Some things should remain hidden forever from others. Such as our thoughts and long-buried memories.
I woke up in the night and decided to have a cocoa—a bad idea. On my way to the kitchen, Elsie bumped into me. She was surprised and wanted to call out to me, but I turned around and marched back to my room. I decided to try to smother myself in a pillow again.
I wasn't surprised to find myself back in the consciousness of Lordling.
"Your task is the same as last time," he instructed.
I approached the tree, but to Lordling's surprise, I didn't begin climbing it. Until now, his control had been impeccable. Until that moment I had no idea that when I was in someone's mind I could sense their feelings.
I pressed my palm against the rough bark and closed my eyes. I heard Lordling jump in alarm, but it was too late. A handful of leaves detached from the branch, and I was drawn into a swirling black vortex of memories.
Lordling had once been an apprentice mage alongside a middle-class master. Back then, he would lie in the grass of the fields, lost in thought, inventing spells or simply relaxing.
People despised him. They recoiled at the color of his eyes—dark fuchsia, not quite as red as a vampire's, but enough to remind them of nocturnal killers. Even his master avoided eye contact, having only accepted Lordling because of the financial incentive his family provided. His parents were similarly cold, so he spent little time at home.
Despite having the means to alter his eye color with magic, Lordling chose not to. His eyes were a reminder that he was different, that fear was his armor. He had always known he was unlike other children—what others achieved with great effort, he mastered naturally.
One day, a boy arrived at the meadow, roughly Lordling's age, maybe fourteen or sixteen. My eyes widened in shock as I recognized Gironde Mehisto. His reddish hair was cropped short, his eyes sparkled with life, and his grin was genuine.
Gironde spoke, but Lordling neither replied nor looked up. The boy leaned over, blocking the sky, their eyes meeting. Lordling's glare would have sent most villagers running, but Gironde merely smiled.
Lordling never forgot his words.
"Wow, what an unusual color! You have beautiful eyes!"
Those two sentences sparked their friendship. Gironde, the middle child of a mediocre noble, was an apprentice mage like Lordling himself—though Giro was mediocre at magic too. He had no problems—and if he did, he could count on Lodrling's help—but he could not be said to be particularly gifted.
Together, they plotted pranks, fled from irate villagers, shared meals, practiced magic, and grew up, becoming sought-after mages. They even fell for the same girl.
Nancy chose Gironde. Lordling didn't resent his friends, but he couldn't share their joy. There's nothing more reassuring, yet painful, than watching the two people you love fall for each other. With their hearts filled, there was no room left for him. So, Lordling set out on his journey.
Years passed. He visited home occasionally, the last time prompted by a letter from Gironde. Nancy was dying. Lordling was too late. She had been dead for three days by the time he arrived.
Desperate, Gironde attempted the unthinkable—reviving Nancy. Lordling hadn't noticed the signs and cursed himself for it. Gironde was never the same afterward. His emotions dulled, leaving only an unhealthy obsession with Nancy.
Though he knew he should have stayed to help, Lordling couldn't bear it. He had lost his love, his best friend, his only family. He buried the memories and moved on, as one must.
Until the day he met Gironde again. Until the day of the betrayal. Lordling clenched his fists, then relaxed. A necromancer needs no emotions. Their duty is to maintain balance and guide Fate. Nothing more. When he was cast into the Mirrorworld, Lordling did not resist.
My chest ached, even after the memories dissolved into a wisp of mercury smoke before my eyes. When I opened them, it was the dark fuchsia gaze I first saw, piercing and unrelenting.
I glanced down at my chest, the pain stubbornly lingering. The scars etched across my skin, most barely two inches long, throbbed with a searing intensity far beyond what their size suggested. The wound was healing, but at a pace far slower than reality would allow.
"This is to protect my memories," Lordling said quietly. "Each letter leaves a cut. The more significant the memory, the deeper the wound. It hurts more because it's not just on your body—it's carved into your mind. The memories must be relived in order, so by the time someone reaches the most vital secrets, they're no longer useful."
He sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. I knew the only reason I remained intact was because Lordling had shielded me.
"How much did you see?" he asked, his voice aiming for lightness but falling short.
"I think... a lot," I admitted, unable to meet his gaze.
"I see," he whispered. "It's my fault. I didn't think you'd uncover the secret of the tree. I underestimated you."
"In truth, I had no idea what I was doing," I said. "I just touched it, and the next moment, it pulled me into the memory."
"You attuned instantly..." he murmured, disbelief flickering in his voice.
I could feel Lordling's unease, a palpable tension he struggled to conceal.
"I think I should go," I said, sensing the weight of the moment. He nodded silently.
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling for several minutes, the remnants of memory and pain intertwining in the quiet stillness.
(...)
The Weasel had gotten way too drunk again and was picking on my favourite vampire. I watched with a devilish grin as the guy tried to shake off the drunken pest, who clung to him with a bemused half-smile. Of course, the Weasel wasn't budging.
"Come on, old man, just one beer!" he slurred, his voice carrying an entitled edge. "You really should buy me one! After all, it's thanks to me that you finally managed to pick up the hag! If I hadn't pointed her out, you wouldn't have noticed her interest!"
Wait—this bastard is the reason?
"I don't think you should drink any more," the vampire muttered, his tone defensive.
"Don't worry," the Weasel's mage friend chimed in, waving a hand, "I'll brew us something for the hangover tomorrow. Now, give me a beer!"
In a flash, I snatched the glass of water from the vampire's hand and, with a smooth motion, drenched the Weasel's head. He yelped in surprise, the cold water making him jump.
His eyes darted around for his assailant, but when they landed on me, he froze. My gaze, calm and cold, made him hesitate. His mage friend beside him was roaring with laughter, clutching his stomach. After a moment, the Weasel's glare softened, and with a wave of the mage's hand, the drunken fool was dry—though the apprentice mage didn't stop laughing for a while.
I waved them back to their table before taking a seat opposite the vampire. Crossing my legs, I flashed him a devastating grin. He returned it, though his was more subtle and a bit embarrassed.
"So, my dear Ervin," I said, noticing his barely perceptible flinch at the mention of his name. He must have realised I knew something he hadn't told me. "I think it's time we get to know each other a bit better. I'll start, if you don't mind." I offered the introduction with a smile. "My name is Shaytan. Pleased to meet you."
"Nice to meet you," he nodded.
"First things first," I leaned forward slightly, lacing my fingers together and resting my chin on them, "I'm curious about your intentions. What exactly are your plans with my boss?"
My gaze was intense, and I could see it made him tense up. I intentionally let my presence spread, subtly taking over the room. I wanted him to feel that this was my territory.
"Plans?" he asked, clearly caught off guard.
"For me," I continued, my tone hardening slightly, "it's simple. Just prove you don't intend to drain her dry."
His eyes widened, disbelief crossing his face. He opened his mouth to argue, but I cut him off.
"I know the nature of vampires," I said coldly, drilling my gaze into his and letting my fangs show just enough for him to see, "I am partly a vampire."
"I—had no idea," he admitted, breaking eye contact to stare at the table. "Your scent is... unusual, but I don't smell vampire essence."
"Indeed, I'm mixed-blood," I said, my voice soft but firm.
He looked up again, his shock written plainly across his face.
"Now," I continued, "say you don't intend to harm Hajnal. And listen closely: I have the ability to know if you even doubt your words. If you do, you'll regret stepping into this pub."
He swallowed hard, his gaze locked with mine, unyielding.
"I don't plan to harm Hajnal," he said, his voice steady.
I grinned. "Good."
He looked surprised, but also a little relieved.
"That's it?"
"That's it," I shrugged nonchalantly.
"I thought you were going to throw me out," he admitted, his mood visibly lighter.
I put it down to the fact that the tension had lifted—no more looming, oppressive presence hanging over him.
"Oh, if you hadn't meant it," I said, my grin widening, "that would've been the least of your problems."
He laughed awkwardly.
"You're not just her bartender, are you?" he asked softly.
"Haven't you heard the rumours?" I replied, a playful edge in my voice.
"About you being her watchdog? Or that she's hiding some monstrous beast?" he asked, eyebrow raised. I nodded slowly. "I thought they were exaggerating."
I leaned back in my chair, sighing dramatically.
"Not all of them," I said, a glint of amusement in my eyes.
He leaned in closer,.
"So, it's true then," he said, lowering his voice, "that you confronted the Behemoth when you were fourteen?"
I flashed him a dangerous grin, my eyes narrowing slightly.
Of course, no one knew the full truth—and it would stay that way. My pride wouldn't let it be any other way.
I had only been working for Hajnal for a few months at the time. Of course, I'd seen her fight with the Behemoth, scattering them with her ridiculously tiny revolver—but I just didn't care. It wasn't any of my business. I didn't like the hag much; she was always yelling at me and making me work myself to the bone for next to nothing. So why should I help?
Then they kidnapped me. I suppose they planned to use me to threaten Hajnal. When I woke up, I told them straight that their plan was doomed to fail—Hajnal wouldn't lift a finger to save me. Naturally, I got slapped for that, for questioning their intelligence, but it only made me more resolved. So, I decided to wipe them all out, silently, under the cover of night.
I could've easily escaped the ropes, but hunters are taught patience above all—waiting for the right moment. I could already picture myself, one by one, silently slitting the throats of each of those thugs. The thought made the long minutes pass more easily. I might have even waited the night out and wiped the entire Behemoth organisation off the face of the earth in one swift moment, had Hajnal not ruined my plan.
Suddenly, three thugs appeared, tossing a heap of bloodied, dirty clothes onto the ground. The familiar stench hit me before I even looked. The clothes groaned, and my breath caught in my throat. There she was—Hajnal's body, stained purple and red beneath the torn rags, her face a mess of dirt and smeared silent tears.
Before they could even react, the three thugs dropped dead. The loud thuds caught the attention of the others, but they didn't move—just stood frozen in disbelief, as the smell of their fallen comrades' blood slowly filled the air.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, my tone devoid of kindness.
"I couldn't let one of my employees get kidnapped," Hajnal rasped with a hoarse chuckle. The laughter quickly turned into a cough. "Though I don't think you need my help."
"You stupid woman…" I muttered under my breath.
A monster crept up behind me, but he didn't even get a chance. The dagger he aimed at my life embedded itself in his thigh instead. The man dropped to the ground, screaming. I scanned the rest of the Behemoth gang with a murderous gaze, before lifting Hajnal's limp form into my arms. No one dared to stop us.
As I moved slowly, her weight pressing against me and the rhythmic pounding of her heart steady in my ear, she groaned again. Her voice was ragged and sharp, like the clatter of broken glass on the floor.
"I'm pathetic," she murmured, her words dripping with defeat.
I gave her a steady look. "I've seen a lot of pathetic people," I replied, "you're not one of them."
She gave a weak smile before her eyelids fluttered closed, surrendering to the darkness.
You can call Hajnal many things: always angry, a stubborn old fool, or just plain reckless—but you can't call her pathetic. After all, how many humans would march into the monsters' den, armed with nothing but a tiny revolver?
That was the first time anyone ever came to my rescue.