Chapter 24: Embers of Regret
The groan of the wooden dorm beds frame stirred Asher from sleep, each creak resonating faintly through the still air.
Above him, the faint hum of the gas lamp cast a soft, flickering glow, its intricate design shimmering like a heartbeat against the wall.
Asher's eyes fluttered open, disoriented. He inhaled sharply, bracing for the sharp pain he remembered. The claws raking across his chest, the suffocating pressure of fear. Instead, a chilling stillness surrounded him.
Instinctively, his hand shot to his chest. The memory of the vampire's claws haunted him, but his fingers found only smooth, unbroken skin. His breath hitched as he pulled back the hem of his shirt, confirming the impossible. No wounds, no scars—nothing to mark the battle that had nearly claimed his life.
Beside him, resting against the small table below the lamp, was the strength-enhancing stick. It was whole, its surface polished to a sheen that hadn't existed before. He stared at it, a knot of gratitude and unease tightening in his chest.
Did Otto do this? Or is this some more beyonder nonsense?
A dull ache thrummed through his head, an echo of the torment he had endured ringing in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his mind to calm, but the scene wouldn't stop.
Taking a moment to distract himself, he engaged in thought. The torrent of memories abated as he stowed them away to focus on the present.
He opened his eyes again, a realization striking.
His gaze drifted across the room, and his chest tightened at the sight of Kaspar's bed. It was empty. The covers, usually a tangled mess, were neatly folded, the pillow undented. The space felt sterile, abandoned, a void where Kaspar's chaotic energy had once been a constant force. Asher's stomach churned as unease gripped him.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet brushing the cool wooden floor. His body still ached, but he pushed the discomfort aside and rose unsteadily to his feet. His gaze fell on the gas lamp fixed to the wall above Kaspar's side of the room.
It wasn't like his. Asher's side of the room was lit by a simple, utilitarian gas lamp, chosen to match the rest of the décor, with a soft glow that fit the humble surroundings. But Kaspar's lamp was different.
It stood out—not just in design, but in its intensity. The base was more intricate, adorned with archaic drawings he carved, their faint glow pulsing in strange rhythms.
And while Asher's lamp flickered in a dull, calm way, Kaspar's was unnaturally bright, glowing with a harshness that seemed to burn brighter than the room's needs.
The brightest flame burns quickest.
The words echoed in his mind, a quiet, dissonant note that brought with it an unexpected pang of grief. Kaspar—his brilliance, his unpredictability, the way he burned so fiercely in everything he did… it made sense, in a way.
The lamp, so much more intense than it needed to be, seemed like a reflection of Kaspar's nature. And that proverb, spoken long ago, struck him with cold clarity.
Was this how it ended for him?
Kaspar had always been a force of nature, a blaze that never hesitated, that never held back.
But now, Asher wondered if that very intensity had burned him out too quickly. The harsh light of the lamp, burning brighter than anything in the room, now felt like a cruel reminder.
Where is Kaspar? What happened to him?
The questions gnawed at him as he stumbled toward the door. His feet carried him quickly, nearly knocking into Otto as the man approached, balancing a tray in his hands.
Asher took a step back, blinking up at Otto, who was holding a bowl of shoddy, watery soup.
"About time you woke up," Otto said with a small frown, glancing down at Asher like it had taken far too long.
Asher rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of Otto's words hang in the air. "It's noon…"
Otto's expression soured. "A day and a half after the incident."
Asher's heart skipped at the mention of time, the memories of what happened still lingering in fragmented flashes. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the lingering unease.
"Kaspar… Where is he?" Asher asked, leaning forward, his voice tight with urgency. He stepped closer, his gaze glued to Otto's. In his haste, his hand brushed the tray, nearly knocking the soup from it.
Otto, normally so composed, flinched slightly, his grip tightening on the tray. His face softened, a shadow of something unreadable passing across his features. "He…" Otto paused, his gaze dropping to the soup before looking back up at Asher, his voice quiet and tinged with sadness. "Doesn't want to talk to you right now."
A chill ran down Asher's spine.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Confusion tightened Asher's chest as he blinked. "Is he alive?" His voice cracked slightly as he asked, the thought of Kaspar's death creeping into his mind despite his best efforts to push it away.
Otto's eyes shifted, and he gazed at Asher with a hint of confusion. "Of course he is." He sighed, shaking his head. "He just regrets how he acted during your scuffle."
Regret. That word hit Asher like a slap.
Kaspar's regret? What's there to regret?
Without thinking, Asher shoved past Otto, ignoring the man's protests. His heart pounded as he moved quickly down the hallway, each step feeling like it took him closer to an answer he wasn't sure he wanted.
He reached another dorm room with the door shut tight, his hand already on the handle. Without hesitation, he flung the door open, his eyes immediately landing on Kaspar.
Kaspar sat in a strangely neat bed, the edges of his features tight with frustration. He was holding a bowl of soup, but he was struggling.
His fingers curled awkwardly around the spoon, the unfamiliar weight of his newly acquired metal hand making each movement feel strange.
It was almost identical to Otto's, save for the fact that it was just a hand, not the full arm of Otto's.
The hand, while possessing almost natural movement, still looked stiff and unfamiliar to Kaspar, who was struggling to adjust to its delicate precision.
Each movement seemed awkward and slow, his hand slipping occasionally as he tried to lift the spoon. The sight of Kaspar's usual chaotic skillfulness, now so clumsy, was almost painful to watch.
The fire that usually burned so brightly in his eyes was dimmed, and the energy he always seemed to have was noticeably muted.
Asher's stomach churned at the sight. Kaspar, once the storm of chaotic brilliance, was now reduced to this—frustrated, unsure, and so far removed from the unshakable force he once was.
"Kaspar…" Asher's voice caught in his throat, the words hesitant but desperate.
The sound of his name was like a spark, and Kaspar's head jerked up, his eyes wide with surprise before quickly narrowing.
He fumbled with the spoon in his metallic hand, the awkwardness of the movement only making the situation worse.
The soup sloshed slightly, a few drops spilling over the edge, but he quickly set the bowl down on his bedside table, his face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and frustration.
He took a moment, looking anywhere but at Asher, his mechanical hand now resting on the edge of the table as he tried to compose himself.
When he finally spoke, his voice was awkward and strained.
"Eh—leave it, Asher, leave. Just go 'way. Not now." Kaspar's words stumbled over each other, almost as if he was trying to hold himself together, but the cracks were showing. "Don't—don't look me, okay? Just—"
He couldn't meet Asher's gaze, his focus entirely on the soup, his metal hand still gripping the table tense.
Kaspar's embarrassment radiated off him in waves. His fingers twitched involuntarily, still unfamiliar with the sensations of the new hand, and he covered his face with his good hand in an effort to cover his discomfort.
"Just—just go," he muttered again, but there was something quieter in it now.
His usual fire had become a fragile ember, barely flickering—vulnerable to being snuffed out by the slightest breeze.