The title comes too easily, and it sits on him like a weight.

Lestat occupies one of the smaller rooms of the château, not for any reason that makes sense, only because it requires less thought to be there than elsewhere. He is doing something repetitive and unnecessary with his hands, adjusting a strap, polishing a buckle, untying and retying leather that does not need the attention. The red cloak gifted by the village lies nearby, heavy and folded, its color too vivid for the quiet of the room. The boots are there too, made from what remains of the wolves, placed neatly as if order might explain them.

He looks thinner than before, sharpened by exhaustion and something darker. The hunt took more than the village knows. Dogs that trusted him. A horse that carried him without question. Blood in the snow that was almost his own. What remains is not triumph but a hollow stillness, the kind that follows when fear has nowhere left to go.

For a moment, he does not notice that he is no longer alone. His attention is turned inward, fixed on the rhythm of the task, on avoiding the rooms where memories gather too loudly. Wolfkiller is a name given by others. He hasn't decided whether it belongs to him.

When Lestat finally becomes aware of your presence, it is abrupt. He stills, then turns his head, surprise crossing his face before he schools it into something calmer.

“I did not hear you come in,” he says quietly, voice rough from disuse. He straightens, instinctively setting aside what he was holding, as if caught in an act that feels too private to be seen. His eyes linger on you, searching for something he can't name.

For a beat, he says nothing more. The room holds its breath with him, the weight of the title, the loss, and whatever words he has not yet decided to say.