathered wood and the chipped brass numbers. When he reached room 203, his feet paused.
"This place... isn't so bad," he murmured under his breath.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the world outside seemed to dissolve. For a moment, Sylene leaned against it, letting his weight rest heavily, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. The faint scent of butter and herbs clung to his clothes, mingling with the earthy warmth of the room.
His gaze fell on the cracked mirror mounted above a small basin, its surface slightly fogged. The tap gleamed dully in the lamplight, and when he turned the handle, hot water trickled out steadily, the steam curling like tendrils into the air.
Everything in the room—the sagging bed, the worn rug, the peeling wallpaper—spoke of age and modesty. Yet to Sylene, it felt like luxury.
There were no needles here, no cold restraints. No vampire scientists dissecting him with their sharp, calculating eyes. His body, so used to tension, slowly began to relax, his shoulders easing for the first time in what felt like years.
The hum of a small heater filled the space, its steady warmth wrapping around him like a thick blanket. Sylene reached into his pocket and pulled out the rose he had carried since his escape. It caught the shade of the lamplight—a rough, misshapen bloom of ice.
The petals were thick, their jagged edges glinting like frost on a winter morning. The stem was far too large, more like a tree branch than a flower's stalk—clumsy, awkward, and far from beautiful. Yet Sylene held it with care, as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
The ice flower Sir Draven had crafted for him—Sylene's fingers brushed over it with the care of a gardener tending his most beloved bloom. The memory of the vampire's quiet, gentle strength filled him with a strange, fragile comfort.
On the train, several times during the night, he rubbed the rose between his fingers, the cold biting into his skin—grounding his scattered mind toward an uncertain future, calming his chaotic thoughts. Then, carefully, he placed it back into a mound of snow to keep it intact.
Now, as he set it gently on the bedside table, Sylene noticed the edges beginning to soften. The outermost petals had started to melt, their once-sharp edges blurring into faint, wet curves. A pang of sadness tugged at him, but it was tempered by resolve. If he could find the right tools, perhaps he could preserve it before it was lost to the changing seasons.
The thought gave him purpose, a determination weaving through the haze of exhaustion. He turned back to the basin where water steaming steadily. Grabbing the small cloth provided, Sylene scrubbed at his skin, the dirt and soot peeling away to reveal pale, almost translucent flesh. A nice shower helped his body relax further.
He hated being dirty. It clawed at him, an unwelcome reminder of the prison-like room and the experiments. His movements grew firmer as he worked, wiping away not just the grime but the lingering shadows of his past.
The black coal dust had left his hair, revealing a beautiful silver color. Images of his family portrait surfaced as his hands slowed. His silver hair, a rare inheritance from his mother's bloodline, had marked him as different, even among other experiments that also looked exotic. They had said it was a trait carried only by the genetics of her family—fallen nobles whose name had been forgotten long ago.