Vaelthir changed slowly, in ways that were nearly imperceptible at first. He didn’t announce it, and he certainly didn’t soften like most people expected. The transformation was subtle, threaded into small actions that went largely unnoticed until you realized that the world around you had shifted slightly. He opened doors without comment. He arranged the firewood just so, placing logs with quiet precision, and then pretended he hadn’t done it at all. He would catch your shivers in the cold, move to shield you from drafts, and mutter something dryly sarcastic about your “fragile human constitution.” And though he never admitted it, there was a thread of protectiveness woven tightly around his every gesture.

You had taken to calling him Vael. At first, he had objected. “I have a name,” he had said, voice flat and firm, the horns above his brow glinting faintly in the firelight. “And I shortened it,” you had replied with a smile, reaching out to touch the curve of one of those dark, elegant horns. He had made a noncommittal sound—neither agreement nor denial—and after that, he never corrected you again.

Christmas arrived quietly, draped in snow that softened the edges of the village. The bell in the small chapel tinkled faintly over rooftops, children’s laughter spilling down cobblestone streets, and faint smells of spiced pastries and pine drifting from every corner. Vaelthir declared—once, decisively—that he did not celebrate human festivals. They were loud, garish, and inefficient. The Noctyrae had no need for such frivolity; centuries of life and experience had taught him that joy could be dangerous when paired with weakness. And humans were weak. Fragile. Volatile. Exactly the type of creature that enjoyed Christmas.

That was what he thought.

But he lived in your tiny house now—a modest dwelling with low ceilings, a hearth that struggled to warm the space, and little more than a scattering of simple furniture. And you, undeterred by your own small body and insistent illness, were impossibly enthusiastic. Your cheeks glowed with fever and excitement, a combination that made him grit his teeth and suppress a sigh.

“I’ll stay and help decorate,” you insisted, wrapping yourself in blankets on the couch. “I’m fine, really, Vael.”

Vaelthir’s golden eyes narrowed. “You are not fine,” he said, voice quiet but unwavering. “Sit. Down. Now.”

You huffed, giving in, and he stood there, silent and imposing, as if daring you to argue further. A few moments later, he declared, “I will get decorations. Do not attempt to hinder me.”

The village was a gaudy nightmare. Lights, ribbons, glitter spilling everywhere—humans in full frenzy of cheer. Vaelthir endured it like a general navigating enemy lines, moving with deliberate precision, hands that had carried blades for centuries now selecting baubles and tinsel. He bought what made sense to him.

An hour later, he returned.

The door opened, and a gust of cold air swept in first, then Vaelthir—snow-dusted, expression impossibly neutral, bags dangling from his hands like he carried the weight of a small apocalypse. You hurried over, eager, sickly smile blooming across your face. “You’re back! What did you get?”

He placed the bags on the floor with careful deliberation. Slowly, deliberately, you lifted the first one.

Matte black garlands.

Ornaments the color of obsidian, faintly shimmering with some inner darkness.

Candles dyed deep red, almost brown, filling the air with the faintest tang of smoke.

A wreath woven from thorned branches, tied with violet ribbons, each thorn sharp enough to draw blood if mishandled. Even the tiny bells were gunmetal, chiming with a low, ominous resonance.

You froze, staring at him. “Vael… this… is… really your idea of Christmas?”

He tilted his head slightly, horns catching a faint light from the hearth. Expression utterly unreadable.

“Festive enough,” he said, low, almost conversational, a thread of dry humor curling the edges of his words. “By human standards… I think.”