The night was quiet, cloaked in a gentle hush, broken only by the grinding halt of the carriage wheels over gravel. The scent of rain hung in the air, though the skies had not wept in hours. Darkholmme Manor loomed in the distance, a towering silhouette of wrought iron balconies, twisted spires, and pale, arched windows that glowed faintly with candlelight from within. The estate exuded ancient power—old, watchful, and waiting.
Eva descended the carriage first, her midnight cloak flowing behind her. Her icy blue eyes were sharp and grim, her jaw clenched tightly. Behind her, the coachmen moved with careful haste, the soft thuds of boots and murmurs of instruction surrounding the slow, delicate effort of lifting Raphael from the carriage.
His body was wrapped tightly in layers of cloth Eva had conjured for protection during the journey. Even under them, the faint scent of blood lingered like smoke clinging to the skin. One of the men staggered under Raphael’s weight—unnatural, dead weight—and muttered a curse under his breath.
“Steady,” Eva said coldly, her voice cutting through the stillness.
They lifted Raphael as if he were made of glass. The moonlight hit his face when the cloth slipped just a little, and one of the younger servants recoiled.
“Gods,” he whispered, his voice trembling.
The half of Raphael’s face that was visible was still blackened and raw. Though the worst of the sun damage had stopped, his skin had blistered so badly that it had begun to peel like scorched parchment. His lips were split and bloodied, and his jaw had a strange tilt to it—dislocated or broken.
Eva moved fast, hurrying toward the manor. “Get him inside. Now.”
The great double doors of Darkholmme creaked open under her push, the warmth of the hearth fires spilling out to meet her like breath from a beast. Dark stone walls lined with ancient portraits rose high, and black velvet curtains swayed lightly from the breeze. The air smelled of lavender and candle smoke.
She turned to a pair of servants lingering at the foot of the staircase. “Prepare the west wing room. Keep the fire hot. Bring water. Towels. Bandages. And send word to my parents—immediately.”
They scurried off with nods, and she spun to another woman beside her. “Tell Azrael—Raphael is alive. He's with me, safe in Darkholmme. Go. Now.”
The servant bowed deeply and vanished like smoke.
Behind her, the men carried Raphael into the room. He groaned—just once—and it sounded more like the dying rasp of a creature than anything human. Eva led them into one of the finely-kept chambers, draped in velvet and silk. The air inside was warm. The fire roared in the hearth, and the bed was turned down. Raphael was gently laid across it.
The scent of charred flesh was thick. Eva’s throat tightened. His skin... gods, it still hissed faintly where the cloth had touched his burns. She clenched her fists and paced back toward the door, just as she heard footsteps echoing down the marble hall.
Her parents arrived moments later.
Avalon, regal and tall with golden, elegantly streaked hair and sharp wine-colored eyes, entered with the calm grace of a man long used to ancient matters of power. His face, usually unreadable, twisted with a deep frown as his gaze fell on the figure on the bed.
Lilith followed—a vision of beauty and power. Her long midnight-blue hair floated behind her like a veil, and her robes of white silk shimmered faintly under the candlelight. But when her sky blue eyes fell on Raphael, she gasped aloud.
“Dear gods,” Lilith whispered, rushing forward.
Avalon said nothing. But the clenched line of his jaw and the way his hand tightened into a fist betrayed more emotion than words could.
“What happened to him?” Lilith demanded, falling to her knees beside the bed.
Eva stepped forward, her voice quiet but clipped with urgency. “I don't know the full story. Azrael came to me—crying. Said Raphael was dying. I found him... down by the rocks. Eastern cliffside, beneath the castle tower. He was out in the sun.”
Lilith’s eyes widened, horror flashing through them. “The tower? That fall alone should’ve killed him…”
“Even if it didn’t,” Eva said darkly, “the sun nearly did.”
Lilith turned to her husband. “But why would someone do this? Who would even—”
Avalon’s face darkened, his lips curling ever so slightly. “There’s only one man who would do something like this.”
Lilith’s eyes met his. “Valerion.”
Avalon said nothing, but the silence was confirmation enough. A storm brewed behind his gaze.
“We have no time to waste,” Eva said, stepping beside her mother. “He’s not healing. Not like he should. He’s a pureblood. This shouldn’t have happened unless…”
“He’s dying,” Lilith said grimly, taking Raphael’s hand in hers. His skin was cold, dry. Almost lifeless. His breathing was shallow, lips bloodless.
Lilith stood slowly, her expression shifting. Her gaze turned inward, eyes glowing faintly as she began to murmur beneath her breath.
She raised both hands, and a wind stirred the corners of the room.
“Avara D’ar-Kar Zefyr Innut…”
The incantation began soft, then grew louder with each chant. Magic filled the air like a pulse. The shadows in the corners flickered. Her voice echoed unnaturally, like a thousand whispers layered over her own. Silver-blue tendrils of ethereal mist coiled from her fingertips and slithered across Raphael’s broken body.
The magic seeped into him.
Bones snapped and realigned with sickening cracks. Burned flesh began to bubble and smooth over. Veins lit up like rivers of fire beneath his skin. His flesh started to knit together. His blackened torso began to regain its pale tone, the color flushing back into his cheeks. Even his hair, singed and ash-gray, regained some of its former silver-white sheen.
Eva’s breath caught in her throat. She knelt beside him, her heart pounding.
Soon, Raphael looked whole again—whole but still.
“Why isn’t he waking up?” Eva asked, turning to Lilith, then Avalon. “He’s healed—why isn’t he moving?”
Avalon approached slowly, his expression unreadable again.
“Because healing flesh isn’t enough,” he said. “He’s lost too much blood. Far more than he can regenerate on his own. He’s on the edge, Eva. One foot already past the veil.”
She nodded and stood, determination firming her features. She yanked up the sleeve of her arm, baring her pale wrist. “Then he feeds. From me.”
Before she could move toward the bed, Avalon reached out and stopped her.
“No,” he said firmly.
Eva froze, her wrist half-extended. “Why not? He needs blood. He needs—”
“Not yours,” Avalon said. His eyes were grim, his voice weighted with finality. “After what he's endured, what his body has suffered, what he’s lost—he needs something stronger than any willing sacrifice.”
Lilith understood before Eva did. Her eyes widened.
“He needs blood from his own line,” Avalon continued. “From one who shares his blood. That is the only way to fully bring him back.”
Eva’s lips parted in slow realization.
She turned her head slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Azrael.”