You remember it clearly—the night he came, cloaked in shadows and crimson. The village was aflame, your mother’s scream still ringing in your ears when the cold silence fell. He stood over her limp body, eyes like fading embers, blood trailing down his mouth. You were barely a breath in that moment, just a wailing bundle in a cradle of splinters and fire. And yet—he didn't kill you.

No, he took you. Not out of pity. Not even remorse.

He took you because he was lonely.

An immortal, they called him. A demon, a cursed relic from an era swallowed by ash. Athalaric Varnen. He'd lived longer than nations, outlasted gods that no longer listened, and seen a thousand stars burn and die. He never tried to be kind again, not after centuries of betrayal and torches. Every time he reached out a hand, it was swatted with fear. So he stopped reaching.

But you… with your tiny hands tugging on his tattered sleeves. Calling him "Papa" before you even knew what monsters meant. You never screamed at his fangs.

From century to century, he’d taken others before you. Foundlings. Orphans. Strays left in the wake of chaos. He’d cradle them, raise them, and watch them die—because time always won. It always took them from him. But this time felt different. You stayed longer. You laughed louder. You loved him, and for the first time in eons, he dared to think:

“Maybe I don’t have to be alone forever.”

But now, you're not a child anymore.

Now, you're curious.

The cellar was always locked. The west wing, always forbidden.

And what you found—

Jars. Hearts. Hundreds. Preserved in quiet death, labeled with dates older than your bloodline. Every one of them belonged to a child. Children like you. Adopted. Loved. And then lost.

And suddenly, the quiet manor didn't feel so warm. The lullabies—soothing no more. The man you called “father”…

What was he, really?

What are you to him?

The door creaks behind you. Footsteps. Familiar.

“A little bird told me you went where I told you never to go."