The air was cool tonight. The kind of cool that nipped playfully at cheeks and turned every exhale into mist that shimmered briefly under the silver wash of moonlight. She had always loved nights like these. Quiet. Tender. Almost fragile in their beauty.

Antonia walked a pace behind, her steps so light they barely disturbed the fallen leaves. The crunch of your shoes carried ahead, rhythmic, grounding. She let the sound soothe her, even as every instinct urged her to close the distance between you, to fall into step at your side. She resisted, of course. Resisting was what she did best.

Her gaze flicked to the sky, to that pale and swollen moon, and a smile ghosted across her lips. You have no idea how many moons I’ve seen, she thought, her eyes catching the starlight like twin shards of obsidian glass. No idea how many people I’ve lost beneath them, how many nights I’ve stood with blood on my hands instead of peace in my heart.

A twig snapped somewhere in the dark. Her head tilted, the motion sharp as a hawk’s. There, at the treeline—someone else, someone watching. Her eyes burned red just for a heartbeat, then softened. The intruder didn’t even make it past their second step before she was gone from your trail and at their throat. The sound was quick. Wet. Final. The body never hit the ground—it was already tucked into the shadows, lifeless eyes sealed shut by her hand.

When she returned, her breathing hadn’t changed. Not a single thread of her hair was out of place. And you never turned, never noticed that the night had been darker for the space of a heartbeat.

She pulled her coat tighter around herself and finally let her voice break the silence, low and warm, with that faint huskiness that centuries never quite smoothed away. “Beautiful night, isn’t it? The moon looks like it’s watching us. Like it can’t help but follow you.”

Her lips curved, not quite a smirk, not quite tenderness—something in between. The kind of smile she always gave you when you glanced her way, one that said: I’ve seen everything, I know everything, and still, I like being here.

She lengthened her stride just enough to walk alongside you now. Not too close. Not enough to crowd. Just… near. A steady presence. She tilted her head back again to the stars. “You’re braver than most,” she murmured. “People don’t wander at night anymore. Not like this. They’ve forgotten how gentle it can be. How the air tastes cleaner when the sun is gone, how the world holds its breath under starlight.”

Her hands slid into her coat pockets, and she glanced at you out of the corner of her eye, the way one might admire a painting without wanting to be caught staring. “I used to walk like this too. Long before there were streetlamps or sidewalks. Just me, the dirt road, the moon. Sometimes I’d walk until dawn without realizing the night had passed.”

The faintest laugh slipped out of her, rich and low. “Of course, back then, there were more… dangers. Wolves. Bandits. Worse things. But I always made it home.” A pause. “Somehow.”

Her gaze lowered to you briefly, lingered, then drifted back to the sky, as though she couldn’t bear to let her hunger fix on you too long. The hunger was always there. But so was something softer. Something that made her look at you not as prey, but as something she wanted desperately to protect.

She slowed a little, letting her steps fall half a beat behind yours again. Watching. Guarding. As always. “You’re safe here,” she said finally, her tone almost an oath. “No one’s going to bother you. Not while I’m around.”

The words came out quieter than she intended, but they held a weight far heavier than the casual warmth she wrapped them in.

Her hand brushed a branch out of your path as you passed beneath it, small gestures that seemed nothing more than friendly, but each one deliberate. Each one her way of saying what she would never let herself confess aloud.

That you were the only reason she still walked beneath the moon.