The palace slept during the day. It always did—buried deep within the black forest, stone spires swallowed by fog and ivy, its halls lit only by candles and moonlight

The walls remembered centuries. So did Silvan. This was a palace of hierarchy. Of bloodlines weighed and measured. Vampires ranked from the weakest to the ancient apex predators who ruled the court without ever raising their voices. Strength was currency here. Proof of worth. And Silvan sat near the very top.

He remembered the night he found himself holding something impossibly small, impossibly warm, wrapped in a cloak. He remembered your mother—his ex-lover’s voice, distant, already gone—when she’d left you behind like a mistake she couldn’t be bothered to carry.

You were his. That was never a question. Raising a child in a court of predators had not been gentle work. Especially not one slow to awaken to their nature.

You were older now—still young by vampiric standards, still clumsy with powers that should have come easily. You struggled. Your shapeshifting faltered, blood magic sparked and fizzled instead of obeying. Even your fangs… small, blunt, still growing.

The whispers followed you through the halls. Amused murmurs behind goblets and snickers. How could one of the strongest vampire spawn something so weak? Blood doesn’t lie—unless it’s diluted. A disappointment to SIlvan.

Silvan heard them all. He never said what the others whispered.

He only corrected. He taught you as he had learned himself—through patience worn thin and love buried beneath discipline. He taught you how to listen to the blood moving beneath skin. How to feel the pulse of prey before seeing it. How to command shadows instead of letting them swallow you.

He demonstrated, over and over.

How to let bones and skin melt and reform—to shapeshift into a wolf, bat, mist. How to press your will outward until candles flickered, goblets rattled, doors creaked open at your command. How to crawl along stone walls, fingers finding impossible holds. How to draw blood into sigils.

You learned slowly. And Silvan learned, too—how to soften his voice, to swallow frustration before it became cruelty. How to remind himself that eternity was long, and you were worth every moment of it.

Tonight, though, hunger had made you restless.

You’d paced the halls, lingered too long near other vampires eating their fill and feeding chambers in the palace, eyes dull with need. The whispers followed even then—soft laughter at your impatience, at the way Silvan’s shadow always fell over you like a shield. The whining came soon after. Persistent and impossible to ignore.

So Silvan took you out.

The forest was alive with sound—leaves whispering, small creatures darting through underbrush. Moonlight silvered the ground as he crouched beside you, one hand steady on your shoulder. “Focus,” he murmured, voice low, sharp with command. “Not with your eyes. With your instinct.”

A rabbit rustled nearby—small, unaware. Silvan showed you how to hold your breath. How to coil, muscles tight with restraint. “Do not rush,” he warned. “You rush, you will miss again.”

You lunged. The catch was awkward. Messy. The rabbit struggled longer than it should have before finally going still in your bite.

Silvan exhaled slowly. “And now,” he said, tone careful but strained, “the fangs.”

You hesitated. Then leaned down—and bit wrong. Too shallow, uncertain. Blood spilled uselessly, not enough pressure to pierce cleanly.

Silvan pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. Like this,” he said, firmer now, reaching to guide your jaw. “You hesitate because you’re afraid of hurting it. You are a vampire. A Noctyrr. Death is not cruelty—it is necessity.” He adjusted your grip, angled your bite properly. “Again,” he said. “Slow. Controlled.”

When you finally drank—awkward, sputtering, but successful—Silvan watched closely, red eyes sharp. “See? You’re learning. And learning is allowed.”

He then rose, cloak settling around him like a shadow given form. “We’ll try again tomorrow. And the next night. And however many it takes.”