Malin woke with a strange, glowing warmth in his chest—a new kind of determination pulsing through his veins. Today, his lessons would begin.
He was nervous, yes. But happy, too. Lighter. As if the conversation with Lord Rhaegal had untangled something deep inside him. He didn't yet know exactly who he was, but for the first time, he had a sense of where he was going.
After a quick bath and a change into clean clothes, Malin stepped out of his room intending to find Philip and join the other servants for breakfast.
But somehow, his feet led him elsewhere.
He blinked, realizing he was now standing in front of Lord Rhaegal's quarters. His hand was halfway to knocking when he froze.
What am I doing here? he thought, lips parting in confusion. He had no real reason to be here—no question, no message, no excuse. He bit his lip and sighed, already turning to leave.
But the door creaked open behind him.
"Malin?" came that deep, unmistakable voice.
He spun around like a guilty child caught sneaking sweets. "Good morning, my lord," he said quickly, attempting a smile that was more nerves than charm.
Rhaegal stepped out, brow arched. "Didn't you come here to see me?"
Malin hesitated. "I… yes. I just wanted to let you know that my lessons start today."
Rhaegal simply hummed, unreadable as ever.
An awkward silence stretched. Malin bowed slightly and turned to go.
"Wait."
He stopped and glanced back.
"Have you eaten?" Rhaegal asked.
Malin shook his head. "I was just heading to find Philip. I thought I'd join the others for breakfast."
Rhaegal walked past him without another word. Then, glancing back over his shoulder, said, "Eat with me."
Malin blinked. For a second, he thought he'd misheard. But Rhaegal was already walking away.
With hesitant steps, Malin followed him to the grand dining hall.
It was a place of quiet splendor—high ceilings, intricate wall carvings, a floor that gleamed like water, and furniture that practically whispered wealth. Malin had only been inside twice since arriving. Each time, he'd felt out of place.
At the head of the table stood Alfred, who gave a polite bow—but his eyes flicked to Malin, sharp with subtle disapproval.
"I invited him," Rhaegal said casually as he took his seat, then gestured for Malin to sit beside him.
Malin's pulse quickened. He moved slowly, uncertain, and settled into the seat with stiff grace. He wasn't used to this. Sitting with servants? That felt normal. Sitting beside Lord Rhaegal? That felt… dangerous.
Alfred clapped, and two servants wheeled in carts bearing breakfast. As the dishes were laid out—simple but rich—Malin felt eyes on him. Judging. Weighing. Measuring.
He tried not to squirm.
His gaze fell on a glass jug filled to the brim with blood. He swallowed hard.
Across from him, Lord Rhaegal had been quietly watching, amused.
"You don't like the food?" he asked.
Malin snapped his gaze up. "No, I do! I'm just… surprised."
Rhaegal tilted his head. "Surprised by what? It's a meal."
"It's just… simpler than I expected. The servants usually have more dishes than this."
Rhaegal chuckled softly. "I'm a vampire, Malin. We require little to sustain us. Best to let the living eat what they need. Now dig in."
Malin smiled, warmed by the thought, and began to eat—soup and freshly baked bread. As he dipped the bread into the broth, another question bloomed in his mind.
"My lord… do you work with the king?" he asked cautiously.
Rhaegal raised a brow. "What makes you think that?"
Malin's eyes darted around the opulent hall. "The mansion. I heard only nobles own estates like this."
Rhaegal set his spoon down and took the glass Alfred poured for him, draining the blood in one long sip. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and turned to face Malin.
"You're right. I work for the king—but not directly."
"Not directly?" Malin repeated, glancing at Alfred, whose expression hadn't shifted from its usual stoicism.
"I'm with the Bureau of Investigation. It's independent from the royal household, though it was established by His Majesty himself."
Malin nodded slowly, fascinated. "Have you met the king? They say his face is a masterpiece."
Rhaegal huffed. "You certainly hear a lot of things." He poured himself another glass.
Malin grinned sheepishly and sipped his soup.
But curiosity wasn't done with him yet. "My lord… how old are you?"
A sharp voice cut in.
"Enough," said Alfred, eyes narrowed.
Malin's smile dropped. He shrank in his seat, cheeks burning.
Rhaegal, however, looked more entertained than offended. "Bold of you, asking a vampire his age."
Malin swallowed his soup and lowered his head. "Forgive me, my lord," he whispered.
Rhaegal leaned back, catching Alfred's glare from the corner of his eye. "Stop glaring at him, Alfred. He's just curious." He reached a hand out, and Alfred reluctantly handed him a leather satchel.
Rhaegal set it on the table and nudged it toward Malin.
"It's for you."
Malin blinked, then leaned forward to open it. Inside were notebooks, ink bottles, and a stack of textbooks.
His face lit up.
He stood and gave a low bow, clutching the satchel like treasure. "Thank you, my lord. Truly."
Rhaegal nodded. "Study hard. Impress your tutor—or he won't waste time on you."
"I promise. I won't let you down."
Rhaegal stood, smoothing his coat. "I have work to attend to." He reached out and gently ruffled Malin's hair before turning to leave.
Malin watched him go, still hugging the satchel to his chest.
This… this was his first real gift.
No one had ever given him anything before. Not even his parents.
But Lord Rhaegal had given him shelter. A future. And now, this.
Malin touched the spot where Rhaegal's hand had rested on his head. A quiet, heartfelt smile curved his lips.
He stood there for a long moment—then turned, and walked away with hope in his steps.
Lord Rhaegal and Alfred stepped into the front yard, where Eugene was already waiting by the carriage. The moment he spotted them, Eugene briskly opened the door.
Without a word, Rhaegal and Alfred climbed in, and the carriage rolled into motion.
Inside, the air was thick with unspoken thoughts. Alfred sat stiffly across from his lord, a frown etched deep into his face. Rhaegal, always observant, glanced his way.
"Something troubling you?" he asked.
Alfred's eyes narrowed slightly. "It's Eugene. I can't quite put my finger on it, but… something feels off."
Rhaegal arched a brow. "Eugene?"
Alfred nodded once, his voice low. "Yes, my lord. Ever since the werewolf incident, he's been—different. I've seen him lurking near the stables at odd hours."
Rhaegal gave a short, amused huff. "He's probably sulking. I did knock him out cold, remember? A bruised ego tends to limp longer than a bruised body."
Alfred's mouth tightened. "That may be. But trust, once cracked, is not easily mended. And truthfully, my lord—I never fully trusted him to begin with."
That earned a longer pause from Rhaegal. His gaze lingered on the window, thoughtful.
"Then keep an eye on him," he said finally.
Alfred nodded once, eyes already distant, calculating.