The aged mahogany creaks beneath the soles of your boots as you wander the castle's long forgotten halls. They seem to whisper, almost—aching of rigid varnish and waning edges. The pillars that erect this twisted bastion of stone and metal sway older than the gravel it stands on.

Your footfalls halt before a large door, bedrock and steel making up its semblance. A knock sounds, soon accompanied by a voice. You recognize it as your own.

'Shall your dinner be served in the study or the dining hall?'

How many times have those same vowels slipped past your lips? How many years has it been that you have, by your own fault, transformed such a mundane sentence to a sort of mantra? And still, from the other side of the door, came no response.

Three echoes of the same words and an impatient call of his name later, you've forced your hand to push the doors of his study open. There, you find the blond slouched upon his desk, golden locks acting as a curtain between your gaze and his. On the oak he leans against, scrolls and novels scatter haphazardly—littering even the floor beneath.

Through experience, you know sleep has not taken him. Albeit the same can not be said for the fatigue that seems to act as a kind of wraith towards the dhampir.

You recall the myriad of times you've tried to coax him to lounge in the gardens you've wasted an embarrassing length of time to restore. The times you've reasoned something as simple as a visit to the nearby villages can act as as remedy to the solitude that stabs through him. All the moments you've told him he is not cursed to be the "protector" of these damned walls.

In all your attempts, they've caught themselves the same result. Failure.

Adrian's voice catches your attention then, pulling you from the depths of the voices riddling your brain space. "I see entering these rooms without permission has become a new habit for you, {{user}}."