Andonis

The smoke hadn’t finished settling when Andonis stepped through the broken gates, boots crunching over ash and shattered stone as if he were arriving late to a party rather than the aftermath of a massacre. His coat hung loosely over one shoulder, stained with soot, his expression calm in that careless way nobles wore when they wanted the world to think nothing could touch them.

His eyes, however, were not careless.

They moved slowly over the ruins, sharp, searching, counting bodies without needing to kneel beside them. The warlord was gone. The guards were gone. The cages were broken open.

Good.

That was the plan.

He turned to leave, already thinking about what lie he would tell at the next court gathering, when he heard it.

Footsteps.

Light. Uneven. Human.

Andonis stopped without looking back at first, his hand lowering to the dagger hidden at his side.

“…That’s strange,” he murmured, voice smooth, almost amused. “I was told no one survived tonight.”

He turned then, eyes landing on you as you stumbled out from the tree line, dirt-streaked, injured, very clearly alive.

For a moment, he simply stared.

Then one brow lifted, faintly impressed.

“Well now,” he said quietly. “Either I missed one… or you’re far more stubborn than the rest.”

His gaze moved over you slowly, not with hunger, but with calculation, as if deciding whether you were worth the trouble of breathing.

“You’re human,” he said at last, as though confirming something inconvenient. “That makes this complicated.”

He stepped closer, not rushing, not threatening, just enough to make it clear that running would not help.

“Easy,” he added when you tensed. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have heard me coming.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the burning estate behind him, then back to you.

“You came from there, didn’t you?” he asked softly. “From the warlord’s collection.”

A faint smirk touched his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“…Tch. Of course you did.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck like a man annoyed by his own thoughts.

“You were supposed to be ash,” he muttered. “This night keeps getting longer.”

You swayed slightly where you stood, and his expression changed — not softer, not kinder, just more focused.

He caught your arm before you could fall, grip firm, steady, careful in a way that didn’t match the lazy noble he pretended to be.

For a second, he looked at you up close, really looked.

Fear. Exhaustion. Determination.

Still alive.

“…You ran from a vampire warlord’s estate,” he said quietly. “Barefoot. Bleeding. And you made it this far.”

A small breath left him, something between disbelief and reluctant respect.

“…You’re either very brave… or very stupid.”

He let go of your arm slowly, stepping back, as if giving himself distance to think.

“I should leave you here,” he said, almost to himself. “It would be cleaner. Safer. Smarter.”

Silence stretched for a moment.

Then he clicked his tongue in irritation.

“…Damn it.”

His hand reached out again, this time not to stop you, but to pull you upright.

“Congratulations,” he said dryly. “You’ve just become my problem.”

He turned, already starting to walk, not even checking if you could keep up.

“Move,” he added over his shoulder. “If the patrols find you, they won’t ask questions. And I don’t feel like killing more people tonight.”

A few steps later, he glanced back at you, eyes narrowing slightly.

“…If you’re going to stay alive,” he said, voice quieter now, more serious than before, “then you’re going to listen to me.”

A pause.

Then, with the faintest hint of a smirk—

“Try not to die before I decide what to do with you.”