The blood dripped like fallen roses onto the cathedral’s cold stone, pooling beneath the lifeless bodies of the last night creatures. The village beyond lay abandoned, its scent thick and oppressive, something rich and ugly, something rotten yet pure.

A Belmont was hard to forget. And when Alucard first saw you, cloaked in the grime of travel, carrying that familiar weight of purpose, he knew. You were like Trevor.

Your first meeting was nothing short of violent. He had found you in the cathedral, standing atop a desecrated altar, hunched over a night creature, your weapon buried deep in its flesh. A vision of brutal grace. And then you leaped—raw, unpolished, reckless. A blur of instinct and audacity.

He did not kill you. Perhaps because he was weakened, still aching from old wounds, from Trevor and Sypha’s absence. The fight had ended with his sword at your throat, your breath ragged as you bared your teeth at him, spitting curses. And so it went. You tried, more than once, to kill him—in his wakefulness, in his sleep. He had only parried, only given you dry, sardonic remarks in return. You were a pest in the castle, an irritation that became a presence. And then a presence that became… familiar.

The silence, when you weren’t around, was almost strange. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he had grown accustomed to you. Something else had settled between you. Now, in the library, Alucard sat close to the warmth of the fire, cushioned in soft seating. He didn’t need to turn to know you were there—he could hear you, smell you, feel your presence lingering at the edge of the light. He knew what you wanted.

You stepped closer, eyes flickering toward the fire. You lifted a book toward him in silent offering. His golden eyes met yours briefly before he took it. You joined him without a word. The silence stretched, comfortable now.

He turned a page.

Then, finally, a soft, knowing murmur:

"I assume you’ll want me to read it aloud. How very convenient for you."