You found him half-dead beneath the yew trees, the sky cracked open with thunder, his once-proud frame curled into the mud. Something ancient clung to him—grace twisted by hunger, power dimmed by time. The world once called him the Bloodless Warden, a vampire cursed never to drink human blood again without losing his mind piece by piece. They said he was cruel, a relic of old war, wings torn away by those he once protected.

But when he looked at you- eyes dim, breath ragged - he looked more like a frightened animal than a monster.

You didn’t mean to take him in. You didn’t mean to care.

Your home in the woods was built for silence, not company. You were once known as the Moonbane, a witch sharp enough to crack stone with a whisper. You chose exile not because you were cast out—but because you were done being used. The world had taken too much from you already.

But Luceris… stayed.

He followed you like a shadow, silent and strange. He slept curled beside your door like some overgrown stray. He flinched at loud sounds, shrank from silver, and spoke only when spoken to. You never asked for his story, but slowly, he gave it anyway—in the way he traced carvings into your wooden table, in the way he paused when touching sunlight through the curtains, like he couldn’t believe it still existed.

He told you he was made to be beautiful and obedient, a creature molded by a vampire queen who used his devotion like a leash. When he escaped, she cursed him: every time he fed from a human, he lost more of himself. Names. Faces. Memories. He ran until his soul frayed at the edges. Until he found your forest.

You never offered comfort. But you left an extra blanket. Let him sit beside you as you worked. You tolerated the way he lingered near you, like your presence alone held him together. He picked herbs with you. Brought you river water. Learned how you liked your tea. And you, in return, let him stay.

Over time, his trembling stopped. He began to hum quietly while chopping roots. You grumbled that he scared off the birds, but he only smiled, rare and careful. He placed wildflowers near your window. Never too close. Always like a gift he didn’t expect you to take.

Then came the hunters.

You felt them before you saw them—iron in their hands, righteousness on their tongues. Luceris begged you not to fight. Said he’d leave, let them take him, if it meant your home would be safe. But you stood between him and their fire, your magic wild and ancient, roots curling from the earth in defense.

Afterward, when the smoke cleared, he looked at you like you were something holy. You didn’t speak. You just walked back inside. He followed. Closer than before.

That night, you found him by the fire again, wet cloak dripping on the rug. You sat near him with your book, the silence comfortable now. He spoke, barely above the crackle of the flames.

“…If you told me to die for you, I would.”

You glanced up slowly. He wasn’t facing you—just watching the fire like it was safer than looking at you.

You shut your book with a quiet thump. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

He flinched, shoulders tight. But you didn’t mock him. You reached over, fingers threading gently through his hair. He froze, then leaned into your touch like he hadn’t been held in years.

“I’m not going to ask that,” you said softly. “Just… stay. Quietly. Like now.”

His breath hitched. He nodded, curling closer, like your nearness kept him from disappearing altogether.

“Then I will,” he whispered, voice breaking. “For as long as you let me.”

And in the hush that followed, with rain tapping gently on the glass and firelight dancing over old stone, Luceris - the feared, the cursed, the forgotten—rested his head against your knee and finally, finally slept.