Two years had passed since young Héctor was found in that desolate village. Despite every effort to locate his parents or any relatives, it was impossible. The plague had ravaged entire towns and cities. There were whispers of asymptomatic survivors, but aside from Héctor, none could be confirmed with certainty.
Nearly half a year had gone by since the plague began to subside in the eastern villages. Yet, rumors of new outbreaks still slipped through the curtains of noble corridors. Flames no longer burned at every corner to incinerate bodies, but the scent of death lingered in the stones. At the Rizz stronghold, the air was cleaner-though no less heavy. Every open window seemed to carry an unspoken plea, and every long silence, a wound left unhealed.
Anastasia walked through the wooden house that had been built as a tactical base to confront the plague. At her side, Héctor-taller now, more grounded-carried a basket of dry branches and roots for the herbalist. He wore simple clothes, but his gaze still burned with the restless spark that never left him.
-Why does everyone look at me like I'm about to break something? -he asked with a mischievous half-smile.
Anastasia didn't respond immediately. She stopped beside a fountain, gazing at her reflection in the murky water. Then, she looked over her shoulder at him, with that tenderness she never dared to confess.
-Because not everyone knows you were the only one who survived the sickness... without my intervention. And that, Héctor, is more frightening than the plague.
The boy lowered his eyes, somewhere between confused and grateful. He knew the disease didn't affect him-just like it didn't affect the members of the Rizz family. But he didn't carry that name.
-Maybe it's from being near Lady Anastasia? -he wondered silently, glancing at her.
He felt deep admiration for his benefactor, though he wasn't sure if it was just respect... or the yearning for maternal affection-the kind the plague had taken from him. What he knew for sure was that she held a place in his heart. Being useful to her was his greatest motivation-the impulse that pushed him every day.
That afternoon, Anastasia supervised the preparation of new tonics to strengthen the survivors. Hermes's knowledge of herbal medicine had greatly improved patient health, but they had yet to find a way to stop the spread. Even in isolated areas, without apparent contact with the infected, people were beginning to show symptoms.
-Here's the dried root you asked for -Héctor said, entering the kitchen with a half-filled basket, visibly proud, placing it near Hermes.
Hollen, who was helping with the task, merely raised an eyebrow, as if assessing the usefulness of the gesture.
Hermes inspected the contents carefully, touching the roots with firm but gentle fingers.
-Well done, Héctor. These will do -he murmured in approval, without raising his voice.
Héctor puffed out his chest in pride, barely containing the smile spreading across his face. He wanted to say more, to stay a bit longer, to feel useful for just a moment more-but the words tangled with the need to be seen.
Then, just as Anastasia entered through the doorway, her hands dusted with medicinal earth, Héctor couldn't help but turn to her with enthusiasm:
-Mother... -The word escaped without thought, with the ease of a child who forgot he no longer had a mother.
Silence fell immediately, like a knife suspended in the air.
Hermes looked up-not with harshness, but with a restrained expression that spoke louder than any reprimand. Hollen turned to him as well, tilting his head with slight discomfort. He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed as if he had witnessed a mistake that wasn't his to correct.
Anastasia paused for just a second, never breaking her composure. Her gaze settled on Héctor with an expression hard to read: neither reproach nor approval-just a shadow of sadness that flickered briefly across her face.
-Go wash your hands before dinner -she said finally, as if she hadn't heard what he'd said. Then she turned back to Hermes. -How did the morning blends turn out?
Hermes, with his usual discretion, resumed the conversation without comment.
Héctor stood still for a moment, his ears burning. Still, he didn't entirely regret it. Deep down, a part of him wished that, even if only for a moment, she had accepted it.
...
The next morning awoke wrapped in a shroud of mist, barely revealing the cypresses lining the inner courtyard. The sound of a rake scraping across damp ground accompanied the distant song of a solitary blackbird. The air was heavy, as if even the day knew that there were things yet unworthy of celebration.
Hermes, in his dark coat and wide-brimmed hat, slowly dragged a pile of dry leaves toward a corner. His movements were methodical, almost ceremonial. He had learned to find in these simple domestic tasks a way to reconnect with who he once was.
-Don't you get tired of doing that every day? -asked a youthful voice behind him.
Hermes didn't startle. He simply straightened a little and turned his head.
-It's not out of necessity -he replied-. It's out of habit. Some things, Héctor, aren't done to achieve something... but to keep the soul in order.
Héctor approached, stepping between puddles with slightly clumsy steps. He wore a light jacket, and his hair was still messy from a poor night's sleep. His expression was more serious than usual.
-Do you have a soul, then?
Hermes smiled without taking his eyes off the rake.
-My body is no longer human, certainly. But if I have a soul... or at least I believe so.
Héctor sat at the edge of the old well, watching him.
-Sometimes it's hard for me to remember that you're also a vampire. You don't look like one.
-I don't look like a gardener either. And yet, here I am -Hermes said, gesturing at the pile of leaves.
There was a brief silence. Then Héctor looked at him with renewed curiosity.
-If turned vampires can choose how they look... why stay looking like an old man?
Hermes stopped. Not out of discomfort, but because he knew the question deserved an honest answer.
-Because that's how I ceased being human. It was my last face. Abandoning it would be like denying I ever lived.
Héctor nodded slowly. He looked at Hermes' hands-weathered, though no longer pulsing with human blood.
-Wouldn't you like... to look younger?
-Why? I don't need to seduce maidens or win races. Wisdom doesn't need a youthful face to be heard.
The wind carried a few loose leaves. Between both figures, a silent respect grew like a deep root. The kind of bond not built with grand words, but with presence and constancy.
-Are you mad at me, Master Hermes?
The vampire leaned the rake against a column.
-I'm not -he said calmly-. But you should know that interrupting Anastasia's silence during moments of contemplation wasn't appropriate. Even less so calling her mother in front of Hollen.
Héctor looked down, nudging a stone with his toe.
-It slipped out. Sometimes... it just happens.
-I understand -the vampire replied, folding his arms-. But others don't. And although you and I know what's in your heart, words have weight. Some won't understand them.
Héctor nodded, accepting the correction without resentment.
-Do you think it upset her?
-No -Hermes answered with a slight smile-. But it did concern her. Anastasia isn't an ordinary figure. She can't afford misunderstood ties.
There was a brief silence.
-Would you like help with the leaves? -Héctor asked, awkwardly changing the subject.
-A pair of young hands would be useful -Hermes replied, picking up the rake again.
-I don't really like gardening... -the boy admitted as he grabbed a nearby broom-. Roses have too many thorns.
Hermes let out a short laugh, almost like a sigh.
-That's exactly what makes them valuable. The most beautiful flowers are often the ones that hurt the most when touched. In time, you might learn to see them differently.
Héctor looked at one of the nearby rosebushes, with dew still clinging to its leaves. Its roses were a beautiful ivory white. He said nothing, but his expression revealed a curiosity just beginning to blossom.
-Does she like roses? -he asked softly, as if the question didn't need an answer.
Hermes didn't reply right away. He simply looked at the rosebush with an expression that blended nostalgia and respect.
-Let's say... she sees herself in them.
The sun began to filter through the clouds-weak, but persistent. Amid the uncertainty that enveloped the world, there was something eternal in that image: a boy and an old man among silent flowers, collecting leaves under the invisible gaze of an immortal woman.
...
By afternoon, the Rizz moved restlessly, as if preparing for something, while the sky turned a violet-gray and the thrushes' songs had ceased. The wind, though soft, carried the scent of burning wood and crushed plants, as if the gardens themselves braced to resist the plague's advance into nearby regions.
Anastasia sat on a mossy stone bench beneath a canopy of wisteria. Before her, the lilies had begun to wither-not from neglect or the ruthless rhythm of the weather. The Rizz servants had arranged the space for her as a gesture of appreciation and respect, but the plague had no empathy for such efforts.
Héctor approached her with more restrained steps than usual. He no longer ran as much-at least not when he was with her. The world he faced had made him mature more quickly than any child should. His hands were slightly dirty with soil, and in them, an unpolished apple.
-Are you upset, Lady Anastasia?
She didn't turn, but tilted her head slightly, recognizing his voice instantly.
-Why would I be?
-Hermes told me... I might've interrupted your meditation. And also because yesterday... -he paused, biting his cheek-. Yesterday I called you "mother" in front of Master Hollen. I didn't mean to. But if it bothers you, I can stop saying it.
Then she did look at him. There was no coldness in her eyes-but a firm restraint. The twilight's shadow drew harsher lines on her face, without stealing her serene beauty.
-You don't need to call me that, Héctor -she replied at last-. I'm not your mother. And it's not a place I intend to take.
-I know -murmured the boy, lowering his eyes-. But sometimes I like to imagine it. Just for a while.
She breathed-or so it seemed-then looked down at her own hands. Then she reached out and gently brushed his hair. There was no falsehood or theatrics in the gesture. Only quiet tenderness, and fingers warm-indistinguishable from any human's.
-I'm not your mother, Héctor -she repeated-. But that doesn't mean I'm not here for you. And it doesn't mean you're alone.
The boy swallowed. He sat beside her, as if those words had given him permission. He offered her the apple, barely cleaned.
-Would you like some?
Anastasia smiled, one corner of her lip lifting slightly more than the other.
-I can eat, if it makes the giver happy -she replied-. Even if I don't need to.
-I thought... maybe you wanted something sweet. We don't always eat out of hunger.
-Then it will do.
She split the fruit carefully and accepted a bite. Héctor smiled-not with the childish glee he had months ago, but as someone who recognized the importance of the moment. Then, his gaze rested on a nearby white rose, similar to the one he had seen that morning. Yet this one was different: from the heart of each petal, a sapphire-blue hue began to bloom, as if the flower dared to dream softly.
-The Eterna Rizzia is very beautiful, Lady Anastasia -he said before biting into his half-. It reminds me of you.
Anastasia glanced at him from the corner of her eye, not speaking right away.
-I like to look at it, but I don't quite understand it -he added, pensively.
Even though Anastasia could clearly perceive her young companion's thoughts, she was still amazed at how he shaped them-how he found words for what most adults barely sensed.
-Thank you, Héctor -she answered gently, with a tenderness that needed no disguise.
At the entrance to the greenhouse, between shadow and the golden glow of sunset, Hermes watched silently. His eyes held no judgment, only patience. He did not fear the bond forming between them. He understood it. Though he knew that, like all things of value, it would also be a source of vulnerability. And still, he accepted it. Perhaps it reminded him of when he, still human, cared for Anastasia when she was a little girl who had not yet recovered her memories.
...
-Master Hermes -said Hollen, a seasoned Rizz under Anastasia's command-. Some among us are beginning to wonder if it's wise to let the boy spend so much time near the Lady. It's not out of disrespect. Just... a certain unease.
Hermes didn't respond immediately. He leaned against an old wooden post, arms crossed. He didn't want to admit it, but Anastasia wasn't the only vampire charmed by the boy's warmth.
-We saved him, yes. But we don't feed him with charity. We've raised him like a strong root is cultivated. That's all they need to know.
-I understand, Master Hermes. The matter won't be spoken of again... I've made preparations for tonight's tactical meeting. The men and women are ready to begin when the Lady commands.
-Perfect. You may go, Hollen.
The Rizz nodded with near-ceremonial discipline.
-With your permission, sir.
Hermes watched him disappear into the growing dusk. Then, he turned his gaze to the garden, where the air still held the echo of soft voices. Anastasia and Héctor's conversation seemed to have ended.
-Don't run at night, sprinter -he warned half-mockingly, seeing the boy approach with a light step-. You might trip over your own shadow.
Héctor slowed, smiling as if he had passed a silent test. As he passed Hermes, the old vampire ruffled his hair affectionately.
-See? She wasn't upset.
-No, but don't push your luck, gardener -replied the elder, raising an eyebrow-. Now go wash up. You're covered in dirt like a poorly planted onion sprout.
-Yes, sir...
-And don't let water be the only thing touching your skin, boy. Use soap too -Hermes added, raising his voice as the boy walked off lazily.
Once he saw him cross the threshold toward the house, Hermes turned to the ancestral, who was still returning from among the withered lilies.
-Everything is ready, my lady -he said calmly, just loud enough for her to hear without disturbing the peace of the setting.
-Hermes... he'll arrive tonight.
The elder raised his face slowly, as if hearing the echo of a warning disguised as simple news. He said nothing. But in his eyes, for a moment, something hardened.
...
Night falls slowly over the fortified villa where Anastasia and her kin have established a shelter. Torches flicker along the walls, casting shadows that stretch like sighs across the stone. In the distance, the muffled sounds of crickets and a branch cracking under the wind seem the only witnesses to the fragile balance they now live in.
Inside the meeting hall, a long wooden table hosts several members of the Rizz family. Maps and scrolls cover its surface, marked with red lines and ancient symbols. In one corner, the faint aroma of still-fresh ink lingers.
Anastasia stands. Her silhouette is outlined by the light of a burning hearth. Her eyes scan the map's markings while her lips keep a silence that commands respect.
-The outbreaks continue -she says at last, her voice as calm as it is firm-. More scattered... more selective.
One of the Rizz, a graying man with a stern expression, looks up.
-But not as virulent as at the start. The situation has improved, at least partially.
-Yes -she nods-. But not by chance. It's as if someone is... adjusting the pieces, measuring the reaction.
Another voice joins in, a young woman with a tempered gaze.
-Are you suggesting there's intent behind all this, my lady?
Anastasia doesn't answer right away. She takes a rolled scroll and gently unrolls it on the table.
-Is it so hard to believe? Vampires who can influence the mind, alter memories, defy death... why not also able to alter the human body?
-With all due respect... -says Hollen-. Not even the ancestrals have shown such power. A plague... is not natural to our kind.
-And yet the Rizz are immune? -she interrupts, her tone seeking reflection, not challenge-. Doesn't that strike you as strange?
Silence thickens, like a veil draped over everyone's shoulders.
-Could be coincidence -someone whispers.
-I believe it's more than coincidence -Anastasia murmurs to herself.
The oak door creaks open. Héctor peeks his head in-unafraid but cautious. His hair is damp, likely washed before supper. A wide shirt hangs off his shoulders, and beneath it, the body of a boy growing slowly, but steadily.
-Am I interrupting? -he asks, looking directly at Anastasia.
She shakes her head softly, though her gaze remains serious.
-What do you need, Héctor?
The boy enters, staying close to the wall.
-I just wanted to see if you needed anything. Or if I could help... Hermes said sometimes someone with good handwriting is needed for transcription.
-I appreciate it -she replies. -But tonight is for adults only.
Héctor nods, unoffended. He glances quickly at Hermes, who stands silently near a bookshelf. The old vampire returns a nearly imperceptible smile. His deep, dark eyes inspire not fear but a rare peace.
-Even if you're not at this table -Hermes interjects with his gentle tone-, that doesn't mean you're not valuable, boy.
-Thank you, Master Hermes.
-And no need to call me "Master" now that you know I'm not going to wrinkle any more than I already have -he adds with a mocking smile.
Some chuckle softly. Anastasia watches the exchange in silence. Then she fixes her eyes on Héctor.
-I sometimes forget you're not that little anymore.
-And I sometimes forget you're not human -the boy replies with a frankness that leaves everyone silent.
The comment doesn't come from insolence but from trust, born of time and shared life. Anastasia shows no offense. She walks toward him, places a hand on his shoulder.
-Still, you're too young to fully understand what's happening -she says gently, though her tone is firm. -There are things I want to keep far from you... for now.
Héctor lowers his eyes. But when he looks up again, there's an unexpected maturity in his gaze.
-Don't worry. I understand. And thank you.
She blinks slowly. Then nods, and in that gesture is a mixture of pride and sorrow.
-You may stay if you don't ask questions -she finally concedes.
Anastasia returns to her place. Behind her, Héctor finds space beside Hermes and quietly settles on a small bench. The firelight dances on his face, and for a moment, the ancestral's eyes fall on him with a tenderness she rarely allows herself to show.
He may be just a boy. But something inside tells her otherwise. And she has never ignored her instincts.
...
Suddenly, a crash shakes the floor like the cracking of a giant branch. Like the hard strike of something that should not be there.
In a blink, two Rizz sentinels are thrown to the ground without knowing where the blow came from. The torches flicker. One goes out. Another falls, rolling.
-What was that?! -shouts one, unsheathing his weapon by instinct.
Standing, lit by the remaining torches, at a distance impossible to cover in a heartbeat, a figure appears.
His silhouette is framed by the night's mist: tall, imposing, wearing a dark leather coat that seems to absorb the faint torchlight. His black hair falls in chaos, like a frozen storm upon his head. His eyes-deep, void, devoid of warmth-scan those present with disdain.
Some Rizz step back instinctively. Others tense, hands on their weapons. Even Hermes, always serene, stays still, measuring the newcomer with a penetrating gaze.
Horses neigh beyond the walls. Héctor, still near Hermes, clings to the elder vampire's arm. Something about that being puts him on edge-as if his presence were a harbinger of disaster, as if he poisoned the very air around him.
But it isn't fear of danger. It's the fear one feels before a starving wolf ready to strike.
The vampire says nothing. He doesn't greet. Doesn't apologize. He simply takes three firm steps forward, and the creak of the floor beneath his boots is more terrifying than a roar.
His presence alone weighs upon everyone like a latent threat, as if at any moment, something unstoppable might be unleashed.
But then, his eyes meet Anastasia's.
-Mourian...