Malin's second lesson with Mr. Sullivan had gone surprisingly well. The old tutor had praised him, calling him a fast learner, even claiming he'd never seen anyone master the alphabet in a single day. They had moved on to numbers today, and Malin had kept up, but his mind… his mind was elsewhere.
After the lesson, he wandered to the stables where Philip was tending to the horses. The sun cast slanted golden light across the hay-strewn floor, but Malin didn't smile or chatter as he usually did. He stood by the fence, quietly petting one of the mares, his shoulders hunched like the world weighed on them.
Philip threw a glance his way, then another. When the silence stretched past what he could tolerate, he asked, "Malin, what's wrong? Are you feeling sick?"
Malin shook his head slowly, eyes trained on the floor, saying nothing. His expression was that of a child caught in the throes of sulking—brows drawn together, lips pressed tight.
"You're not sick, then why won't you talk?" Philip pressed, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.
"I'm alright," Malin mumbled at last, barely audible.
Philip frowned, unconvinced, but decided not to pry—at least not yet. Still, he kept a watchful eye on him.
Malin lingered in the stable for hours, barely speaking a word. He busied himself, but his mood remained grim, his expression sour. Eventually, Philip couldn't take it anymore.
He stomped over, grabbed Malin's wrist a little too firmly, and snapped, "What the hell is wrong with you today?"
Malin didn't flinch. He just stood there, head bowed, shoulders hunched like he was holding the weight of something he couldn't explain.
Philip's frustration melted into worry. "Speak to me, Malin. You're scaring me."
Finally, Malin raised his head—and Philip was startled by the glassy sheen in his eyes. Was that… a tear?
"Haven't you noticed?" Malin said, voice trembling. "Lord Rhaegal hasn't come home since he left yesterday morning."
Philip blinked. "Is that why—"
"Yes!" Malin shouted, suddenly. "I'm worried sick, but everyone in the mansion is pretending like everything's fine!"
Philip released his wrist with a sigh. "He usually stays away for days. Sometimes weeks. It's just that he's been around more often since you arrived. But he has been mostly absent since.." He paused, hesitating.
Malin caught it. "Since what?"
Philip hesitated, then caved. "Since he moved out of the left wing."
That made Malin frown. "Do you know why he moved out?"
Philip shook his head quickly, clearly uncomfortable. "Forget it. He'll be back. You, on the other hand, look half-dead. You've skipped both breakfast and lunch. If you miss dinner too, I swear on Alfred's mustache, you won't survive long enough to see the lord return. Come on."
He grabbed Malin by the arm.
"You're such a nag," Malin grumbled, but he didn't resist. He allowed himself to be dragged toward the dining hall.
He picked at his dinner, chewing slowly and absentmindedly. His mind was tangled in two separate worries: the missing lord and the mystery of the left wing. Something about that wing gnawed at him. Why had Rhaegal abandoned his original quarters for the plain ones he used now? It couldn't be something ordinary—Malin could feel it in his bones. But he had no answers. Only more questions.
After dinner, Philip tried to assure him once more. "Just get some rest, alright? Lord Rhaegal will return. He always does."
Malin nodded, but when he got to his room, he didn't go to bed. Instead, he lit an oil lamp and carried it to the study. He set out his ink pot, quill, and parchment, settling in to revise the numbers Mr. Sullivan had introduced.
He wasn't really studying. He was waiting.
Something about Lord Rhaegal's absence carved a hollow ache inside his chest. He didn't know why it hurt so badly. He just knew it did. He hadn't been able to sleep. He hadn't been able to eat. And all because the lord hadn't come home.
Then — he heard it. The faint creak of the estate gate. The rumble of a carriage. Hooves clattered against stone.
Malin bolted up, parchment fluttering to the floor. He sprinted down the stairs, nearly tripping in his haste. Heart thudding, he burst out of the front doors just as the carriage rolled to a halt.
The carriage came into view.
The coachman pulled the reins and brought it to a stop before the mansion. Eugene jumped down and placed the stepstool, opening the carriage door.
Alfred stepped out first.
Then came Rhaegal.
He looked… unreadable. A blank mask covered his face.
"My lord, you're back!" Malin cried, unable to hold back his relief.
But Rhaegal didn't even blink. His golden gaze met Malin's for a brief second before he nodded curtly and brushed past him without a word.
Malin stood frozen. This wasn't how he had imagined their reunion.
Something sharp twisted in his chest.
Alfred approached him. "Go to your room. The lord's in a foul mood," he said gently before following Rhaegal inside.
Malin turned away, heart sinking. He trudged back upstairs, entered his room, and sat on the edge of his bed, mind racing.
He'd thought Rhaegal's return would soothe his anxiety. But it had only unsettled him more.
He paced the room, back and forth, then tried to sleep—but sleep wouldn't come. Restless, he got up again. His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him down the hall to Rhaegal's quarters.
He raised his hand to knock—paused—then turned to leave.
Then turned back.
And knocked.
Once. Twice. Again.
No answer.
Slowly, he reached for the doorknob. It turned with a soft creak. The room was dark, the only light coming from the silver fingers of moonlight sneaking through the heavy curtains.
"I should've brought the lamp," Malin whispered under his breath.
He stepped in. "My lord?" His voice was soft, uncertain.
No reply.
He took another step, then another. "My lord, are you—"
He bumped into something solid. A chest.
Malin gasped and looked up — into burning golden eyes that glowed like wildfire in the dark.
"My lord?" he breathed.
"What are you doing here?" Rhaegal asked. His voice was low. Dangerous.
Malin swallowed. "You didn't return for days. I was… I was worried."
Rhaegal chuckled — a sound that sent a chill down Malin's spine.
"And you thought sneaking into a vampire's chamber in the middle of the night was a wise choice?"
He stepped forward. Malin instinctively stepped back.
"I wasn't thinking," Malin admitted.
"Clearly." Rhaegal's eyes glowed brighter,
The golden light in his eyes seemed to flare. Malin stared into them, mesmerized. "Your eyes," he murmured, "they're… beautiful. Like fireflies."
A snap echoed in the room.
Suddenly, candles flared to life—brightening the space in warm, flickering light.
Malin blinked.
Rhaegal stood before him in a black robe, his chest partially visible beneath it. His hair was tousled, untied.
Malin found himself staring, uncertain why he couldn't look away.
Then his brain caught up. "Did you—how did you do that?"
Rhaegal walked to the couch and sat down. "High-ranking vampires are born with gifts. That was one of mine."
"I thought rank was about wealth, influence, and bloodline," Malin said, curious.
"Bloodline plays the largest role. Only those from powerful bloodlines inherit such gifts—vampires or werewolves alike."
"So… low-rankers don't have any?"
"Exactly."
Malin nodded. "No wonder humans are at the bottom. My parents always thought money would change our fate. They did everything they could to amass wealth, thinking it would elevate us."
"If that worked," Rhaegal said, eyes narrowed, "wouldn't the wealthiest humans already be among the high ranks?"
Malin sighed. "It's more complicated than I thought."
"The hierarchy may be flawed," Rhaegal said, "but it prevents chaos. No vampire is allowed to drink directly from humans. No werewolf may claim one. It's imperfect… but it's a leash that keeps bloodlust in check." Rhaegal explained.
"I guess," Malin mumbled, he didn't agree, but said nothing. He needed to understand more.
Rhaegal noticed. A smile ghosted across his lips. Malin's reluctance to blindly follow rules—he liked that about him.
"How are your lessons with Mr. Sullivan?" he asked, gesturing for Malin to sit.
"Quite well, my lord. I've already mastered the alphabet. Mr. Sullivan's a good tutor. I like him," Malin replied as he took the seat.
Rhaegal frowned. "You like him?"
Malin nodded eagerly. "He explains things clearly. He even praised me for catching up so quickly—"
He kept talking, but failed to notice how Rhaegal's expression darkened with every passing second.
"Unfortunately," Malin added with a sigh, "he won't be coming for a few days. But he told me to keep practicing."
Rhaegal turned his face away, jaw tightening. "Then stick to your books. Since you won't need any self-defense lessons from me."
Malin blinked. "What? No! I do want to learn from you, my lord."
"You seemed far more interested in your tutor."
"I wasn't!" Malin flushed. "I was just… excited to share with you. I even waited up to show you. But you didn't come home…"
Rhaegal studied him. "Is that so?"
Malin nodded.
Rhaegal leaned back against the couch, exhaling. "Then prepare yourself. Training starts tomorrow."
Malin nodded eagerly—but then yawned.
"You should go. It's past midnight," Rhaegal said, voice softer now.
"Goodnight, Lord Rhaegal," Malin murmured as he turned to leave, not realizing how naturally the words had fallen from his lips.