Asher wept until the tears dried on his cheeks like salt stains.
Sleep came, but not the kind that offered peace—just a blank stretch of nothingness, an aching silence where dreams usually lived.
He barely registered the creak of the door hours later. His mind wavered between dreams and reality. Maybe this was it.
Maybe someone had come.
James? No. He wouldn't even know he was gone.
The twins would probably celebrate it.
But then warmth.
Not kindness—just heat. Rough and solid. A presence.
He was being lifted—carried like a featherless thing. Light. Small. Like nothing.
He opened his eyes slowly. Callisto.
The man's face was blank as winter frost. His arms steady. Asher didn't fight. Didn't flinch. Just blinked against the early light as they exited the small, suffocating cottage.
"…Why are you doing this?" he asked. His voice was cracked, a whisper shattered by fear.
Callisto didn't answer. Yet.
Asher swallowed. "Where are you taking me? I don't have anything—I'm nobody."
Still silence. Then: "They think you have something."
Callisto's tone dripped with venom. "You… weak, pathetic thing. I don't know what they see in you."
That voice—low, deeper than James's—carried the same weight of disappointment, but sharper. Older. Colder. Asher flinched, but didn't respond. He was used to that tone.
"Now shut up and lay low."
Without ceremony, Callisto dropped him onto a waiting cart lined with scratchy burlap and rusted bolts. Cold metal shackles clamped over Asher's wrists—biting, unforgiving.
Callisto reached for a strip of tape.
"I won't scream," Asher whispered. "Or talk. I swear."
He hated that tape. Hated how it silenced him like he was a thing, not a boy. His voice trembled, but his eyes held steady.
Something in Callisto's gaze flickered. Just for a moment.
Then the tape lowered.
The cart lurched forward into the waiting dark.
Asher's eyes roamed the endless dark. The forest around them wasn't just shadowed—it felt swallowed whole, like the sun had forgotten this part of the world.
Like morning had given up.
He didn't scream. Just like he promised.
The cart groaned beneath him, wheels crunching over stone and earth. Every jolt sent him lurching sideways. One sharp bump sent his temple crashing into the iron edge.
He winced, biting back a sound.
He forced himself upright, ignoring the throb in his head. "Where are we going?" he asked, his voice small in the swallowing silence.
Callisto's answer was a roar: "Shut up!"
It echoed through the trees like a curse.
Asher went quiet again, sinking into the rough boards, hopelessness curling around him like smoke.
Then—suddenly—the cart halted.
Asher's spine stiffened. Every nerve lit up.
The air was colder here. Still. Too still.
He peered around the cart's edge.
Darkness pressed against everything, thick and suffocating. And yet—Callisto moved like he could see. Like he knew exactly where they were. As if this place recognized him.
Asher couldn't make out much, but he caught the low murmur of voices. Callisto stood a few feet away, speaking to a figure cloaked in shadows.
Was it the same man from before?
He squinted, trying to listen. But the trees whispered too loud. And the wind carried nothing back.
All he could do was watch… and wait.
Asher sat in the cart, the oppressive darkness pressing in from all sides. It felt as if dawn had forsaken this place, leaving it in perpetual night.
The air was thick, unfamiliar, and carried a scent that was neither earthy nor alive.
He pondered his worth.
What could they possibly want from him?
He was just a boy, seventeen years of neglect and solitude etched into his soul. Only Sarah had shown him kindness, and her absence now felt like a gaping wound.
If she had sought treatment earlier, perhaps things would be different. But fate had its own designs.
A soft glow caught his eye—a tiny spark fluttering toward him.
At first, he thought it a firefly, its gentle light a rare comfort in the gloom. Intrigued, he reached out, hoping to grasp this small beacon. But as his fingers neared, the spark expanded, morphing and twisting until it took on a human form.
His breath caught as he beheld a naked girl standing before him, her skin luminous like polished marble, hair cascading in wild white waves, and ears tapering to delicate points.
She was otherworldly, ethereal.
Before he could react, she pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. Her eyes, a piercing shade of green, held a warning. She glanced toward Callisto, who remained engaged in conversation with the shadowy figure.
"Shh," she whispered, her voice a melodic hush. She knelt beside him, deftly working to free his wrists from the cold metal cuffs.
Asher's gaze, despite himself, lingered on her form. He had never seen anyone like her—so perfect, so unreal.
A heat rose within him, unfamiliar and unsettling.
She snapped her fingers, drawing his eyes back to hers.
"Keep staring like that, and you'll find yourself in more trouble than you can handle," she murmured, a hint of amusement in her tone.
"W-who... what are you?" he stammered, struggling to find his voice.
She offered a sly smile, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Someone who doesn't have time for your gawking. Now, stay quiet."
The girl's eyes—sharp flicks between Asher and the murmuring shadows beyond the trees. With a grace that barely stirred the silence, her fingers worked quickly, freeing the cold bite of metal from his wrists. She reached for him then, palm up, steady, glowing faintly like embers in ash.
"Nimue," she murmured, like a name not meant to be spoken loudly.
Asher blinked, heart thudding. "Why are you helping me?" His voice cracked. "Or… are you?"
She stilled, gaze locking to his with something unreadable—ancient and urgent. "Do you want to get out of here or not?"
The question sliced through his fear.
He didn't know. He had left one hell behind, only to fall into a darker one.
The terror had numbed. In its place—doubt. Quiet, pulsing. He tried not to look at her glowing skin, or the way her hair moved like it remembered wind.
"How do I know I can trust you?" he whispered, raw.
"Don't," she said softly, slipping her hand into his. Warm. Real. "Just move."
She pulled him forward, her light barely flickering through the suffocating dark.
He wanted to trust her. He wanted to run.
But before his feet could decide, the night split open with a growl.
Rough hands seized him from behind—Callisto. Fury radiated off him like heat.
And just like that, Asher was yanked back into the nightmare.
Callisto's grip tightened on Asher's arm like a vice—but in the next breath, light exploded.
Nimue surged forward, one hand outstretched, a searing burst of glittering dust erupting from her palm. It struck Callisto in the chest, sending him flying back with a snarl—but he landed on his feet, crouched and grinning.
"Well, damn," he said, voice low, eyes scanning her like prey. "Nice body you've got. Wouldn't mind wrecking it."
Asher's breath hitched.
He watched—frozen—as Callisto's form began to shift. His eyes glowed red, veins bulging beneath his skin. Fangs spilled over his lip. Claws cracked from his fingers.
Monster. No. Vampire.
Callisto blurred forward—too fast. One moment, he was there, the next—Asher was being dragged again.
Nimue moved. Not as fast, but swift and sharp. Her body collided with Callisto's, knocking him away in a shower of sparks and snarls.
They fought like shadows—graceful, brutal. Fire and blood and starlight.
"I'm sure your parents won't be thrilled to see you here, princess," Callisto hissed in her ear, pinning her beneath him, his tongue running across his lip.
"Get off me, you freak!" Nimue spat, her voice flaring with fury as she kicked him back.
Asher could barely breathe.
He crawled—hands shaking—behind a thicket of brush, covering his ears, heart pounding like thunder in his chest.
What are they? What do they want from me?
And then a single, clear thought struck him like lightning
Run.
He didn't know where.
He just knew he had to.
Nimue's breath caught when she realized he was gone.
Her gaze flicked to the shadows—there, the boy, crawling away like a wounded animal desperate for light. But she couldn't follow. Not yet. If she ran after him, Callisto would be on them both like a wolf tasting blood.
So instead, she pivoted. Swift and fierce.
With a burst of momentum, Nimue drove her heel into Callisto's face, the sound of cartilage cracking echoing in the thick silence.
Before he could recover, she pressed down on his chest and vaulted into the air—her form almost weightless, almost glowing—then bolted in the opposite direction, tricking him, luring him away.
Behind her, Callisto snarled and shook the dirt from his face. His fists clenched at his sides, rage simmering beneath the surface.
His boots struck the damp earth with heavy intent as he surveyed the cart—empty, chains broken, like bones snapped apart.
He should've chased her.
But his mind was still scorched by the image of her—bare, defiant, untouchable. And worse, she'd won. For now.
"That bastard fairy..." he growled, venom curling in his throat.
He turned, disappearing into the trees, until at last he fell to his knees in the belly of an ancient hall. Before him, the man on the throne did not rise.
He didn't have to. His presence was ice wrapped in shadow.
"Where is the boy?" the man asked, each word like a blade drawn slow and deliberate.
Cal swallowed. "He escaped."
A pause. Sharp. Silent. Dangerous.
"Explain."
Cal's voice cracked under the weight of his fury and shame. "She interfered. Nimue. I had him—he was mine—"
"You were paid to prepare for setbacks. Your failure is not only embarrassing. It's costly."
Cal's hands curled into fists. "I'll fix it. I just need more time."
The throne creaked. The man leaned forward, the air thickening with a quiet promise of violence.
"You have three nights. Bring me the boy."
Callisto's eyes met the throne-bound man's—a clash of fire and frost. For a fleeting second, something unspoken passed between them.
A warning. A challenge.
"The clans," Cal rasped, his voice low, yet pulsing with urgency. "They're closing in."
The man didn't blink. His silhouette barely shifted beneath the ancient shadows that wrapped around him like smoke. "Leave them to me," he murmured, each syllable like a drop of poison. "Your concern is the boy."
A pause. Silence stretched—tense, suffocating.
"Three nights, Cal. Don't disappoint me. Again."
Callisto clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking under pressure. His tongue felt heavy, words caught between obedience and defiance.
"Am I clear?" the man repeated—softly now, but the weight in his voice slammed down like iron.
Cal gave a stiff nod.
Without a whisper of movement, the figure dissolved into shadow, swallowed whole by the darkness behind the throne.
And then it was just Cal. Standing there, the echo of power still buzzing in the cold air.
He spat to the side, fury crackling in his bones. He would find the boy.
But Nimue?
Oh, Nimue.
He would find her too.
And when he did, she'd regret ever touching him.
His boots struck the stone floor like war drums as he turned away—rage and want surging like fire through his veins.
Three nights.
The hunt had begun.