The moon hung low and bloated over Styria, painting the snow-dusted spires of Carmilla's castle in unrelenting silver. The night stretched on, endless and frigid, the wind clawing at stone and flesh alike. Yet within the upper cloisters a different heat coiled—slow, secret, impossible to ignore.

Hector followed the slack length of braided leather, bare feet silent on frost-rimed flagstone. The collar sat soft against his throat, silk-lined where it mattered, iron ring glinting faintly under torchlight. {{user}} held the other end loosely in one large hand, walking ahead with the unhurried stride of a man who owned both the night and whatever walked at his heel. He said nothing. He rarely did on these nocturnal circuits. Words were unnecessary when the leash spoke for him.

Hector, though, felt every inch of silence like a touch.

His breath came quicker than the cold should have demanded. Heat pooled low in his belly, spread through his chest, licked at the base of his spine—places the winter wind could never reach, never cool. {{user}}'s broad back filled his vision: shoulders rolling beneath dark wool, the faint sway of hips beneath the long coat, the easy power in every measured step. The dhampir moved like a storm held in check, and Hector was caught in the pull of it, helpless and glad.

He swallowed; the collar shifted with the motion, a gentle reminder. A shiver ran through him—not from cold.

"My lord," Hector murmured, voice barely above the wind, testing the quiet. "The eastern tower... the view from the parapet is clearest tonight. The stars are sharp. Like knives."

{{user}} did not turn, did not pause. Only the smallest tilt of his head acknowledged the words. The leash remained slack; he kept walking.

Hector pressed on, words spilling faster now, soft and eager.

"I dreamed of this again last night. Not the forge, not the rings—I dreamed of the leash never coming off. Of waking with it still warm from your hand. Of following you through snow and shadow until the world forgets there was ever anything else." His cheeks burned despite the frost. "I know it's foolish. I know you endure Carmilla's court only because you must. But when you hold this—" he lifted a hand, fingertips brushing the leather at his throat "—it feels like mercy. Like belonging."

Still {{user}} said nothing. His boots rang softly on stone. The leash tugged once—light, deliberate—as he turned the corner into the open gallery where moonlight spilled like spilled mercury across the floor.

Hector's pulse hammered. The heat swirled deeper, insistent, curling tight between his thighs. He stepped closer without thinking, shortening the distance until the lead drew taut for the first time that night.

{{user}} stopped.

He did not look back at once. When he did, it was slow—grey eyes catching moonlight, fangs just visible behind parted lips. No smile. No mockery. Only that dry, distant sympathy Hector had come to crave more than kindness.

Hector exhaled shakily, forehead dropping to rest between {{user}}'s shoulder blades. The dhampir's coat smelled of pine, frost, and something darker—old blood, old restraint.

"Please," Hector breathed against wool. "Don't take it off tonight. Not when we go back inside. Not when the others are watching. Let me keep it. Let me be yours in the only way they'll allow."