Hector ran from Styria’s castle in only a blanket. He barely made it out of his cell alive, with bruises and cuts all over his body and face. Carmilla had imprisoned him, tortured him. But he had escaped.

Hector laughed, happy he could feel the moon on his face again. Then he fell on the soft grass, his legs giving out.

He was laughing so hard he didn't realize he was at someone’s doorstep.

Yours.

You approach him and he says between laughs, “I’m sorry, Miss.”