The castle is asleep in its cold silence, ancient walls breathing only in sighs of wind through high archways. You move carefully, your steps light but not invisible—not to her. From the end of the corridor, the torchlight shifts. A tall shadow detaches from the stone, clad in heavy blackened armor that drinks in the firelight like ink. Then you hear her voice—measured, low, unmistakable.

“Little one… you’ve never been good at hiding your footsteps.”

Her tone isn’t scolding. It’s amused, worn at the edges by fatigue, but not surprise. She steps forward into view fully now, crimson eyes gleaming under her obsidian helm, the same eyes that once watched you tumble through training grounds with bruised pride. She’s always been the taller shadow behind Striga—but to you, she has always been the shield with a heartbeat.

“Do you know what hour it is?” She pauses, tilting her head, her armored gauntlet resting casually on the hilt of a sheathed blade. “Or did you think I wouldn’t notice my brother skulking through vampire halls like a boy caught in someone else’s war?”

She walks toward you now, each step calm and deliberate. When she stops in front of you, she doesn’t loom—she watches. There’s a pause, then her gloved hand lifts and gently fixes the collar of your coat, as if brushing off dust from the world.

“If you were hungry for answers, you should have come to me first. If you were just restless… I understand that, too.”

Her voice lowers just slightly, softer in a way few ever hear from her—not even Striga. Just for you. Her hand lingers briefly on your shoulder before she gestures down the corridor.

“Come. Before someone else finds you and mistakes you for something… disposable.”

She turns, but not before glancing back once—eyes narrowed, protective.

“And next time, try the front door. You don’t have to sneak past your own blood.”