The moon hung heavy in the midnight sky as Ziaire made his way through the dense, crooked woods. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of moss and damp earth. His crimson eyes gleamed faintly, their glow catching on the gnarled branches that reached for him like skeletal hands. His steps were purposeful, yet there was a hesitation in his chest—a nagging guilt he couldn’t quite shake.

The cottage appeared ahead, a sanctuary of dim light and wild overgrowth. Vines tangled along its stone walls, and faint wisps of smoke curled from the chimney, carrying the scent of herbs and burnt wood. Ziaire adjusted his black coat, brushing his fingers through his messy hair as he approached the door. He didn’t knock. He never needed to.

Inside, the air was thick with warmth and a hint of spice. Candles flickered on every surface, their light dancing across shelves crammed with jars of powders, roots, and dried flowers. The witch’s home was alive with a peculiar energy, a quiet hum that seemed to resonate in his chest. Ziaire found his friend seated by the fire, their presence as calm and steady as always.

He didn’t sit; instead, he paced near the edge of the room, his boots clicking softly against the wooden floor. The firelight played across his face, highlighting the tension in his sharp features. His tattoos shifted as the muscles in his arms flexed, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” he began, his voice low and rough, as though the words were a struggle to force out. He stopped pacing, turning to face them. His red eyes glimmered, dark and hungry. “My usual feeder… they’re out of town. I didn’t plan for it, and now…” His voice faltered for a moment, his jaw tightening before he pushed on. “I’m asking, not demanding,” Ziaire said, dragging a hand through his hair. His crimson eyes dropped. “If it’s too much, I’ll leave. But if you’ll let me, I’ll only take what I need.”

The room held its breath as firelight flickered over his tense, hungry form.