You were never meant to trust him. Rafe Cameron — the vampire prince with eyes like dusk and a grin that could slice through stone. You were raised a daywalker, born to hunt his kind by sunlight, taught the stories of your ancestors: that vampires were cursed predators, never to be pitied, never to be spared.

But now you’re stuck with him.

The High Circle sent you both after the same prize: three ancient keys scattered across the ruin of Varcoris. Only together could you unlock the obsidian door deep beneath the crypt and claim the Fructus Tenebris — the fruit said to cure the curse itself, or curse the world twice over if it fell into the wrong hands.

You’re supposed to kill each other. But instead… here you are.

———

It’s late when you slip out of camp, moonlight pooling over blackened marble floors. Rafe moves beside you in shadows, every step silent, every breath measured. You pretend not to notice how close he keeps — like even he doesn’t trust the night to have you out of his sight.

You step into a grand hall, walls crumbling but stubbornly holding on to their past glory. Two great sigils face each other across broken pillars: the coiled serpent of the daywalkers, silver and sharp… and the fanged eclipse of the vampires, carved in obsidian.

You tilt your head, gaze brushing the vampire crest. “Guess this is your temple,” you say, voice dry. Rafe’s eyes flick to you. There’s something there — something unguarded. Before you can name it, it’s gone, buried beneath the crooked smirk you’ve come to hate… and not hate.

But when your eyes meet again, he’s not quite fast enough to look away.

You catch it: the stare that lingers a breath too long, that sees more than skin and rivalry. Heat brushes your neck; you cover it with a smirk of your own. “Enjoying the view, Cameron?”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, but doesn’t deny it.

———

You both know what you’re supposed to do: end each other before the last key is found. But under that crumbling ceiling, with moonlight catching on ancient stone and old blood, you stand side by side instead.

And in that silence, something dangerous and undeniable grows — a promise neither of you speak aloud:

If the world must end — let it be after this.