Chapter 16 – Longing
Elesia observed Kyo in silence over the following days, her gaze calculating, her thoughts veiled. She studied him not with the curiosity of a scholar but with the precision of an artisan sculpting marble, testing the limits of her craft. The change in him was swift, as she had anticipated. His transformation was her handiwork—his newfound darkness shaped by her hands, his very soul fracturing and reforming under the weight of her will.
The first rebellion had come quickly, a spark of defiance born of pride. It had amused her. His stance, rigid and resolute, crumbled with a single cold glance. When her fingers closed around his wrist—tight, unyielding—he faltered. His pride buckled beneath her grip, the fire in his eyes dimming as understanding dawned. There was no freedom here. No choice. Only submission.
Yet Elesia knew that breaking the body was simple. It was the mind she sought to bend, the soul she desired to claim. His submission had to be complete, an unshakable truth carved into his being. Weeks passed like whispers in the dark, each moment another thread in the tapestry of his unraveling. She watched him carefully, her every gesture deliberate, her every word a seed planted in his mind. Each day, he strayed further from who he had been, stepping deeper into the abyss she had opened before him.
And he followed willingly.
Their training became a dance—a careful, measured rhythm of pain and reward. Elesia allowed his hunger to grow, his admiration to simmer beneath the surface. She fed his fascination with her, nurturing the intensity that flared in his gaze when he thought she wasn't watching. But she saw everything. She saw how his gaze lingered, caught between awe and resistance, the flicker of rebellion tempered by the pull of something darker.
He admired her power. Craved it. But more than that, he craved her. And that desire was a weapon she wielded with exquisite precision.
One evening, Kyo appeared in her chambers, his footsteps hesitant, his resolve fraying at the edges. The air was thick with incense, a heady blend of herbs that wrapped around them like a veil of shadows. Candlelight flickered across the room, casting long, wavering silhouettes that danced along the walls.
Elesia sat draped in darkness, her silhouette half-hidden in the flickering glow. Her voice, soft and commanding, reached him like a siren's call.
"Come closer, Kyo."
He faltered, torn between instinct and desire, but the pull was undeniable. She let him feel it—the weight of her presence, the power radiating from her like a heartbeat in the dark. Slowly, he approached, every step a battle between fear and longing. She could taste the conflict in him, feel it in the tremor of his movements—the dying remnants of his humanity clashing with the hunger she had awakened.
When he stood before her, she rose with fluid grace, her shadow mingling with his, wrapping around him like a shroud. Her gaze pierced him, unyielding, and she smiled—a slow, knowing curve of her lips.
"You question what you've become," she murmured, her voice laced with amusement. "But you already know the answer."
He shivered as she stepped closer, the chill of her presence brushing against his skin. Her lips hovered near his ear, her breath a whisper that sent shivers down his spine.
"Oh, the darkness will consume you," she promised, her tone dark and velvety, weaving a spell with every word. "But it will make you magnificent."
Her fingers traced his jaw, delicate but firm, tilting his face toward her. She leaned in, her lips brushing the curve of his neck, lingering just long enough to let him anticipate what would come next. His breath hitched, and she could feel the pounding of his pulse beneath her fingertips, a frantic rhythm that echoed the storm within him.
"You're mine," she whispered, her voice soft yet unbreakable—a claim etched into the very fabric of his being.
His response was a gasp, raw and vulnerable. "Mistress…"
She silenced him with a finger pressed to his lips, her touch both a command and a caress. His gaze locked with hers, and in that moment, she saw the last fragments of resistance flicker and fade. He was hers in mind, in body, in spirit.
"You're already mine," she breathed, the weight of her words sinking into him like chains. "Let me shape you into something beyond yourself, Kyo. Let me make you perfect."
The room fell into a hushed silence, the air thick with tension and promise. Elesia tipped her head back, exposing the pale curve of her neck, a silent command that sent his thoughts spiraling into chaos. Hesitation flickered in his gaze, but it was fleeting—a final echo of the man he had once been.
Then, with a trembling breath, he obeyed.
His teeth grazed her neck, tentative at first, but she felt the moment he surrendered completely. He bit down, and the connection between them deepened—an unbreakable bond forged in darkness and desire. The pull of his hunger was fierce, intoxicating, and as he drank, she felt his submission solidify, his will fusing with her own.
A soft moan escaped her lips, her fingers tangling in his hair as the thrill of control surged through her. He was no longer a boy standing on the precipice of fear and doubt. He was hers—a vessel she had filled with darkness, a weapon she would wield with devastating precision.
"Yes… good boy," she murmured, her voice dripping with satisfaction. Her words laced with praise, each syllable a tether pulling him deeper into her thrall. "You feel it now, don't you? The power. The ecstasy."
His grip tightened, his hunger driving him to take more, to seek the depths of the promise she had given him. She let him drink until his trembling softened into something steadier, more confident. When he finally pulled away, his expression was haunted—entranced, yet fiercely possessive.
"I want more," he whispered, his voice rough with desire, tinged with the thrill of his newfound nature.
Elesia smiled, her triumph gleaming in the candlelight. She had stoked the fire in him, fed his desire until he'd come to her willingly, craving the darkness she offered.
"And you shall have it," she said, a soft laugh slipping from her lips. Her gaze burned into his, dark with intent. "The pleasures of the night, Kyo… they are endless."
"Are you ready to give yourself to me completely?" she murmured, her voice like silk, wrapping around him, pulling him in.
"Yes," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of reverence and anticipation.
She reached for him, her fingers grazing his cheek before trailing down to rest against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her touch. There was no hesitation now. The air between them thrummed with unspoken promises, every breath heavy with expectation.
Elesia leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. "Then come."
The word hung in the air, a command and a caress, leaving no room for doubt. Kyo followed her as she led him toward the velvet-draped alcove, where the flicker of candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls. The world outside ceased to matter. There was only this moment—charged with tension, humming with the inevitability of surrender.
When she turned to face him, the final barrier between them shattered. His hands found her waist, tentative at first, but guided by something deeper, more primal. Elesia allowed it, her gaze never leaving his, watching the last remnants of his restraint dissolve.
Their movements were slow, deliberate—a silent dance of touch and sensation. Her fingers tangled in his hair as his lips found her neck, tracing the path she had once marked as her own. Every touch, every breath carried the weight of what they both knew was inevitable.
Elesia gasped, her body trembling as Kyo's grip on her tightened. His low, guttural groans echoed in her ears, sending a shiver through her as he reached his peak. Instinctively, she clung to him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her face buried against his shoulder. Her breath came in ragged bursts, and a soft, trembling laugh escaped her lips. "Ah… Mistress… You…" Her voice faltered, a mix of exhilaration and disbelief coloring her tone. "You're going to drive me mad… You know that, right?"
His response was a deep sigh, filled with remorse, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sorry, mistress. But I can't help it."
A chuckle bubbled up from her throat as she held him close, feeling the heat of his body against hers. His earnestness was endearing, and she couldn't bring herself to be upset. Pressing her forehead to his, she gazed into his eyes, still hazy with the remnants of passion. "Don't apologize, Kyo. That was... incredible." Her lips curled into a playful smirk. "I didn't know you were capable of such... wanton lust."
Kyo giggled softly, his voice tinged with embarrassment. "Sorry... Mistress... but this is the first time I've felt something like that."
His words caused her to pause, the weight of their meaning settling over her. Gently, she ran her fingers through his hair, studying his bashful smile with newfound tenderness. "Kyo... was I... your first?"
He nodded, his expression shy but honest.
Her breath caught. She hadn't expected that, not from someone so intense, so capable of raw emotion. Stroking his cheek, she let her thumb trace the faint curve of his jaw. "Kyo... I had no idea. I thought you might have already... experienced that with someone else."
He chuckled softly again, the sound lighter this time. "No... I kept to myself. I wanted my first time to be special."
His confession stirred something deep within her—a mix of pride, affection, and a longing she couldn't quite name. Pulling him into a tight embrace, she whispered softly, almost reverently, "Kyo... my sweet, gentle Kyo. I'm honored you chose to share that moment with me."
He clung to her in return, his words earnest and unguarded. "Thank you, Mistress. I couldn't help but feel that now was the right time... with you. We're bound by blood, after all. I wanted you to know me the most."
Her chest swelled with emotion at his sincerity. She nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the faint, comforting scent of him. "I'm honored that you trust me so deeply, Kyo," she murmured, her voice tender. "This bond between us... it's more than blood. It's something that runs deeper, something I cherish more than words can say."
He whispered back, his voice filled with quiet determination. "Me too, Mistress. I want to be a good progeny. No... the best, Mistress."
She pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. Her hand caressed his cheek with a soft, loving touch. "You already are the best, Kyo. You're loyal, brave, and fiercely devoted. I couldn't ask for more."
But as she spoke, his expression shifted, a hint of sadness creeping into his eyes. "I don't know, Mistress…" he said, his voice tinged with doubt. "You said I only have five Magic Circuits, and they're average at that. I bet you could find someone with much more potential if you wanted."
Her smile faltered, replaced by fierce determination. She cupped his face in her hands, ensuring he couldn't look away. "Kyo, don't ever say that. Your worth is so much more than the number of Magic Circuits you possess. Your courage, your will, your heart—those are what matter most. And besides…" She smiled gently. "I wouldn't want anyone else. You are perfect just as you are."
His smile returned, tentative but genuine. "Thank you, Mistress."
The affection in his voice was palpable, and her heart ached with pride and protectiveness. He continued, his tone soft but resolute. "You can't imagine how grateful I am that you granted me immortality. I'll make sure not to disappoint you."
She intertwined her fingers with his, squeezing them lightly. "You've never disappointed me, Kyo, and I know you never will. You've already come so far, and I'm so proud of you. Just remember to believe in yourself as much as I believe in you."
He leaned in, his lips brushing hers with unspoken devotion. "Thank you for believing in me... Mistress…"
Elesia smiled against his lips, her heart swelling with affection. She broke the kiss only to pepper his face with light, playful kisses, her voice soft and full of warmth. "Of course, Kyo. I will always believe in you. You're my fledgling, my progeny. I will always be here to guide you."
He looked at her, his gaze searching. "Forever?"
Her smile softened, her eyes filled with unwavering devotion. "Forever," she promised. "As long as I exist, I'll be here for you. You're irreplaceable to me, Kyo. That will never change."
A smirk crossed his face, a playful glint in his eyes. "And that's what I love about you, Mistress. I never thought anyone would want me this much."
Her heart clenched at his words, the pain of his past loneliness so evident in his voice. She ran her fingers down his cheek, her touch possessive but tender. "Then know this, my precious Kyo—I will never stop wanting you. You are mine, and mine alone. No one else will ever lay claim to what is mine."
He chuckled, the sound low and content, before snuggling closer to her, his head resting against her throat. The sensation sent a pleasant shiver through her, and she let out a soft laugh. "Someone's feeling clingy tonight," she teased, her tone light and affectionate.
"Well... if you're that possessive about me, I might as well indulge," he replied with a smile. "Besides, I feel safe in your grasp."
She chuckled again, her fingers threading through his hair, the silky strands slipping between them effortlessly. "Indulge all you want, my sweet Kyo. I like it when you're clingy. And you're always safe with me. I'll never let go."
His voice, soft and reverent, reached her ears as he murmured against her skin, "Mistress… I was nothing before you. You saved me."
Her heart ached at his words, but she pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head. "Oh, Kyo… you were never nothing. You were lost, perhaps, but never nothing. I only helped you find your way. The strength, the worth, it was always within you."
He sighed softly, his breathing evening out as sleep claimed him. She held him close, her gaze lingering on his peaceful face.
The room was silent, save for the soft rhythm of Kyo's breath rising and falling in steady intervals. He lay in her arms—vulnerable, defenseless, entirely hers. The thought curled through her mind like smoke, filling her with a dark satisfaction. Her fingers trailed through his hair, her touch deceptively gentle, her voice low and dripping with mock affection.
Her crimson eyes traced the soft, unguarded lines of his face. He trusted her. Trusted her to protect him, to care for him. The irony sent a thrill through her. "You look so serene like this," she whispered, her tone as sweet as poisoned honey. "So trusting. So foolish. You don't even realize how utterly at my mercy you are."
Her fingers toyed with a strand of his hair, a small, cruel smile tugging at her lips. She could break him in an instant—physically, emotionally, utterly—and he would never resist. He couldn't. "I could destroy you, Kyo," she murmured, her voice velvet wrapped in malice. "Twist you into something unrecognizable. Make you my creature in every sense of the word. And yet…" Her eyes gleamed with a sharp edge. "You would still come crawling back, wouldn't you? Begging for my touch, my approval. How utterly pathetic."
Her hand shifted, fingers brushing over his cheek before drifting lazily to his lips. Her voice dropped to a whisper, intimate, predatory. "You're like a marionette, dangling on strings I control. Every thought you have, every action you take… it's because I allow it. Isn't that right? My perfect little doll…"
She leaned in, studying him with a cruel amusement. "You've surrendered everything to me—your will, your soul. For what? A fleeting moment of my attention? A scrap of affection?" She laughed softly, mockingly. "You're so desperate. So hopelessly devoted."
Her voice softened, as if savoring the moment. "You're mine, Kyo," she breathed, her tone possessive. "And you will always be mine. No one else will claim you. No one else will ever have what belongs to me."
She leaned back slightly, her gaze lingering on his peaceful face, the weight of her presence filling the room. Her smirk softened, but the coldness in her eyes remained. "Sleep well, my precious thrall," she whispered, sweet and sinister. "Dream of me. Because when you wake, your reality will be mine too."
Yes. Kyo Hirasawa was hers. Her thrall. Her plaything. Utterly hers, bound to her every whim, dependent on her. Yet, as she thought of him now, there was something unsettling, a faint weight in her chest. A strange ache she couldn't name.
He trusted her. The monster who had twisted him, bound him. He trusted her to protect him. To care for him. But could she?
She thought of the way he looked at her—those dark, unwavering eyes filled with something she couldn't understand. Devotion? Obsession? Love? It should have amused her, but instead, it gnawed at her insides.
It infuriated her. Terrified her.
Kyo was just another thrall, weak and vulnerable, just like the rest. Yet when he slept in her arms, when his breath steadied and his warmth pressed against her, a strange stillness washed over her. For once, the hunger within her subsided. The darkness that had defined her existence softened.
It was maddening. It was intoxicating.
She could not love him. Love was a weakness, a flaw long discarded. She had shaped herself into something beyond human. Love was for creatures like him—helpless, desperate, clinging to something they couldn't understand.
And yet, when she thought of Kyo, everything became a contradiction. She wanted to crush him, remind him of his place beneath her. But she also wanted to protect him, keep him close, shield him from harm.
Did he see her for what she truly was? A monster? A savior? Both?
"You're mine," she whispered to the silence, her voice sharp. "You belong to me, Kyo. Don't forget that."
But the words felt hollow, even to her own ears.
Deep down, she knew the truth—the one thing she would never admit.
It wasn't Kyo who belonged to her.
It was she who belonged to him.
…
As Kyo shared pieces of his lonely past with Elesia, her expression remained serene, yet her mind worked tirelessly. Every word, every hesitation, was a clue—a fragment of his fractured psyche waiting to be exploited. She listened as he recounted his years of torment with a quiet intensity that masked her growing amusement. His pain was raw, his bitterness buried deep beneath layers of learned restraint. But she could see it, festering like a wound.
For Elesia, Kyo's story was a testament to squandered potential. He had endured humiliation, internalized his suffering, and allowed himself to be molded by the expectations of lesser beings. Yet beneath that veneer of submission, she saw something far more promising—a spark of rebellion, an untapped darkness. And it was hers to coax into flame.
"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" Elesia finally spoke, her voice soft, coaxing. Kyo glanced at her, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "I see a man who has allowed the world to shape him into something pitiful. A creature shackled by the need for acceptance, desperate for validation from those who never deserved your loyalty."
Kyo's brow furrowed, and he looked down, the weight of her words pressing heavily on him. "I've… never thought of it that way."
She leaned closer, her gaze piercing. "Of course you haven't. You've been too busy surviving. But surviving is not living. It's certainly not ruling." Her lips curled into a faint smile. "You've spent your life as a pawn, Hirasawa. But pawns are meant to be sacrificed. You, however… you could be more."
There it was—a flicker of intrigue in his eyes. She pressed on, her voice laced with subtle seduction. "Tell me, do you still dream of the faces of those who wronged you? Do you see their sneers, hear their laughter?"
Kyo's hands clenched into fists. "Sometimes," he admitted, voice low. "I try not to dwell on it."
"Why?" Elesia whispered, her tone a velvet caress. "Why deny yourself the satisfaction of vengeance? Why suppress that rage when it could be your greatest weapon?"
Kyo shifted uncomfortably. "It's… not who I am."
"Not yet," she corrected, her smile widening. "But it's who you could be." She stood, circling him slowly, like a predator sizing up prey. "You've been taught to believe that restraint is a virtue, that humility is strength. But those are lies fed to the weak to keep them docile. True power comes from embracing your desires—your need to dominate, to command, to reshape the world as you see fit."
Kyo looked up, a shadow of confusion mingling with fascination. "And you think that's what I want?"
Elesia stopped behind him, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "I know it is. I've seen it in your eyes when you hunt, in the way you hesitate before striking. You're not conflicted out of mercy—you're conflicted because you've been conditioned to suppress your instincts. But instincts don't disappear. They fester."
She moved around to face him again, her gaze unwavering. "Do you want to know what separates the powerful from the powerless?"
Kyo nodded slowly.
"Permission," she said, her voice a dark promise. "The powerful don't wait for permission to take what they want. They seize it. They demand it."
Kyo's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. "And you're giving me… permission?"
Elesia chuckled, a sound both musical and menacing. "I'm offering you liberation. Freedom from the chains of your past, from the ghost of who you were. But make no mistake—freedom comes with a price."
"And what's that?"
"Loyalty." Her gaze softened, becoming almost tender. "Loyalty to me, and to the future we will shape together. The world you've known is a decaying relic. It's time for a new order—one where the strong no longer hide in the shadows. Where the Dead Apostles reign openly, and humanity kneels before us."
Kyo swallowed, his breath quickening. "A new order…"
"Yes." Elesia's voice dropped to a sultry whisper. "Imagine it, Kyo. A world where you are no longer the hunted, but the hunter. Where you command armies, reshape societies, bend others to your will. All it takes is a choice."
Kyo's mind spiraled with possibilities. He had always buried his darker desires, told himself they were wrong. But now, hearing them spoken aloud, they felt… right. Natural. Inevitable.
"And if I choose this path?" he asked, voice trembling with a mix of fear and excitement.
Elesia smiled, a gleam of triumph in her eyes. "Then you will become more than a servant. You will become a force of nature—a god among mortals. But first, you must let go of who you were. Burn away the remnants of your humanity. Embrace the darkness within you."
Kyo rose to his feet, his gaze locked on hers. "I want it," he said, his voice steady. "I want to be more."
"Good," Elesia murmured, stepping closer until they were mere inches apart. "But remember, Kyo—power is a game of risk and reward. Betrayal lurks around every corner. Even those closest to you cannot always be trusted."
"I'll take that risk," he replied, a newfound determination in his voice. "I won't be a pawn anymore."
Elesia's smile deepened. "Then let the game begin."
…
It was December 25th. The Christmas evening of 2001 was a joyful event for many people in the world. But for the inhabitants of Valmont, this day would be hell on earth.
Elesia, the 17th reincarnation of Michael Roa Valdamjong, was a being of extraordinary ambition and intellect. Born with magical potential far surpassing any of her predecessors, she carried within her the legacy of a terrifying curse — a curse that Roa had mastered and twisted to his own dark purposes. Through his countless lifetimes, Roa had devised a technique to inherit the principles of the Dead Apostle Ancestors, gaining access to their unique curses. By detuning and reconfiguring them, he was able to reshape their power for his own use. But it was through Elesia that he hoped to truly realize his vision, to transcend all of his past selves.
Her awakening had been carefully orchestrated, a meticulous plan set in motion long before her consciousness emerged. She knew her purpose and the sacrifices that would be required. Her hometown, Valmont, would serve as the backdrop for this unholy ritual — the place where she would lay the foundation for her ascension. For what Elesia sought was not merely power; it was to inherit something far more profound.
Her destiny entwined with the arrival of Arcueid Brunestud, the White Princess. In Elesia's eyes, Arcueid's very existence was the key to unlocking her path. When Arcueid arrived in Valmont, Elesia would strike, subdue her, and use her as the sacrifice needed to bring forth the true revival of the Crimson Moon. By doing so, Elesia would steal the very principle that had once belonged to Brunestud, and with it, reach unimaginable power.
In that moment, she would become something more than a mere Dead Apostle. She would become on par with an Aristoteles, a being of unimaginable might, her curse distilled into a force beyond the limits of comprehension. The world would bend to her will, and all who dared oppose her would find themselves powerless before the vastness of her vision.
The game was set, and the pieces were in motion. Valmont would fall. The sacrifice would be made. And Elesia, the Seventeenth Incarnation, would rise to claim her place among the stars.
She stood at the altar, a dark satisfaction coursing through her. The quiet streets of her former home, now blanketed in a shroud of darkness, were moments away from transforming into a vision of chaos. The candles around her flickered, the tiny flames barely holding their ground against the weight of her power, pulsing beneath her skin. She could almost hear the heartbeat of the ancient force stirring within her, and it filled her with an intoxicating rush.
She turned to Hirasawa, who was brimming with eager anticipation. Elesia smiled—he was powerful for a youngling, yes, but still new to this dark life. "Tonight," she murmured, voice rich with malice, "we will awaken the Crimson Moon." She delighted in watching him absorb her words, his excitement a reflection of the hold she'd worked to create. She felt a flicker of amusement; it was delightful how much he still sought her validation, even now.
Elesia scanned her gathered allies. Lululily Araku Paranodahlia prowled in the shadows, monstrous and elegant as she entrapped prey, savoring every moment of their slow deaths. Rita Rozay-en moved gracefully among the corpses, her laughter mingling with her victims' screams. Van-Fem directed the chaos with a calculating precision, his hulking golems collecting and harvesting blood with cold efficiency. Her allies created a macabre symphony of death and fear that thrilled Elesia to her core. She reveled in the fear of the townsfolk, each panicked heartbeat a tribute to her growing power.
When midnight struck, she felt a surge of energy, a convergence of life force bleeding toward her, drawn to the altar like iron to a magnet. She closed her eyes, savoring the flow. In that moment, she felt invincible. Nothing could break her focus now.
Until the flash of light.
A chill of recognition ran down her spine as Arcueid Brunestud appeared, radiant and terrifying in her wrath. The White Princess's power was palpable, slicing through the darkness like a blade. Elesia's grip tightened, but she felt no fear—only a simmering irritation. This, of all nights, the True Ancestor had come to spoil her plans. Elesia's bloodlust flared, her annoyance sharpened to a deadly edge as she turned to her Dead Apostles. A smirk curled her lips. Let the fools test their strength against her. I have other plans.
Her allies obeyed without hesitation, rushing at Arcueid with fevered abandon. Elesia watched from her position, a sense of gleeful superiority washing over her as the clash erupted. It was a chaotic ballet, both sides fighting with deadly precision, but she quickly noticed how easily Arcueid tore through them. Elesia's smirk slipped, annoyance giving way to frustration. Why won't she fall? The True Ancestor's power was immense, almost insurmountable.
Her patience snapped as the battle wore on, and with a snarl, Elesia drew upon her deepest reserves of mana, unleashing a torrent of iron chains to bind Arcueid. She watched with vicious satisfaction as they tightened around her, each link a mark of her control. She threw her head back, laughing triumphantly. "Finally! The White Princess has fallen!"
But her victory was short-lived. From the shadows, another presence emerged—a familiar, unwelcome one. Enhance, the renegade Dead Apostle Ancestor, stepped forward with a calculated gaze. His arrival was as much a threat as it was an insult. He didn't even need to speak for her to feel the searing distaste between them. When he declared his alliance with Arcueid, Elesia felt a flicker of rage deep within her, one that burned hot and fierce.
Why now? Why him? she thought, her anger boiling over as Enhance joined forces with Arcueid. She could see the shift in battle immediately. With a calm ferocity, they pushed back against her forces, their coordinated attacks a punishing reminder of what it felt like to be thwarted. She could sense the unease in Hirasawa, feel his confidence waver. Her own frustration matched his, threatening to consume her, yet she forced herself to remain composed. Desperation shows weakness.
As Arcueid cut through her allies with a terrible grace, Elesia felt a sinking realization, a faint trace of doubt that only served to deepen her fury. In a final, defiant act, she summoned all the power she had left, unleashing a wave of dark energy, her last stand against Arcueid. Her voice was sharp, demanding. "You will not take me!" It was a command, but also an unspoken plea, a refusal to lose control of her power, her destiny.
Arcueid didn't falter. She met Elesia's attack head-on, her determination piercing through Elesia's darkness. For a single, horrific moment, Elesia felt the overwhelming might of a True Ancestor bearing down on her. It was more than power—it was the crushing weight of something ancient and unbreakable.
Elesia's world blurred as Arcueid's final strike landed, her body collapsing with a hollow echo against the stone steps. She felt herself slipping, her vision dimming, and for the first time, a trace of genuine fear crept into her heart. This wasn't supposed to end like this. She reached out, as if she could hold onto the last remnants of her strength, her purpose. But there was nothing left.
As the darkness closed in, Elesia's last thought was a burning resentment. Her body fell lifeless, and with her death, Roa's spirit began its search for yet another vessel, leaving behind the shattered remains of Elesia's final stand…
Zio awoke in the darkness, the oppressive silence of his chamber pressing against him like a heavy weight. The dream still lingered at the edges of his consciousness, a hazy veil of images that refused to fade. He shifted, the rustling of his silk sheets barely audible, his body heavy, as though every movement was a battle against the weight of some unseen burden. He grimaced, the deep wound on his neck—still healing from the vampire hunter's bite—throbbed with a pulse of pain.
Abel. Or was it Kyo? The name haunted him, indistinct but ever-present. His memories—fragments, broken pieces of countless lives—flashed before him in his dream, a twisted tapestry of his previous incarnations.
Roa. Elesia. Kyo. They all bled together in a maelstrom of vengeance and loss, each name carrying the weight of history. Fate looping in cycles, each life more destructive than the last.
Zio's chest tightened as he sat up in bed, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room. The moonlight filtered through the drapery, casting long, dark shadows that seemed to watch him with a cold, unblinking gaze. His breath was ragged, still catching the remnants of the dream that clung to his mind like smoke, the echo of Elesia's voice—sweet, venomous, and insatiable.
"You're mine, Kyo. You belong to me, Kyo…"
The words burned in his ears. They were not his own, yet they felt so intimately familiar, as though they had been spoken directly into his soul, reverberating through every fiber of his being. Elesia's voice. He had known her, loved her, hated her. But what of this "Kyo," this man who was now—he clenched his fist in frustration—the embodiment of the hunter, the very force that had brought him to this vulnerable state?
The vampire hunter, the very man who had once been Roa's subordinate, had now become the one who would undo him. It was a cruel irony that made Zio's heart burn with rage. The world had changed, and he had changed with it, twisted by the same forces that had once been his driving ambition. His dreams, his desires, all of it had been in service to one thing: becoming the true incarnation of Roa.
Zio gritted his teeth, rising from the bed with a slow, deliberate motion. The pain in his side flared as he stood, but it did nothing to deter him. He had been weak, yes—wounded by a man who would have been his equal, perhaps even his better. But that was all in the past. He was no longer that naive nobleman of Nohrian blood. He was Roa, and nothing, not even the echoes of past lives, would stand in his way.
Zio's eyes hardened as he stepped toward the mirror in the far corner of the room, catching his reflection in the glass. He saw the face of a man—handsome, noble, but with eyes that betrayed the ambition that had scarred him. The reflection looked back at him, but the man in the glass was not the same Zio who had once ruled in the noble courts of Nohr. That man had been consumed by ambition, by his lust for power.
"I will destroy you, Abel," he whispered to the reflection, his voice cold with resolve. "I will tear you apart, piece by piece, and you will never remember who you were. Just as I will forget who I was, and become something far worse."
He turned from the mirror, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the cold silence of the chamber.
The past, the memories, the dreams—they were nothing more than chains. And chains, no matter how ancient, could always be broken.
The main chamber was cold and silent, save for the distant drip of water echoing through the stone walls. Zio, his dark eyes burning with a mix of frustration and disdain, stood before Baron Vordenburg, the figure who had, rather reluctantly, saved his life. The Baron's unmoving presence was almost suffocating in its calm, but Zio couldn't ignore the bitter aftertaste of humiliation that still lingered from his recent defeat at the hands of Abel.
Vordenburg, lounging in his usual posture of calculated disinterest, let out a low chuckle, his cold gaze never leaving Zio. "You're quite amusing, Zio," the Baron said, his voice tinged with smugness. "You really thought you could best him, didn't you? Abel—truly, truly a foolish mistake to underestimate him."
Zio's teeth clenched at the mockery in Vordenburg's words. His pride stung, and the bitter taste of failure was hard to swallow, but he couldn't let Vordenburg see the full depth of his frustration. Instead, he fixed the Baron with a sharp glare.
"You know nothing," Zio growled, his voice low and venomous. "Abel is a weak fool—he was lucky. I was distracted. And I will finish what I started."
Vordenburg chuckled again, his eyes narrowing with cold amusement. "Oh? Lucky, you say?" He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, his gaze piercing. "How many times has that excuse worked for you, Zio? Perhaps you'd rather blame it on luck than face the fact that you were outmatched. Outclassed, really."
Zio's fists balled at his sides, his claws digging into his own skin. He could feel his vampiric impulses stirring, urging him to lash out, to silence Vordenburg's smug smile. But he restrained himself, his lips curling into a sneer instead.
"Enough," Zio spat. "I know my limits, Baron. Don't mistake my words for weakness."
Vordenburg raised an eyebrow, his expression growing more amused. "Weakness? I'm not the one who was left bleeding on the ground, weeping like a child." His voice lowered, dripping with sarcasm. "But perhaps you should be thankful. Thanks to me, you're still alive." He leaned back in his chair, looking almost indulgent. "If I hadn't intervened, you would've been nothing more than a forgotten corpse, an afterthought."
The bite of those words cut deeper than Zio had expected. His jaw tightened, and for a brief moment, his vision blurred with rage. He forced himself to keep his composure, though the insult lingered like a poison.
"You think that I owe you something?" Zio hissed, stepping forward, his body tense. "I don't need your pity. You saved me because you needed me—not out of some misguided sense of altruism."
Vordenburg's lips curled into a smug smile. "Oh, you're mistaken, Zio. I did it because you still have use. You're a tool—our tool. You can't even fathom how much I have done for you." His eyes flickered with a glint of cold superiority. "Don't forget your place. I kept you alive because you serve a purpose. A pity you can't appreciate the magnitude of my kindness."
Zio's hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms, but his eyes never left Vordenburg. "You mock me, but I'll have the last laugh," he muttered darkly. "You think you've won because you saved me from Abel? But mark my words, Vordenburg, I'll rise higher than you ever could dream."
Vordenburg's smile widened, his eyes flashing with a mix of amusement and cold judgment. "I'm sure you will, Zio. One day, you might match me—if you survive long enough to try. But for now... you should be grateful." He stood slowly, the grandeur of his posture almost too much to bear. "You've lost, and yet here you are, alive and well. Don't waste it."
Zio's gaze burned with hatred, but the Baron's words echoed in his mind like a mocking refrain. It was true—Abel had humbled him, and Vordenburg had saved him. But Zio would not—could not—accept that this was his end. There was more to him than this failure. He would rise. He would claim the power that was rightfully his.
"You think your games are over, Vordenburg," Zio said through gritted teeth. "But you're wrong. This isn't over. Not by a long shot."
Vordenburg gave a dismissive wave of his hand, his eyes cool and uninterested. "I never said it was, Zio. Just... don't waste your third chance. It's the last one you'll get."
The atmosphere was thick with tension as Zio growled at Baron Vordenburg. The air between them crackled with unspoken words, but Vordenburg, as always, maintained his impassive facade. The Baron leaned back, his fingers steepled together, his gaze locked on Zio with a chilling calmness.
"Thanks to you," Vordenburg continued, his voice a touch colder, "Abel is no longer trusted by the Nohrians, no longer aligned with their plans. His failure is complete. He has parted ways with them—he is, in their eyes, a liability now."
Zio's eyes narrowed. He had always known that Abel yearning for repentance was fragile, he was still a Dead Apostle underneath all his vampire hunter's bravado. But the way Vordenburg spoke about Abel's loss of the Nohrians' favor... it was more satisfying than Zio had imagined. Still, there was a lingering doubt.
"You say that," Zio began, his voice sharp, "but why now? Why would we act on this when we could be capitalizing on the chaos? Abel's weakness is ripe for the taking. He's alone. I could hunt him down myself, finish the job. I won't let him slip through my fingers again."
Vordenburg's lips curled into a smirk, as if he were humoring an insolent child. "Oh, I'm sure you could, Zio," he replied, his tone tinged with mockery. "But you misunderstand the situation. You're far too eager to prove yourself, aren't you? Abel, for all his flaws, is not an easy prey to chase, not when his desperation will make him dangerous. His connection with the Nohrians might be severed, but that doesn't mean we should act rashly."
Zio's jaw clenched, but he held his tongue, wary of provoking Vordenburg further. He had been forced into this situation, forced to rely on Vordenburg's intervention. However, the arrogance in the Baron's tone was infuriating. He wanted nothing more than to take charge, to be the one to settle the score with Abel.
Vordenburg, noticing Zio's simmering frustration, leaned forward slightly, his gaze narrowing with a calculating gleam in his eyes. "You see, the Nohrians' loss of Abel does not matter as much as you think. It serves us far better to let Abel think he has free reign. He will be alone, a hunted animal, ripe for the taking when the time is right. But we..." He paused, the smile on his lips almost cruel. "We have far bigger concerns."
Zio's irritation gave way to confusion. "Bigger concerns?" he repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. "What are you talking about? We have a chance to finish him. This is the moment."
Vordenburg chuckled softly, shaking his head. "No, Zio. You have a moment, but it is not now. Abel's fate, and all that he represents, is something I will handle personally." His voice took on a hard edge, one that silenced any further protest from Zio. "You, however, have a far more important role to play."
Zio stiffened at the veiled reprimand in Vordenburg's tone, but he held his ground. "And that is?"
"Your master," Vordenburg said, enunciating each word with deliberate clarity, "has given you a task far more critical than chasing after one failed hunter. You are to gather the forces in the north. We shall invade Windmire."
Zio blinked in surprise, momentarily taken aback by the abrupt shift in the conversation. The implications of the command were not lost on him. Windmire, the stronghold of the Nohrian kingdom, a strategic target. An invasion now would throw the region into chaos, disrupt their enemies' stability, and make the Nohrians more susceptible to their influence.
"Windmire?" Zio echoed, his voice laced with incredulity. "That's your plan now? You want me to wait while you deal with Abel, and go after Windmire instead?"
Vordenburg's smile was devoid of warmth. "Yes. That is exactly what I want. Windmire is more valuable than any fleeting vendetta against Abel. While you fantasize about your personal vendetta, I will be dealing with the real threat. We will be handling Abel—together, in time. But you have a duty now. The forces you've spent the last three years gathering must be put to use. You will focus on the invasion of Nohr."
Zio's mind raced. He understood the rationale behind Vordenburg's decision—he had been obsessed with this invasion for years. It was part of a larger scheme to topple the Nohrians and reshape the region. But Zio was not one to take kindly to being told what to do, especially when his pride had been so deeply wounded.
"I see," Zio said through gritted teeth, trying to hide the frustration in his voice. "And Abel's fate is now in your hands, Baron?"
Vordenburg stood up slowly, his gaze icy, his tone cold. "You will do as you are commanded, Zio. And if you persist in underestimating Abel's potential, you will only waste your strength and lose the opportunity I've given you. I'll take care of him."
Zio forced himself to nod, though the words stuck in his throat. "Understood."
Vordenburg's smug smile returned as he turned away, his back to Zio now. "Good. I will leave you to your tasks, then. Gather the forces. And remember... do not waste this opportunity."
Zio stood there for a moment longer, his fists clenched at his sides. His gaze hardened as he turned to leave, but in his heart, a fire burned. Vordenburg had given him an order. And Zio would follow it—but not without making sure his moment, his time to strike, would come. And when it happened, there would be no one to stop him—not even Vordenburg.
…
The light streamed through the cracks in the stone walls of Castle Krakenburg, its warmth brushing against Corrin's skin, yet she felt a coldness in her heart that nothing could thaw. Her thoughts were tangled, and no matter how hard she tried to focus, they always seemed to circle back to him—Abel. The way he had held her, the intensity in his eyes, the magnetic pull of his presence. Everything about him screamed danger, and yet… there had been moments where she had felt something else. A part of her had wanted it. Wanted him.
Her fingers grazed her collarbone, as though she could feel the lingering traces of his touch, the faint echo of his voice whispering promises into her ear. It was madness, wasn't it? To even entertain such thoughts. He was a vampire, a creature of darkness, a monster who had come so close to breaking her will. And yet, in that moment—those moments—a darker part of her had stirred, a part of her that she thought she had under control. The draconic blood in her veins, the very same force that had given her strength, had also made her susceptible to a temptation she should have never even entertained.
She shuddered, pressing a hand to her chest. Why? Why had she felt the stirrings of desire when everything in her should have recoiled in disgust? Abel was dangerous—she knew that. But somewhere in the deepest recesses of her mind, she couldn't deny that part of her had been captivated. The urge had been so strong, so intoxicating. The way he had looked at her, his words laced with promises, with a hunger that mirrored her own inner conflict. The very idea of being possessed, of surrendering herself to him, made her stomach churn. Yet, there was that faint flicker of longing—of something she couldn't ignore.
Her hand balled into a fist, a mixture of anger and confusion seizing her. This wasn't her. This wasn't who she was supposed to be. She was Corrin, a princess of Nohr, the person who had fought to protect her family, to protect her kingdom. She had always been strong, resilient, and yet now, she felt as though she was teetering on the edge of something she couldn't control. A weakness, a vulnerability, that had been exposed by Abel's dark influence.
But was it just his influence? Or was there something in her—something she had long buried—that had responded to his touch? Something that had wanted to be taken, to be possessed, to be claimed by him in the same way he had claimed so many others? It was a horrifying thought. The idea that her body and soul could even want that—could long for something so twisted, so wrong.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push the thought away. No. She was stronger than that. She had to be. The gentle, compassionate Corrin who cared for her family, who loved her siblings, who had fought so hard to build Nohr's future—that person was still within her, right? The conflict between her sense of duty, her role as a ruler, and the dark desires that had been awakened by Abel's presence was tearing her apart.
How could she reconcile the two? How could she honor her duty to her kingdom, to her people, when part of her had been so easily swept away by the allure of a monster? She had felt the hunger in him, seen the madness in his eyes, and yet there had been something almost human in his pain, in his regret. She had felt his inner struggle, even if it had been overshadowed by the violence of his vampiric instincts. Was it sympathy that had stirred inside her? Or was it something else entirely? Something darker?
Her breath hitched as she thought of the way he had nearly claimed her, his lips on hers, his touch a fevered reminder of the power he wielded over her. The terror that had gripped her had been real, but so was the other feeling, the one she couldn't quite name—the one that had flared up when his lips had brushed against her skin. Her heart pounded, her pulse quickened just remembering it. What was wrong with her? Why did that moment—despite the fear, despite the violation—linger in her mind with such intensity?
And now, after everything, Abel was gone. He had left, fleeing from the consequences of his actions, and she was left with nothing but the echo of his absence and the confusion that gnawed at her. She wanted to hate him, to push him out of her mind and heart, but she couldn't. Because despite everything, there was a part of her that still wanted him. Wanted him back.
"Why?" she whispered aloud, her voice trembling in the quiet of her room. The question wasn't just for him—it was for herself, for the twisted part of her that had almost embraced the darkness he represented.
She had been raised to understand the weight of responsibility, to carry the crown of Nohr with honor and pride. But how could she do that when part of her longed to abandon everything and give in to the allure of a world that was not hers? A world of darkness, where power and temptation ruled, where she could have everything she wanted—everything she thought she wanted—in an instant.
But no. She couldn't let that happen. She wouldn't. Abel's descent into madness was a warning—her warning. She couldn't let herself be swayed by a false sense of desire. She couldn't allow her own darker instincts to take over, to ruin everything she had worked for, everything she had built. She would never be like him. She wouldn't succumb.
Corrin stood up, her fists clenched at her sides as she gazed out the window, the sunlight now blinding in its intensity. The clarity of the day contrasted sharply with the murkiness of her thoughts. She had to focus on the path ahead, not the ghosts of her past or the pull of forbidden desire. She had to be strong—for herself, for her family, for Nohr.
But as she took one last glance toward the door, the faintest flicker of uncertainty lingered in her chest. What would happen if Abel came back? What if the pull between them grew stronger? What if she couldn't control it?
She shook her head. No. She wouldn't let that happen. She wouldn't.
The Princess moved to the window, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes unfocused as she stared into the distance. Her thoughts drifted back to everything that had happened—Abel's descent into madness, his monstrous transformation, the way he had nearly consumed her in every sense of the word.
And yet… she couldn't bring herself to hate him.
That thought terrified her. She should hate him. He had betrayed her trust, shattered the fragile bond they had built, and in doing so, he had nearly broken her. His actions had crossed every line—lines she never thought he'd even approach. And yet, in the quiet of her mind, a lingering sadness remained, refusing to let go.
Her heart ached with the weight of it all.
"Why do I always end up here?" she whispered to herself, her voice trembling with frustration and sorrow. "Why does it always come back to betrayal?"
She thought of her life, the way it had been shaped by choices and betrayals. First, the revelation of her true heritage—the knowledge that she was neither fully Nohrian nor Hoshidan, but something in between. She had grown up in Nohr, believing King Garon to be her father, only to learn that she had been taken from her birth family. The Hoshidans had welcomed her with open arms, but she couldn't abandon the family she had grown up with, no matter what. She had chosen Nohr, chosen to fight for the people she loved, even as it tore her apart inside.
And now, another betrayal. Abel, someone she had trusted—someone she had even cared for—had succumbed to the darkness within him. He had hurt her, deeply, in ways she wasn't sure she could fully process yet. His touch lingered on her skin, not just physically, but emotionally. It left a scar she couldn't see, but she could feel it every time she closed her eyes.
Trust was such a fragile thing. She had learned that the hard way.
She thought of her siblings—Xander, Leo, Camilla, and Elise. They had all struggled with the concept of trust, with the harsh realities of the world they lived in. Nohr was a kingdom of darkness, where survival often meant making hard choices. Xander had taught her the importance of duty, of standing by her family no matter the cost. Leo had shown her the value of intelligence and pragmatism, even when it seemed cold or harsh. Camilla had demonstrated unwavering love and protection, while Elise embodied innocence and hope.
Corrin had tried to be all of those things. She had tried to balance duty with compassion, strength with kindness. She had tried to bring light to Nohr, to guide her family toward a better future.
But what about now? What light was left in her when her own heart felt so dark and conflicted?
She bit her lip, feeling the sting of tears threatening to fall. She thought of Abel's eyes—his normal, vibrant green eyes—before they had turned monstrous. She remembered his smile, the way he had once seemed so gentle. That image clashed violently with the memory of him as a vampire, his eyes glowing red, his touch cold and possessive, his voice filled with hunger and madness.
Was that who he really was?
Or was he still the man she had once believed in? The man who had stood by her side, who had fought alongside her, who had shared quiet moments of camaraderie?
Her mind flashed back to his words before he left. His voice had been filled with remorse, with shame. He had apologized—but apologies couldn't undo what had been done. They couldn't erase the fear she had felt, the way her heart had pounded in terror as he loomed over her, his claws tracing her skin.
But even as she remembered the fear, she also remembered something darker within herself.
A part of her had wanted him.
That realization made her stomach turn. She had always tried to be good, to do the right thing, to be a beacon of hope in the darkness of Nohr. But in that moment, when Abel had leaned in close, when his touch had sent shivers down her spine—there had been a flicker of desire. A twisted, primal urge that had stirred within her draconic blood. It was a side of herself she didn't want to acknowledge, a part of her that frightened her.
"I'm no better than him," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The thought clawed at her mind. She had always tried to suppress her draconic instincts, to control the power within her. She had seen what could happen when that power went unchecked—King Garon's descent into madness, the devastation it could cause. She had sworn to herself that she would never let that happen to her. But Abel had awakened something inside her, something dark and dangerous.
And now she was left wondering: Who am I, really?
Was she the kind, compassionate Corrin who wanted peace for her family and her kingdom? Or was she something darker—a creature of instinct and desire, someone who could be tempted by the very darkness she fought against?
The conflict tore at her, leaving her feeling hollow and lost. She wanted to believe that she was still herself, that she hadn't been changed by what had happened. But the truth was, she had been changed. Abel's actions had left a mark on her, one that wouldn't fade easily.
She thought of Trishanku's words:
"If he loses control again, I will destroy him for real."
Those words echoed in her mind. She had wanted to believe in Abel's redemption, to believe that he could overcome the darkness within him. But now, she wasn't so sure. And worse still, she wasn't sure if she could overcome her own darkness.
Her trust in Abel was shattered. But more than that, her trust in herself was shaken.
Could she trust herself to make the right choices? Could she trust herself to resist the darkness?
"I don't know," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I don't know who I am anymore."
The weight of that realization settled heavily on her shoulders. She wasn't the same person she had been before. The events in the crypt had changed her. Abel had changed her. And now, she had to figure out who she was going to be moving forward.
Would she be the light that guided Nohr to a better future?
Or would she succumb to the darkness within her?
The answer wasn't clear, and that terrified her.
But one thing was certain—she couldn't forget what had happened. She couldn't forget the way Abel had looked at her, the way she had felt in that moment.
The room was suffocating.
The air felt heavy around her, pressing down on her chest as if to smother her. Her heart raced, her mind swirled with a storm of conflicting emotions—guilt, sorrow, anger. It all bubbled beneath the surface, clawing at her insides, desperate to be let out.
Her hands trembled as she clenched them into fists.
Her reflection in the mirror taunted her. She saw herself—frail, broken, lost. Her silver hair framed her face like a halo, but there was no light in her eyes. Only shadows. Only doubt.
With a strangled cry, Corrin lashed out.
Her hand grabbed the nearest chair and hurled it across the room. The wooden frame collided with a side table, shattering both into splinters. Glass scattered across the floor, and a loud crack echoed through the chamber as the impact dislodged a hidden compartment in the wall.
Something rolled out from the shadows—a smooth, polished stone that gleamed faintly in the dim light.
Corrin froze, her chest heaving with ragged breaths, her gaze locked on the object.
The dragonstone.
She stepped toward it slowly, her feet crunching over the broken wood and glass. Her fingers trembled as she picked it up, cradling the ancient relic in her hands. It felt cool against her skin, almost soothing. But its weight—both literal and symbolic—pressed down on her like a burden she couldn't escape.
Memories flooded her mind.
It had been a day of celebration. Queen Mikoto, her mother—no, her true mother—had stood before the people of Hoshido in Castle Town, her voice ringing with warmth and pride as she announced the return of her long-lost child.
"Today, we welcome home my dearest Corrin, taken from us so many years ago. May this reunion mark the beginning of peace between our lands!"
Corrin had stood by her mother's side, feeling a strange mixture of joy and unease. The crowd had cheered. The sun had shone brightly. Everything had seemed perfect.
Until it wasn't.
The memory shifted, darkened.
The mysterious hooded figure. The glint of the cursed sword, Ganglari, as it was ripped from Corrin's hands. The sudden explosion—a deafening roar of destruction that consumed the town square in flames and chaos.
And then… silence.
She remembered the dust settling, the acrid smell of smoke, the sight of rubble and bodies strewn across the ground.
And her mother.
Queen Mikoto, lying in her arms, her form broken and lifeless. The light in her eyes extinguished forever.
"No… No!" Corrin's voice had cracked with grief, her heart shattering into pieces.
But grief had given way to something darker. Something primal.
Her dragon blood had surged to the surface, fueled by rage and sorrow. She hadn't been able to control it. Her mind had fractured, her humanity slipping away as she transformed into a monstrous dragon—wild, uncontrollable, consumed by fury.
She had lost herself.
The memory played out in her mind like a nightmare she couldn't wake from. She saw herself rampaging through the streets, roaring in anguish, destroying everything in her path. Soldiers had tried to stop her, but she had struck them down without mercy.
And then there was Azura.
Her dear friend—her savior.
Azura had stood before her, unafraid, her voice rising in song. The melody had cut through the chaos, soothing the beast within her, pulling Corrin back from the brink.
She remembered the look on Azura's face as she approached the dragon—calm, determined, but also pained.
Corrin had hurt her.
Even in her mindless rage, she had lashed out, and Azura had borne the brunt of it. Cuts and bruises marred her delicate frame, but she had never faltered. She had continued to sing, her voice unwavering.
When Corrin finally returned to her human form, she had fallen to her knees, trembling, tears streaming down her face.
"I… I hurt you," she had whispered, her voice broken.
Azura had smiled gently, despite the pain in her eyes. "You didn't mean to. I knew you would come back to yourself."
But what if she hadn't? What if Azura hadn't been there? Would she have remained a monster forever?
Corrin gripped the dragonstone tighter, her knuckles turning white.
"I'm no better than him," she whispered again, her voice hollow.
Abel's descent into madness mirrored her own. He had lost himself to his vampiric instincts, just as she had lost herself to her draconic rage. And yet, a part of her couldn't help but empathize with him.
But that was what terrified her most.
She had felt the pull of his charm, the way his voice had stirred something deep inside her. She had been drawn to him, despite the danger, despite the darkness. And in that moment, when he had leaned in close, when his touch had sent shivers down her spine—she had almost succumbed.
Almost.
The light patter of footsteps pulled her from her haze, and she turned to see Felicia, her loyal maid, enter the room with a gentle smile.
"Lady Corrin, it's time to get ready," Felicia said softly, her voice as delicate as the breeze that stirred the curtains.
Corrin nodded without a word.
Felicia approached with quiet efficiency, gathering Corrin's armor piece by piece. The familiar silver plating shimmered faintly in the dim light, but it felt heavier than usual today. As Felicia strapped the breastplate into place and adjusted the pauldrons on her shoulders, Corrin couldn't shake the feeling that she was being encased in a shell—something to hide her turmoil from the outside world.
"Hold still, please," Felicia murmured as she tightened the clasps on Corrin's gauntlets.
The maid worked with practiced care, her expression serene, though there was a flicker of concern in her eyes as she glanced at Corrin's distant gaze. She said nothing about it, simply offering a quiet presence that, in its own way, was comforting.
Felicia finished by draping Corrin's cloak over her shoulders, fastening it with a brooch shaped like a dragon's head. The clasp gleamed with the same cool silver as her armor, but it felt cold against Corrin's skin.
"Thank you, Felicia," Corrin said quietly, managing a small, tired smile.
Felicia bowed her head. "If you need anything else, Lady Corrin… I'm always here."
Corrin nodded again, watching Felicia retreat from the room before she finally turned to her reflection in the mirror.
Her gaze drifted over her armored form, but her mind was elsewhere.
Abel.
The name lingered in her thoughts like a wound that refused to heal. She had wanted to reach out to him, to stop him, but her body had frozen in place, her heart locked in turmoil.
And now…
Now he was branded an outcast.
The decree had come from King Xander himself, delivered with the cold finality that only a king's words could carry.
"Abel is to be treated as a rogue element. Should he resurface, approach with extreme caution. Trust is no longer afforded to him."
Corrin's chest ached at the memory of those words.
Abel… branded a traitor. Cast out. Alone in the world.
The man she had once trusted, the man she had believed in so deeply… was now someone she was expected to treat as a threat.
Her fists clenched at her sides.
But what hurt most wasn't the decree itself. It was the fact that, deep down, she understood why it had to be that way. Abel's descent into madness had proven the danger he posed—to himself, to Nohr, and to everyone around him. She couldn't deny it.
And yet…
...
The war council convened shortly after. Corrin sat at the long table, surrounded by familiar faces—Xander, Leo, Camilla, Elise, Niles, Laslow, Peri, Jakob, Effie, Beruka, Nyx, Charlotte, Selena, Arthur and the others. They were all focused, listening intently as Leo laid out their next strategic moves.
"…and with the enemy forces stationed at the northern pass, it would be wise to flank them from the south," Leo said, his voice calm and authoritative as he pointed to the map spread out before them.
Corrin nodded absently, her gaze fixed on the map but her mind drifting elsewhere.
She should have been paying attention. She knew that. But the words blurred together, lost in the haze of her thoughts.
Abel.
Why couldn't she stop thinking about him?
She clenched her hands in her lap, her gauntleted fingers digging into her palms. The sting of the metal pressing against her skin was grounding, but it did little to quiet her restless mind.
Why did she care so much?
He had hurt her. He had hurt all of them. His actions had brought chaos and destruction, nearly costing them their lives. She should have felt nothing but anger toward him.
And yet…
Her heart ached.
She remembered the way he had looked at her—the sorrow, the desperation, the remorse. The way he had begged for forgiveness, his voice breaking with raw emotion. He had been a man on the brink of losing everything, and in that moment, she had seen a glimpse of the Abel she had once known.
The Abel she had trusted. The Abel she had cared for.
Her chest tightened.
Why couldn't she hate him?
"…Corrin?"
Leo's voice broke through her thoughts, and she blinked, realizing that the room had fallen silent.
Leo was looking at her with a mixture of concern and irritation. "Are you listening?"
"I…" Corrin hesitated, feeling the weight of everyone's gaze on her. She forced a nod, though her heart wasn't in it. "Yes. I'm listening."
Leo frowned but continued his briefing, turning his attention back to the map.
Corrin's mind, however, continued to wander.
She thought of Abel again.
Of the way he had looked at her. The way he had touched her, his hands trembling with both longing and regret. The way his voice had cracked when he apologized—when he ran.
She had been so angry at him.
But now… now she was angry at herself.
Why did she feel this way? Why did her heart ache for someone who had hurt her so deeply?
She remembered the pull she had felt—the dark desire that had stirred within her when he had leaned in close, his voice a seductive whisper in her ear. She remembered the way her body had responded, despite her mind screaming at her to pull away.
She hated herself for it.
For feeling that pull.
For wanting him, even for a moment.
Her fists clenched again, her nails digging into her palms.
"Why?" she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. "Why do I feel this way?"
She didn't have an answer.
All she had was the ache in her chest—the unbearable, unshakable ache that wouldn't let her forget him.
Abel.
The name echoed in her mind like a haunting melody, refusing to fade.
As the war council continued around her, Corrin sat in silence, her gaze distant, her thoughts spiraling.
She didn't know what the future held.
But one thing was certain. No matter how hard she tried to push him from her mind…
She couldn't let go of Abel. And that realization tore at her soul.
...
The heavy doors of the war council chamber closed behind her with a dull thud, the echo reverberating through the stone hallways of Castle Krakenburg. The tension of the meeting still clung to Corrin's shoulders, but she needed air—space to think.
Her footsteps echoed softly as she made her way through the castle, past towering tapestries and grand windows that cast muted light across the marble floors. Servants bowed as she passed, but she barely noticed. Her thoughts weighed heavily on her mind, drowning out the world around her.
The doors to the courtyard creaked as she pushed them open. Outside, the air was cool and refreshing, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth. The gardens sprawled before her, lush and vibrant, with carefully tended flowers in full bloom despite the season's chill.
Corrin wandered through the winding paths until she reached a secluded bench beneath a towering oak tree. She sank down onto the bench, the cool stone pressing against her legs, and let out a slow, trembling breath.
Her gaze drifted across the garden, but her mind was elsewhere.
Abel.
She remembered his stories—those strange, whimsical tales he used to tell her when they traveled together.
She remembered the way his eyes would light up when he told those stories, the way his lips curved into a mischievous grin. For a moment, he seemed at peace—almost happy.
But then there were the darker memories.
Her mind drifted to the time Abel collapsed, his body trembling from overexerting his magic circuits. They had been chasing a Dead Apostle, a particularly cunning one, and Abel had pushed himself too far.
Corrin had knelt beside him, panic surging through her as she tried to rouse him. His breathing was shallow, his face pale, and for a terrifying moment, she thought he wouldn't wake up.
When he finally stirred, his gaze met hers—those piercing green eyes, usually so confident, now filled with exhaustion and pain.
Rolent, their advisor, had scolded Abel harshly after that incident.
"You're reckless. You think you're indestructible just because the Curse of Restoration patches you up? Well, let me tell you something, boy—Your vampire powers are restrained. Now there's a limit to how much punishment your body can take. You keep this up, and you'll burn out before you even get close to redemption."
And when Abel explained his past to her in more detail. The words he said.
Who said I'm truly a different person now?" he had asked, his voice quiet but filled with a weight that made her heart ache.
Corrin remembered every word:
"The Septian Church... they beat me. They sealed my vampiric powers. Maybe they saw something redeemable in a monster like me, or maybe they just thought I'd make a good asset to fight Dead Apostles and other heretics. But once they suppressed my powers... once the thirst for blood and malice were weakened... that's when I felt the faintest glimmer of what it was like to be human again."
"But when you start regaining your humanity... and you remember all the things you did as a vampire…"
Sitting in the garden now, Corrin hugged herself, her fingers digging into the fabric of her cloak.
She remembered the pain in Abel's voice that night. The sorrow. The guilt.
And now…
Now he was gone. Branded an outcast. Alone in the world once more.
Corrin clenched her jaw, her heart aching with a familiar, unwanted pain.
Why did she care so much?
She should hate him.
She should be angry—furious—for what he had done. For the chaos and danger he had brought into their lives. For the way he had hurt her, both physically and emotionally.
And yet…
Her heart wouldn't let go of him.
"Why do I keep thinking about him?" she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.
Corrin sat quietly on the stone bench, her hands resting in her lap. The sky above had darkened, streaked with hues of twilight—deep purples and soft oranges fading into the indigo of night. She hadn't realized how much time had passed since the war council meeting ended.
The cool breeze rustled the leaves of the garden trees, carrying with it the scent of dusk flowers blooming. She let out a weary sigh, her breath visible in the evening chill.
"I should go back," she murmured to herself, though her legs felt too heavy to move. Her heart still felt burdened, her mind unable to shake the memories of Abel.
She rose from the bench, stretching her stiff limbs, when a voice echoed softly through the garden.
"Does your heart still hurt, Princess Corrin?"
The unexpected question made her whirl around in alarm, hand instinctively reaching toward her hip—though she wasn't armed.
A figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the dim light of the garden lanterns.
It was Zelretch, the Wizard Marshal.
The man who had appeared from nowhere to save them from Count Zio, defeating the vampire with ease. The man who had entrusted Abel with the power to fight against other Dead Apostles.
The man who, in Corrin's eyes, had failed them all.
Corrin's gaze hardened, her posture stiffening.
"You," she said, her voice cold.
Zelretch gave a small, knowing smile, his crimson eyes gleaming faintly in the evening light. He was dressed in the same elegant, dark cloak he had worn before, his presence both regal and unsettling.
"I thought I might find you here," Zelretch said softly, clasping his hands behind his back as he approached. "The heart tends to seek solitude when burdened with doubt."
Corrin's jaw clenched. She turned away, refusing to meet his gaze.
"You have no right to speak about my heart."
Zelretch tilted his head, regarding her with a calm, thoughtful expression.
"Ah... but it seems your heart is burdened by someone we both know, isn't it?"
Corrin's fists tightened at her sides.
"Don't talk about Abel."
Zelretch remained silent, waiting patiently for her to continue.
Corrin turned back to face him, her eyes blazing with anger.
"You were wrong," she said, her voice trembling with fury. "You trusted him. You told us he could control himself. You gave him the power to fight Zio, and look what happened!"
Her voice rose, echoing through the garden.
"Abel lost control! He became a monster again! He hurt people—he almost hurt me!"
Zelretch's expression remained serene, unshaken by her outburst.
Corrin took a step toward him, her hands trembling.
"Why didn't you stop this? Why didn't you... put off that curse Zio left on him? You knew it was there! You knew it would push him over the edge!"
Zelretch sighed softly, shaking his head.
"The curse was merely a spark," he said, his voice calm and measured. "A catalyst. The fire already existed within Abel's soul. The thirst for blood, the darkness... it has always been a part of him."
Corrin's heart clenched painfully at those words.
"Then why?" she demanded. "Why did you give him a second chance if you knew he was still dangerous? Why didn't you seal away his vampiric powers completely?"
Zelretch's eyes softened.
"Because it is not my place to strip him of his struggles," he said gently. "It is his burden to bear. His trial to overcome. And if he cannot master it... then he will fall."
Corrin shook her head, her anger still simmering.
"That's cruel," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "You're leaving him to suffer, knowing he might fail."
"Perhaps," Zelretch admitted. "But he is not the first to walk such a path. Nor will he be the last."
Corrin's anger gave way to confusion. Her brow furrowed as she searched his face for answers.
"You said... it's his trial to overcome. Why is it so difficult for him? He was human once. Why can't he just... let go of his vampire nature?"
Zelretch's gaze darkened slightly, a flicker of sorrow crossing his features.
"Because everything he learned... everything he was taught by Elesia... was built on a foundation of darkness."
Corrin blinked, startled.
"Elesia? Wasn't she the Roa who turned Abel? What has she done to him?"
Zelretch regarded her quietly for a moment before nodding.
"I suppose it's time you learned the truth."