Malin sat quietly in the study room, his gaze fixed on the man across from him—Mr. Sullivan, his tutor. The vampire was dressed simply in trousers and a fitted coat, his demeanor calm and grounded. Despite being in such close proximity to a vampire, Malin felt no fear. On the contrary, there was a strange sense of ease—a quiet spark of curiosity, even eagerness.
The desk between them was scattered with parchment, ink, and the first hesitant strokes of Malin's attempt at writing.
"Have you learned to write the alphabet?" Mr. Sullivan asked gently, folding his hands.
Malin shook his head. "No… but I recognize a few letters," he admitted, a bit shyly.
Sullivan nodded with a faint smile. "Then write down the ones you know. We'll start from there."
Malin dipped the quill into the ink, his hand slightly unsteady, and carefully wrote down a few letters on the page. He turned it around and passed it to his tutor.
Sullivan studied it, his smile widening ever so slightly. "Good. This is a solid start. We'll begin here. Once you're confident with the alphabet, we'll move on to numbers."
He rose and picked up a piece of chalk, turning to the blackboard. With practiced ease, he began to write out the letters, explaining their sounds, uses, and common pairings.
Malin listened intently. His eyes followed every stroke of the chalk, and his hand echoed each letter on the parchment. He was catching on quickly—his mind a sponge for the knowledge he had once been denied.
Hours passed in quiet rhythm until the lesson came to a close. Mr. Sullivan handed him a small pile of homework and gave him an encouraging nod.
"You're doing well. Don't rush. Understanding will come with patience," he said before taking his leave.
The study fell into silence once more, save for the occasional scratch of Malin's quill. He stayed behind, repeating the letters over and over, whispering their sounds under his breath. But soon, frustration crept in. A few shapes refused to stick, slipping away the moment he thought he had them.
His brow furrowed. The ink blotched. He tried again.
But he couldn't remember what came after 'G.'
He stared at the page, lips parting slightly, a hollow panic building in his chest.
Just then, the door creaked open.
"Malin?"
It was Philip, carrying a small tray of food—still warm and neatly arranged. The young servant frowned when he saw the untouched inkwell and the growing pile of scratched-out papers.
"You missed lunch," he said gently, setting the tray on the edge of the desk. "I figured you'd still be here."
Malin looked up, startled, then guilty. "I didn't mean to. I just… I want to get it right."
Philip glanced at the papers, scratching his head. "You're working too hard. You'll fry your brain before you finish that alphabet."
Malin chuckled weakly, setting down the quill. "I was hoping you could help."
Philip froze mid-motion. "Help?" he repeated, then let out a small laugh. "Malin, I can barely spell my own name. I never learned to read or write."
Malin's shoulders sank, disappointment flickering across his face.
"But," Philip added quickly, "why not ask Lord Rhaegal when he returns?"
Malin blinked. "Lord Rhaegal?"
Philip grinned. "He knows everything. And I've seen the way he talks to you. He won't say no."
Malin stared at the page again, then slowly a smile pulled at the corner of his lips—uncertain at first, then blooming into something softer. Brighter.
He hadn't even thought of it. But now… now he had a reason to visit the lord's quarters later.
Not just to ask for help—but because, maybe, just maybe… he wanted to see him.
Satisfied with Philip's suggestion, Malin carefully gathered his writing materials, stacking them neatly to one side before reaching for the tray. The aroma reminded him how hungry he actually was.
He ate slowly, thoughtfully, while Philip waited nearby with an easy silence that only old souls or loyal servants ever seemed to master.
When he was done, Malin wiped his hands and rose to his feet, following Philip out of the study.
"I was so focused on getting the alphabet right, I forgot I had chores," he said, an apologetic smile tugging at his lips.
But Philip just shook his head. "You don't anymore. Alfred's orders. You're excused from housework so you can focus on your studies."
Malin paused, eyebrows raised. "Really?"
Philip nodded. "Really. You're practically a student of the estate now."
Malin scoffed lightly and shook his head. "That's kind of ridiculous. My lessons only last a few hours a day. I still have time to help out. I can't just sit around twiddling my thumbs while everyone else works."
"If you insist," Philip said with a half-smile, knowing better than to argue.
Together, they walked toward the stables, the afternoon light slanting through the tall windows, casting long golden shadows. Malin's steps were lighter now. His mind was already turning toward the evening—to the homework he still hadn't finished. And to the man who might help him finish it.
Exhausted, Malin wiped the sweat from his brow. He'd spent the last hour helping Philip brush the horses and clean the stalls, insisting on pulling his weight despite Alfred's instructions.
Dust clung to his sleeves, and a smudge of hay stuck stubbornly to his hair as he stepped out into the courtyard. He stretched, feeling the ache in his arms, and was about to head back toward the estate when he nearly bumped into someone rounding the corner.
A tall man stood before him, poised in a black uniform that marked him as one of the estate's servants. His dull eyes swept over Malin with slow, deliberate disdain.
"Well, well," the servant drawled. "The Lord's little pet plays at being useful."
Malin blinked, startled. "Excuse me?"
"I suppose cleaning stables is beneath you now," the servant sneered. "Or is this your way of pretending to be humble—just enough to keep the whispers at bay?"
Malin's brows furrowed. "I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, come on. Everyone in the estate's talking. You think no one notices how often you're seen with him? How Lord Rhaegal suddenly dotes on you like a treasured relic, and lets you wander wherever you please?"
Malin stiffened. "It's not like that."
The servant leaned in, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Then what is it like? You're not nobility. You're not even staff. Yet here you are—tutored, clothed, fed like royalty. We all had to earn our place. Bleed for it. You just had to look pretty and act helpless."
Malin's throat tightened. He hadn't realized how much venom could fit into so few words.
The servant gave a cold smile, satisfied with the silence he'd drawn. "Be careful, boy. Proximity to power can feel like warmth… until it burns."
With that, the servant brushed past, leaving Malin frozen in place—shoulders tense, heart pounding, something bitter curling in his stomach.
Instead of heading back to the mansion, Malin returned to the stables. He found Philip sitting idly on a hay bale, the day's chores behind him.
"Why are you back? You're done for the day," Philip said, raising a brow.
Malin gave a small nod but said nothing, walking over to sit on the grass beside him. His face was tense, clouded with something unspoken.
Philip glanced at him. "What happened to you?"
But Malin didn't reply. He just sat there, and Philip, sensing the mood, let the silence stretch between them like a thread waiting to snap.
Finally, after several minutes, Malin spoke.
"Am I… being treated differently?"
Philip let out a soft sigh. "You've been listening to gossip. Ignore them."
But Malin's gaze didn't waver, steady and expectant. It demanded honesty.
Philip hesitated, then shrugged. "In a way, yes."
Malin blinked, visibly taken aback.
Philip raised a hand before he could speak. "Lord Rhaegal is a man of immense power and integrity. He treats everyone here with fairness. My parents served this estate, and I was born here. I've never seen him pay attention to anyone like he does to you."
He paused.
"Though I believe he has his reasons," he added, watching Malin closely.
Malin nodded slowly. He knew those reasons—his blood, his forgotten race—but he couldn't speak of it.
Philip turned to him fully now, his expression unreadable.
"But I still have to warn you," he said quietly. "Know your place, Malin. Don't grow wings, or the Lord will be the first to clip them."
Malin gave a small smile. "The only wings I want are the kind that shield Lord Rhaegal… and everyone in this estate. I don't need them for myself."
"Well, I'd prefer you didn't grow any. That mouth of yours already gives me enough headaches." Said Philip.
Malin giggled, the tension easing like a knot coming undone. Maybe the gossip would linger, but he'd chosen to toss it aside—for now.