Malin slept past his usual waking hours and woke up several hours after breakfast. The exhaustion of the last two sleepless nights had finally caught up to him, pulling him under with an unforgiving grip.
The moment his eyes cracked open, a jolt of guilt followed. Philip—was he working alone at the stables? The thought sent a spark of panic through Malin's chest. He scrambled out of bed, hastily dressed, and bolted from his room.
Only to collide headlong into Alfred.
"You seem to be in a hurry, Malin," Alfred remarked, one brow lifted in dry amusement.
Malin caught his breath and nodded. "I slept in. I'm terribly late for morning chores," he answered quickly, attempting to sidestep and hurry away. But Alfred blocked him with a subtle shift of his stance.
"Lord Rhaegal has already excused you from chores. You are to focus solely on your studies now," Alfred said with measured patience.
Malin shook his head, brows furrowing. "I'm aware, but I can manage both. I don't want to idle away when I could be helping around the mansion. Besides—Lord Rhaegal is already doing so much for me. The least I can do is contribute, in my own way."
Alfred regarded him in silence for a beat too long, his gaze unreadable. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he added, "Still, the Lord has invited you to join him for breakfast. Do not keep him waiting." Without waiting for further protest, Alfred turned and began to walk away.
Malin hesitated only a moment, then followed in step, obedient and curious.
The dining room exuded quiet opulence. When Malin entered, Rhaegal was already there, standing near the long polished table. Today, the vampire lord wore an uncharacteristically casual outfit—a loose-fitting white shirt and black trousers. His dark hair was tied into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame his striking face. He looked different—handsome, yes—but also startlingly young, like a man in his early thirties, untouched by time.
Malin bowed. "Good morning, my lord."
Rhaegal turned, eyes trailing over Malin from head to toe, his gaze briefly lingering. "You look well-rested," he said simply, moving to take his seat.
Malin blinked. Well-rested? He had overslept terribly—breakfast had long passed. Then why was Rhaegal dining so late? His curiosity itched, but he swallowed it for now and took the seat closest to him.
"My lord… did you also wake late?" he asked tentatively.
Rhaegal's lips curved into a subtle smile, enigmatic as ever. He offered no reply.
At that, Alfred clapped his hands, and servants entered with two gleaming carts. They moved with practiced grace, laying out an array of dishes upon the table—far more lavish than Malin expected. Fresh fruits, crisp vegetables, warm bread, fragrant stew, rice, and a glistening roast duck.
Malin's eyes widened. "I wasn't expecting so much for breakfast."
"You'll need the energy," Rhaegal replied smoothly, raising his glass. "Your training begins today."
"I nearly forgot," Malin chuckled softly, reaching for his cutlery.
Across the table, Rhaegal did not touch the food. Instead, he sipped calmly from a glass filled with deep crimson liquid.
Malin noticed and paused. "My lord… you aren't eating."
"I don't need food to survive," Rhaegal answered, voice steady. He raised the glass, letting the light catch the liquid's surface. "This is all I require."
Malin stared, unable to stop himself from wondering—what did blood taste like? The thought unsettled him. He shook his head sharply, willing the curiosity away, and returned to his meal. Still, his gaze kept drifting back to Rhaegal, lingering longer with each glance, until finally—
"Is something on your mind?" Rhaegal asked, setting his glass down.
Malin flushed faintly. "It's just… I've never seen you dressed so casually. You look… different."
Rhaegal tilted his head ever so slightly, glancing toward Alfred, then back to Malin. One brow lifted in soft amusement. "Different?"
"In a good way, my lord. You look very handsome—and young. You don't look your age."
Alfred cast a sidelong glance at Malin and shook his head in faint exasperation.
Rhaegal chuckled, the sound low and rich. "You seem very curious about my age."
"I am," Malin admitted. He couldn't help it. Vampires aged slowly, lived for centuries—but still, something about Rhaegal's presence made the question linger in his mind.
A sly smile touched Rhaegal's lips. "I will tell you… if you can land your first punch."
Malin blinked. "Really? That's all?"
Rhaegal nodded, though his eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Agreed." Malin grinned, rising to the playful challenge.
Alfred snorted softly. "You're being far too confident. It won't be as easy as you think."
Malin smiled in return. "Landing one punch can't be that difficult."
After breakfast. Rhaegal took malin to a cabin which was a few distance away from the mansion. The scenery around the cabin was beautiful, the air was fresh and clean.
Malin was surprised, he knew the estate was large. It pavilion and gardens were exquisite. Coupled with the vast acres of lands but he didn't expect there was a cabin lurking somewhere.
The field around the cabin stretched wide and open around them, tall grass swaying softly in the breeze like a sea of green waves. In the distance, birds called out, and the air carried the earthy scent of soil and summer.
Malin stood in the middle of the clearing, boots sunk slightly into the damp grass. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, squinting at Rhaegal, who was casually dressed. Calm and composed as ever. Alfred lingered nearby, a thick wooden box in his hands.
Rhaegal gave a subtle nod, and Alfred moved. His footsteps barely made a sound as he approached Malin.
With a subtle smile, Alfred set the box down. "A gift," he said, stepping back like a man who wanted no part in what came next.
Malin looked at Rhaegal. "What is it?"
"Open it," Rhaegal said.
Malin crouched down and slowly lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled on dark velvet, lay two golden daggers. Slim and wickedly sharp, their handles were carved with symbols that seemed to shimmer faintly. They were beautiful—like something meant to be displayed, not used.
Malin's eyes widened. "These are…"
"Yours now," Rhaegal said, stepping closer. "Forged by the best blacksmith. Pure sunmetal. Cuts through flesh like silk—vampire, werewolf, human. Doesn't care what you are."
Malin reached out with careful fingers, lifting one of the daggers. It felt cold at first, but quickly warmed in his grip. The weight was perfect. Like it was made for him. "They're beautiful," he said. But then he paused, turning to face rhaegal.
"Why give me these?" he asked.
"You need to learn how to survive," Rhaegal replied. "And how to kill."
Malin's lips parted, but no words came out. His throat felt dry.
Rhaegal walked to him, then reached for his hand, not gently, not roughly. Just firm enough to guide. He took Malin's fingers, curled them around the hilt with practiced ease.
"Hold it like this. Loose, but ready. Like a snake coiled before it strikes."
Malin nodded slowly, watching him.
Rhaegal stepped back, placed both hands behind his back. A smile curve one side of his lips. "Now. Aim it at me."
Malin blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." Rhaegal's tone was steady, calm as still water. "Attack me. Go for the heart."
"I—I can't."
"You will." Rhaege was stern.
Malin looked down at the dagger. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't," Rhaegal said with a faint smirk. "Trust me, you're not that fast yet."
Malin frowned. His grip tightened. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Immensely," Rhaegal said dryly. "Now move."
Malin took a breath. Then another. And finally, with a quiet growl of determination, he lunged.
Rhaegal side-stepped him like wind slipping through fingers. Malin stumbled, barely catching himself.
"Too slow," Rhaegal said, circling him. "Try again."
Again, Malin moved. This time, feinting left before twisting right. Rhaegal blocked with ease, pushing the dagger away with two fingers.
Malin groaned. "You're not even trying."
"That's the point. You need to learn the difference between a strike and a gamble."
He moved behind Malin, fingers brushing his shoulder. "Keep your weight on the balls of your feet. Blade low, arm loose."
They trained for what felt like hours. The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving a fiery glow in its wake. Malin panted, shirt damp with sweat, his blond hair stuck to his forehead. But his eyes burned brighter.
Rhaegal pointed to his chest. "Vampires—heart, throat, spine. Those are your best chances. Fast strike and deep."
Then he stepped back and made a motion across his own ribs. "Werewolves—right between the ribs. Harder to kill, but bleed the same as anything else if you cut deep enough."
"And humans?"
Rhaegal's expression shifted. Quieter. Almost unreadable. "Depends. Humans are… fragile. But desperate. Desperation makes them dangerous."
Malin looked at him, eyes searching. "Have you killed many?"
There was a pause. Then Rhaegal said softly, "Too many to count."
The wind picked up. Silence stretched between them.
"But I don't want to be like that," Malin said. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
Rhaegal stepped closer, voice lower now. "Then don't. Learn to fight so you don't have to run. Learn to kill so you don't have to die. But stay soft, if you can. That's the hardest thing."
Malin stared at the dagger again.
"I don't want to lose myself."
Rhaegal smiled then, faint but real. "Dying is losing one self, malin. You don't alway have to win. Surviving is enough but staying through to yourself is what matters the most."
Alfred, leaning against a tree, let out a soft whistle. "Weren't you so confident about throwing your first punch. It's almost twilight and you're yet to have a proper grip of your dagger.
"Alfred," Rhaegal muttered without turning.
Malin laughed, breathless and warm. " i wil surely land my punch, even if it wont' happen today".
Rhaegal taught him basic forms and movements. Though Malin lacked raw strength, his quick mind absorbed every lesson. That was enough—for now.
As the sun vanished and shadows stretched long, Rhaegal called it a day.
"Go. Rest," he said, voice softer now. "Return to the mansion."
Malin nodded, body aching but heart alive. With a glance back at the cabin, he made his way toward the mansion—while Rhaegal and Alfred remained behind, their voices low, as confidential matters began.