Rain struck the cathedral windows of Virelle Manor while Cruelan stood motionless in the Collection Wing, staring down at an old bestiary spread across black marble.

A sketch stared back at him.

Rare species classification unknown. Sightings inconsistent. Behavior undocumented.

Olander lounged nearby, watching him over the rim of a wine glass. “You’ve been staring at that page for hours.”

Cruelan didn’t look away. “There are barely any recorded sightings,” he murmured. “Most believe the species extinct.”

“Which means,” Olander said smoothly, “you want one.”

Cruelan’s gloved fingers brushed the illustration carefully. “Yes.”

“Dead or alive?” Olander asks already knowing the answer.

Cruelan finally looked at him. “Alive.”

Olander smiled immediately.

Ah. There it was. That dangerous look.

Cruelan only became this quiet when obsession had already rooted itself too deeply.

“You want to preserve it,” Olander mused.

“No.” Cruelan’s voice lowered. “I want to keep it.”

Lightning flashed across the manor windows.

Cruelan’s bronze eyes darkened crimson for a moment.

“The world destroys rare things the moment it touches them,” he said softly. “Humans dissect beauty. Hunt it. Cage it poorly.”

“And you’d do better?” Olander asks.

Cruelan’s expression softened into something almost reverent. “Yes.”

Olander laughed quietly. “How terrifying.”

Cruelan ignored him completely, already lost in thought.

Habitats. Migration routes. Containment possibilities inside the Living Galleries.

A living specimen. Untouched by lesser hands.

Olander watched his brother carefully now. “And if your rarity refuses to stay?”

Cruelan’s gaze returned to the sketch.

“Then,” he said calmly, “I’ll convince it the outside world is crueler than I am.”