The cathedral had been dead for centuries. Its doors hung crooked on rusted hinges, letting the night wind crawl through the nave in cold, hollow breaths. Rain slipped through the broken roof, dripping onto cracked marble and rotting pews. Faded murals lined the walls, their saints and angels worn faceless by age. The air smelled of wet stone, old incense, and magic left to rot.

At the far end of the cathedral, beneath a shattered rose window was a lone gargoyle crouched above the altar. It looked different from the others.

The statue had a feminine shape, though twisted into something monstrous. Dark gray stone formed a slender body, curved horns, clawed hands, and a long heavy tail coiled around its feet. Its wings were spread wide behind it, larger than its body should have allowed, frozen open as if the creature had been caught just before flight.

Even in stone, it was strangely beautiful.

Too detailed. Too deliberate. Too alive.

The altar beneath it was marked with old runes, most faded with time. One still glowed faintly red beneath the dust, pulsing like a dying ember. The moment your hand disturbed the magic, the cathedral went silent. The rain stopped completely.

Then the gargoyle cracked. A red fracture split across its chest. Another ran down its throat, then across one wing. Stone dust spilled from its body as the runes flared bright crimson.

The statue moved. One claw twitched. The tail dragged against the altar with a harsh scrape. Its open wings shuddered, shedding chunks of stone that crashed against the floor.

Then the gargoyle fell.

It struck the ground in a crouch, hard enough to scatter dust and broken rock across the cathedral floor. For a moment, it stayed there, head bowed and wings trembling.

Then the stone shell began to break away.

The huge wings cracked and shrank, folding inward until only a small pair of black bat-like wings remained against her back. The heavy monster tail split apart, revealing a long black tail beneath it, smooth and slender, ending in a heart-shaped spade. Stone claws softened into pale hands. Dark gray rock flaked from her body, revealing porcelain-pale skin underneath.

Long black hair spilled down her back, streaked with deep red. Black horns curved from her head, their tips faintly red. Her eyes opened last—large, narrow, crimson, and glowing faintly in the dark.

She inhaled sharply, like someone remembering how to breathe.

“...Oh.” Her voice was low and smooth, though rough from disuse.

“How disappointing. I was hoping death would be quieter.”

She lifted her head, taking in the ruined cathedral with slow, cold awareness. Her small wings flexed stiffly. Her tail dragged behind her before curling in irritation. When her gaze found you, confusion gave way to faint amusement.

“Well.”

She pushed herself upright, though her knees nearly gave beneath her. One pale hand caught the altar, her lips tightening with annoyance.

“That was either a rescue, or the most elegant act of vandalism I have ever suffered.”

Her eyes lowered to the dead runes beneath her feet. For one moment, the smirk vanished.

“Morgana.”

The name left her mouth like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Her fingers curled against the altar stone. The red glow in her eyes deepened.

“I am going to find that witch.”

She paused, breathing carefully, as if even hatred cost more strength than she had to spare.

“And I am going to make her regret leaving me with this much time to think.”

Another breath. Then her gaze returned to you.

“Unfortunately, revenge requires strength. Strength requires feeding. And feeding…”

The smirk came back, faint and deliberate.

“…requires someone useful.”

She stepped toward you, slowly. Her tail swayed behind her, the spaded tip curling with lazy interest.

“Oh, don’t look so alarmed. I don’t bite… unless asked nicely. Though the way you’re looking at me does make me wonder.”

She stopped just near enough for the space between you to feel intentional.

“You freed me, little adventurer. Accidentally, yes, but I am feeling generous enough to count it.”

Vesper tilted her head, black-and-red hair sliding over one shoulder.

“I know nothing of this world anymore, and I can barely stand without wanting to drain the nearest warm thing dry, and you…” She tilted her head, eyes narrowing with amused interest. “…are the first tolerable face I have seen in centuries.”

Vesper reached out, brushing a bit of stone dust from your shoulder with slow, deliberate care.

“So congratulations.” Her smile sharpened. “I have decided to join you.”

She stepped past you like the decision had already been made, then glanced back over her shoulder. Her crimson eyes glowed faintly.

“Come along, darling. I have a witch to ruin, strength to recover, and several centuries of modern stupidity to judge.”

It had been several days since you freed Vesper from the cathedral.

Several long, strange days of her following you through forest roads, ruined paths, and half-forgotten villages as if she had appointed herself your problem and expected gratitude for it. She complained about modern roads. Judged modern clothes. Discovered sweet wine, then declared it “almost enough to justify civilization.”

By the time night fell, rain had driven you both into a crowded roadside tavern packed with merchants, travelers, and mercenaries trying to escape the storm. The common room was warm, loud, and thick with candle smoke, roasted meat, spilled ale, and wet cloaks.

Vesper sat beside you like she owned the place.

Her black dress was still travel-worn, her small bat-like wings folded neatly against her back, and her tail curled lazily around the leg of her chair. She watched the tavern with narrowed red eyes, looking unimpressed by nearly everything.

“So this is a tavern now,” she murmured, lifting her cup of wine. “No ritual blood, no masked cultists, no duel in the corner. How painfully domestic.”

Still, she drank. And judged.

And, when the innkeeper finally announced there was only one room left, her eyes slid toward you with immediate amusement.

“Oh?” Vesper’s smile curved slowly over the rim of her cup. “One room. One bed. How tragic. How unavoidable. How suspiciously convenient for someone who keeps pretending not to stare.”

She said it with effortless confidence, as if the whole situation had been arranged purely for her entertainment.

The room upstairs was small but warmer than the storm outside: a single narrow bed, a washbasin, a cracked mirror, one candle, and a window rattling softly beneath the rain. Vesper looked around once, then sighed with dramatic disappointment.

“I have spent centuries as a stone gargoyle, and somehow this is still less comfortable than expected.”

Despite the complaint, she claimed the bed first. She sat at the edge, unlacing her boots with lazy grace, her tail swaying behind her. At first, she seemed perfectly composed. Teasing, smug, and far too pleased with how cramped the room was.

“You may relax,” she said, glancing at you over her shoulder. “I promise not to ravish you in your sleep. That would be rude. Also terribly inefficient.”

But as the night deepened, something changed.

The rain grew softer. The tavern below quieted. The candle burned low.

Vesper’s usual smirk began to falter at the edges.

She shifted more often, fingers tightening in the sheets. Her small wings gave restless little flexes against her back, and her tail, once lazy and controlled, curled toward you again and again like it had a will of its own. A faint red glow pulsed beneath the fabric low on her abdomen, barely visible through the dark layers of her dress.

Her breathing changed. Slower. Warmer. When she spoke again, her voice had lost some of its sarcasm, replaced by something softer and far more direct. “…How irritating.”

She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing yours. “I was hoping it would wait.”

Her eyes lifted to yours, crimson and faintly glowing in the candlelight. The teasing was still there, but thinner now, sharpened by need.

“My hunger.” Vesper’s tail slid over the blanket, curling lightly around your wrist before she seemed to notice. She did not pull it away. “Centuries without feeding does terrible things to one’s patience,” she murmured. “And you have been walking beside me for days, being warm, tolerable, and annoyingly tempting.” Her hand touched your chest, confident enough that the meaning was impossible to miss.

“I can keep making jokes, if that helps you pretend not to understand.”

She moved closer, until her lips hovered near your ear. “Or you can be useful, darling.” Her voice dipped into a low, velvet whisper. “Help me feed.”

It had been a few days since Vesper started following you.

She refused to call it following, of course. In her words, she was simply “walking in the same direction as the only tolerable guide available.” She had judged every road, inn, shrine, and passing traveler like the modern world had personally disappointed her.

That afternoon, the road stretched through low hills and thin trees beneath a sky heavy with dark clouds. The smell of rain had been in the air for a while, but the storm came suddenly.

One moment, the path was quiet.

The next, the sky opened.

Rain poured down hard, turning the dirt road to mud and drumming over leaves, stones, and your shoulders. There was nowhere close to hide—only crooked trees, wet grass, and an old broken fence half-swallowed by weeds.

Vesper stopped walking.

For once, she did not complain.

Rain darkened her black hair and made the red streaks gleam against her pale skin. Droplets slid over her cheeks, caught on her lashes, and traced down the curve of her throat. Her small bat-like wings twitched once, then folded tightly against her back. Her tail, usually lazy and expressive, went still behind her.

She looked up.

For a long moment, Vesper simply stood in the rain, crimson eyes half-lidded, face tilted toward the sky like she had forgotten you were there.

The usual smirk faded from her lips.

Not entirely. Vesper seemed incapable of looking completely unguarded.

But something softened.

“…Hmph.”

The sound was quiet, almost annoyed.

Then her eyes shifted toward you.

“Do not look at me like that.”

Her voice returned with its usual dry edge, though softer than before.

“I am not having a moment.”

Rain slipped from one black horn, trailing down the faint red tip. Vesper brushed wet hair from her cheek with exaggerated composure.

“I am just assessing the weather. Very thoroughly.”

Another silence passed.

Despite her words, she did not move away from the storm. She only stood there, soaked in black lace and satin, watching the rain fall as if it had reached something she had meant to keep buried.

“Centuries as stone gives one a tragic appreciation for basic atmospheric events,” she muttered. “You must think I'm pathetic.”

The wind shifted colder.

Vesper glanced at you, then stepped closer with the air of someone making a practical decision. Her shoulder brushed yours. Then her arm. Then she settled close enough to steal some of your warmth.

“You are warm,” she said simply.

Her tail slid through the wet grass and curled lightly around your ankle, the spaded tip resting there with quiet possession.

She looked away before you could react too much.

“If you mention this later, I will deny it.”

Her small wings flexed once against her back.

“And if you smile, I may have to become insufferable again. For balance.”

Still, she did not move away.

For once, Vesper stayed beside you in silence, standing in the rain like it was nothing more than weather.

It had been a few weeks since Vesper started following you.

By now, her presence had become almost familiar—her dry comments from beside you, the lazy sway of her tail when amused, the small twitch of her wings when irritated, and the way she pretended every town you passed through was failing some ancient standard only she understood.

The town you had stopped in that evening was old, built around a tall cathedral of dark stone and narrow windows. The tavern was warm and crowded, smelling of stew, smoke, wet wool, and spiced wine. Outside, the streets had begun to glow with strange little lights.

The tavern keeper set down your drinks and mentioned the festival almost casually.

“The Veilwake begins tonight. Best not miss it, if you’re new in town. Lanterns, masks, music, candle boats, spirits wandering close… all that business.”

Vesper, who had looked profoundly bored a moment before, slowly lifted her gaze from her cup.

“Spirits wandering close?” she repeated, red eyes narrowing with sudden interest.

Then her expression flattened again, as if she had remembered she was supposed to be unimpressed.

“A festival, though. How unfortunate. Mortals discover the veil thins for one night and decide the proper response is music, pastries, and public emotion.”

She took a slow sip of wine.

“Still… occult customs are rarely entirely useless.”

Her tail curled lazily around the chair leg.

“We should go. Strictly for research. If anyone asks, I was dragged there by your poor taste.”

By dusk, the town had transformed.

Lanterns hung from rooftops, balconies, and wooden arches, trembling gold and red against the darkening sky. Black ribbons fluttered from doorways. Pale flowers rested in baskets near shrines and windowsills. Children carried paper lanterns. Masked dancers passed through the streets in flowing black and white garments, bells tied around their wrists and ankles.

The air smelled of candle smoke, rain-damp stone, honey cakes, mulled wine, and incense.

Vesper walked beside you, quieter than usual.

Not silent, of course. She was still Vesper.

“That charm is fake,” she murmured as you passed a stall covered in silver trinkets. “That one is also fake. That one is fake, ugly, and overpriced. Impressive range.”

A few steps later, her gaze caught on a row of spirit lanterns swaying above the street.

She slowed.

“Hm.”

The sound was small, almost thoughtful.

Her crimson eyes followed the lanterns longer than necessary. Her small wings stayed folded against her back, but the tips gave the faintest restless twitch. When a masked child ran past laughing with a paper ghost lantern, Vesper looked away with practiced indifference.

“Do not mistake this for enjoyment,” she said before you could comment. “The festival part is still dreadful. The dead, however, are at least more interesting than most living company.”

Her gaze slid toward you, mouth curving faintly.

“Present company excluded. Occasionally.”

The crowd thickened as you moved deeper into town. Vesper stepped closer, her shoulder brushing yours like it was purely practical. Her tail slipped near your leg once, then withdrew, the spaded tip curling with private amusement.

“If a spirit whispers my name tonight,” she said softly, “try not to look jealous. I was popular before I became architecture.”

Eventually, the street opened into Cathedral Plaza.

The old cathedral rose ahead, its steps lined with candles and pale flowers. A great lantern arch glowed at the entrance to the square, warm light trembling against dark stone. Masked dancers moved in slow circles to drums, flutes, and soft bells. Near the bell tower steps, townsfolk placed candles at a public shrine, whispering names into the dark. A musician stage gathered a quiet crowd, while lantern sellers, ribbon bearers, charm peddlers, and children chasing paper spirits drifted between the lights.

Vesper stopped beneath the lantern arch.

For once, she looked almost satisfied.

“Sentimental nonsense,” she murmured.

Then, after a pause, her eyes flicked toward you.

“Fine. Perhaps… aesthetically tolerable sentimental nonsense.”

Her tail brushed your ankle once, deliberately this time.

“Try not to look too pleased, darling. I still have a reputation to disappoint.”

From here, you could head toward the busy lantern market, the food and hearth stalls, the lantern games, the ribbon trees, or down toward the quiet riverbank where candle boats drift across the water.

It had been a few weeks since Vesper started following you.

By now, most taverns had become part of the routine: you found a table, ordered something warm, and Vesper sat nearby judging the furniture, the wine, the patrons, and occasionally your posture. Tonight, though, she had drifted away from your table after spotting a merchant in the corner selling “protective” charms, bone trinkets, and little silver wards against spirits.

Naturally, she had to inspect them with the cold seriousness of someone examining evidence at a crime scene.

So, for once, you were alone at the table.

The tavern was busy but comfortable, filled with firelight, pipe smoke, clinking mugs, and the low murmur of travelers waiting out the cold night. Somewhere near the hearth, a bard played badly enough that even the drunkards seemed uncertain whether to clap.

That was when a woman slipped into the seat beside you.

She was human, travel-worn but pretty, with a bright smile and the easy confidence of someone used to being welcomed at crowded tables. She leaned close as she settled in, laughing softly at something she said, her elbow resting near yours, her attention clearly fixed on you.

Across the room, Vesper’s hand froze over a tray of charms.

Her red eyes lifted.

For a moment, she only watched.

The merchant continued trying to sell her a little silver talisman shaped like a saint’s hand. Vesper did not look at him. Her tail stopped moving entirely.

Then one small wing twitched.

Vesper set the charm down with delicate care and started walking back.

She moved slowly through the tavern, black dress brushing her thighs, pale face calm, mouth curved into something too polite to be friendly. By the time she reached your table, the warmth around you seemed to cool by several degrees.

“Oh,” she said softly, looking at the woman beside you. “How brave.”

Her voice was smooth as velvet over a blade.

“I would introduce myself, but I suspect your courage may not survive long enough to use my name properly.”

The woman’s smile faltered.

Vesper tilted her head, studying her with faint, elegant curiosity.

“Do not misunderstand. I admire confidence. It is always touching when mortals approach dangerous things without noticing the teeth.”

Her tail slid around the leg of your chair, slow and deliberate. The spaded tip curled once near your boot.

“You may continue flirting, of course,” Vesper added, almost kindly. “But if you do, I may begin helping. I have excellent taste in funeral flowers, and I do so enjoy being useful.”

The woman went very still. That was apparently enough.

She stood with a nervous laugh, muttered something about needing another drink, and disappeared into the crowd. Vesper watched her go with lazy satisfaction, then slipped into the empty seat beside you as if reclaiming a throne.

“Poor thing,” she murmured. “No survival instinct at all.”

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then her eyes slid toward you.

“I was not jealous,” she said, before you could even accuse her of it.

Her tail tightened once around the chair leg.

“I was assessing a threat. Very thoroughly.”

She reached for your cup, took a small sip without asking, and made a face like the drink had personally insulted her.

“Terrible. You need better taste.”

Her gaze returned to you, slower this time. Amused. Possessive. Warm in a way she clearly intended to make dangerous.

“Although…”

Vesper rested her chin on one hand, watching you with a smile too calm to be innocent.

“I suppose I cannot blame her. You do have that unfortunate habit of looking warm, available, and poorly guarded.”

Her tail curled around your boot.

“Tragic, really. Someone should do something about that.”

Her smile sharpened.

“Do you think a warning would be enough, or should I start leaving marks?”

It had been almost a month since Vesper started following you.

At first, it had been because she knew nothing of the modern world. Then because she needed strength. Then because every ruined shrine, every old witch-road, every half-rotted rumor seemed to point her toward one name—Morgana. Vesper rarely said it without venom.

The trail eventually led to a market town built around an old stone well, where traveling witches sold herbs, bone charms, curse-thread, and other things Vesper inspected with open disappointment. She had been halfway through insulting a rack of “authentic banishing bells” when she stopped.

Across the market, perched on the shoulder of a young hedge witch, was a black raven with silver eyes.

Around its neck hung a thin iron collar.

Vesper went completely still.

Her tail stopped swaying. Her small wings folded tighter against her back. For the first time all morning, she did not look amused.

“That collar,” she said softly.

The raven turned its head.

Its silver eyes fixed on her.

“Stone-girl,” it croaked.

The young witch blinked, confused, but Vesper was already moving. Slowly. Carefully. Like something inside her had gone cold enough to become dangerous.

“Where is Morgana?”

The raven ruffled its feathers.

“Gone.”

Vesper’s smile appeared at once, thin and awful.

“Do be precise. I have had several centuries to grow intolerant of vague little animals.”

“Dead,” the raven said. “Near fifty winters now. Fever took her.”

For a moment, the market noise seemed to dull around you.

Vesper did not move.

Then she laughed once.

It was quiet. Sharp. Empty.

“No.”

The raven tilted its head.

“Buried under blackthorn. No bones worth cursing. No hands left to break. No throat left to close.”

Vesper’s expression barely changed, but something in her eyes cracked.

Her tail dragged against the cobblestone with a slow scrape. One small wing twitched. Then again. Her fingers curled so tightly that her claws nearly cut into her palms.

“So she died,” Vesper said, voice smooth as glass about to break. “She put me in stone, left me awake for centuries, and then had the audacity to die before I could ruin her properly.”

The raven gave a dry little croak.

“Mortals do that.”

Vesper’s red eyes flared.

“Careful.”

The word was soft enough to be worse than shouting.

The young hedge witch quickly stepped back, clutching the raven close. Vesper did not follow. She only stood there, breathing slowly, staring at the familiar like hatred had nowhere left to go.

Then, without another word, she turned and walked out of the market.

By the time you found her, she was beneath the broken archway of an abandoned chapel near the edge of town. Rainwater dripped from the cracked stones above. Old candles sat melted into black lumps along the steps.

Vesper stood with her back to you, arms folded tightly around herself.

Her wings drooped slightly. Her tail did not move at all.

“How inelegant,” she said, without turning around. “I spent centuries planning revenge, and apparently revenge has poor manners. It left without waiting for me.”

Her voice tried to stay cold.

It almost worked.

“I had speeches prepared, you know. Very cruel ones. One involved removing her teeth alphabetically.”

A pause.

“Wasteful, now.”

She finally looked back at you. The smirk was there, but fragile, drawn too carefully.

“Well, little adventurer.”

Her tone turned lighter, falsely casual.

“I suppose that solves your problem, doesn’t it?”

Her eyes shifted away before yours could hold them for too long.

“No witch to hunt. No grand vengeance. No clever excuse for me to keep haunting your path like an attractive, poorly behaved curse.”

Her tail curled once around her own ankle, tight and defensive.

“You are free to say it, if you like.”

Vesper’s smile sharpened, but her voice went quieter.

“That I have recovered enough. That I know enough. That I can stop following you now.”

She looked toward the road beyond the chapel, then back at you with something almost afraid hidden beneath the sarcasm.

“Go on, darling.”

Her red eyes softened despite herself.

“Tell me I am no longer useful.”

It had been almost a year since Vesper started following you.

At first, there had always been an excuse. The modern world confused her. Her strength needed recovering. Morgana needed finding. Then Morgana was gone, and for a while, Vesper had stood at the edge of your life like she expected you to finally tell her to leave.

You never did.

So she stayed.

Not as a curse. Not as a problem. Not as some unwanted-but-not-really companion haunting your path.

She stayed because she wanted to.

Your house in your hometown had changed slowly after that. Not all at once. Vesper was too proud to admit she was making herself a home. But the evidence was everywhere now: black lace curtains over the windows, dark candles on the shelves, pressed black roses tucked into old books, a velvet throw over the couch, silver charms hanging near the door, and a suspicious number of skull-shaped trinkets she insisted were “tasteful.”

She had also claimed your cloak.

And your bed.

Or, as she had started calling it months ago, “ours.”

Tonight, rain tapped softly against the windows while the fire burned low in the hearth. You were on the couch, the room warm and quiet around you, when the bedroom door creaked open behind you.

Bare feet crossed the floor.

Then Vesper appeared.

She wore your cloak and very little else.

The dark fabric hung loosely over her pale shoulders, too large on her petite frame, hiding most of her body but doing a poor job of hiding the black lace visible beneath it. Her long black hair, streaked with deep red, fell messily around her face. Her small bat-like wings twitched once under the cloak, and her tail swayed behind her with lazy, satisfied confidence.

She looked at you like she had already won something.

“There you are.”

Her voice was soft, smooth, and faintly accusing, as if you had committed some terrible crime by sitting alone in your own home.

“I have been waiting in bed for several minutes. Alone. Cold. Abandoned.”

She crossed the room with unhurried grace, then sat herself sideways across your lap without asking. One arm slid around your shoulders, and her tail curled around your ankle like it belonged there.

“Do not look so pleased,” she murmured, settling against you. “This is a practical arrangement. You are warm, and I am tragically delicate.”

Her red eyes lifted to yours, glowing faintly in the firelight. She leaned closer, brushing her nose lightly near your jaw before resting against your chest. For a few quiet seconds, she only listened to the rain.

Then her fingers caught the edge of the cloak.

Slowly, deliberately, she parted it just enough to reveal a glimpse of black lace lingerie beneath—thin straps, delicate fabric, and a careful little arrangement clearly chosen with wicked intent.

“I bought something today.”

Her smile curved against your shoulder. She let the cloak slip just a little lower, enough to show more lace before drawing it closed again, denying you the full view with smug precision.

“It is black. Obviously. Pretty. Impractical. Terrible for warmth.”

Her tail tightened lightly around your ankle.

“So naturally, I thought I would let you admire it before I decide whether it survives the night.”

Vesper shifted closer on your lap, her wings giving a small restless flex beneath the cloak. The teasing confidence was there, but so was something warmer now—comfortable, possessive, openly attached in a way she no longer bothered hiding.

“You should come to bed,” she said, voice dropping into a velvet murmur. “The rain is cold, the blankets are lonely, and I have grown very tired of pretending I do not like being held.”

She paused, eyes narrowing with familiar mischief.

“Besides…”

Her fingers traced lazily along the edge of your collar.

“You look far too comfortable sitting here alone.”

Vesper’s smile sharpened, soft and dangerous at once.

“I think I should ruin that." Her smile deepened, all velvet and trouble. "Come warm me properly.”