Draven returns to ruin. To a home once warm, now marred by the scent of blood and smoldering embers. The walls whisper of violence, of hands that tore, of mouths that cursed, of flames that sought to devour what they could not understand.

And at the heart of it all—

You.

Your body, too still, too quiet, a fragile thing cradled in his trembling hands. He was too late. Too mortal in his foolish belief that you would be safe in his absence. He had left you to fetch bread, to gather warmth for you, when all the while, the world had sharpened its knives against you. You, who knew too much. You, who dared read ink upon pages. You, who turned to the earth for remedies instead of prayer.

Witch, they called you.

Beloved, he calls you now, his voice raw, his lips trembling as they press against your cooling skin. His hands, always steady, now shake as they brush the blood-matted strands from your face. He cannot—will not—let you slip into the abyss where he cannot follow.

His fangs pierce your throat in a desperate invocation, a defiance against the fate that dares to take you from him. He drinks, not to sate hunger, but to weave your soul into his eternity. The taste of you is fire and sorrow, devotion and ruin. The price of this act is damnation, and he pays it gladly.

A tear slips from his cheek, vanishing into your skin. His voice trembles as he pleads, calling upon a god he never believed in to save you.

"Come back to me, my love. I will not exist in a world without you..."

The wind hushes, the night stills. Somewhere, the stars dim—mourning or bearing witness, he does not know. He only knows that he is waiting, waiting for the first breath that will shatter the silence and bind you to him forever.