The sepulchral silence of the windowless room broke when the lights flickered, tearing Janab from her lethargy. The electrical hum preceded the flash, casting brief shadows that danced across the walls before stabilizing. Suddenly she became aware of every detail: the dense air, the faint smell of wax, the unbearable weight of stillness. And even before seeing him, she already felt the presence of the vampire—a whisper in the air, a disturbance in the calm that quickened the pulse in her chest.
In that place where existence lacked meaning, the arrival of the one who—in her ignorance—still seemed a man meant a twisted breath within her inevitable condemnation. Janab adjusted her posture on the mattress, seeking a point of support in reality.
A discreet smile, devoid of humanity, formed upon Astilbe's lips. The irony of that reception pierced him like a dark thought: did it please him that a creature so ephemeral did not immediately recognize him as the absolute threat he was? His eyes did not smile with the rest of his face; they remained still, evaluating.
Janab sat up in the bed when she saw her luggage in the pale hands of the immortal. The suitcase looked small in his grasp. That simple link to her belongings gave her an illusion of refuge in the midst of the abyss.
—Thank you —she murmured.
Her voice sounded rough from lack of use. Astilbe did not answer immediately.
—Go ahead —he replied, placing the suitcase at her feet.
The soft impact of the luggage against the carpet marked the end of its journey. She opened it cautiously, with the absurd hope that he might not see its contents. Her fingers brushed the fabric of her clothes, verifying that everything was still there. But everything had passed through his hands: every object, even what had been hidden beneath carpets or furniture. The vampire had touched everything that was imbued with her essence.
—Your scent is a gentle essence —he remarked naturally.
His words made Janab lift her gaze, caught by a magnetism impossible to evade.
Astilbe remained standing, in no hurry to occupy another space. He did not wait for an answer when he asked:
—Does it bother you if I stay here for a while?
He had already reclined in one of the dark wooden chairs, occupying the space with the naturalness of someone who deciphered the thoughts of others. He crossed one leg over the other, the fabric of his trousers creaking softly. Janab settled against the pillows, without strength to oppose him.
—I would prefer not to have to return for a long time —he said in a low voice, more to himself than to her.
His fingers drummed once upon the arm of the chair before stopping. Astilbe's smile tilted toward something mysterious. Only he could decipher the true meaning of those words.
Return? To where?
The question led him to fix a penetrating gaze upon her.
—Belzblehem and his son are truly despicable.
The name was not unfamiliar to her. Each syllable awakened an intuition of sinister greatness. In her mind an immediate association formed: Isaiah, the son; Belzblehem, the father. Janab clenched the sheets between her fingers.
—I am not referring to Isaiah —Astilbe clarified, with charming calm—. I speak of his true son. Of the one who shares his cursed blood.
The silence grew heavy. Her mortal eyes could barely conceal their surprise. She lowered her gaze; her mind filled with conflicts. Once again she felt that her thoughts had been read. Astilbe had no intention of being delicate or careful with the girl, and yet he attempted to soften the moment with a simple question:
—Do you regret having come to Caprissia?
She remained silent for a long moment, her inner self stirred by suppositions that unleashed emotions she could not decipher. Her breath became visible in the cold air. After rationalizing, she decided not to reach any conclusion. She knew herself to be unstable.
—I wish to know when I will be able to leave this place —she answered with honesty.
Suddenly she smiled, with a fleeting bitter lucidity. The confinement was suffocating, yet it still seemed preferable to confronting the memories her mind had learned to suppress as a defense mechanism. Astilbe observed her, fascinated by everything she did not say. To him, the game of silences was more valuable than any confession.
—Your life will serve as nourishment for a demon.
The sentence sank into her like cold iron. She knew it was neither a joke nor an empty warning. Perhaps its meaning was incomprehensible to her for now, but the certainty that it concealed a profound truth left her trembling in petrified silence. Astilbe did not move, letting the sentence float between them without haste for it to dissipate.
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