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Hollow Beneath Those Who Left
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The silence in the mansion was absolute, as though time itself had frozen inside those thick, timeworn walls. Shadows slithered down the grand staircase, cast by the waning light that filtered through the stained-glass windows. The evening was heavy—thick with unspoken words, lingering ghosts of memory, and a kind of sorrow that tasted like metal in the mouth.

Xenelov stood still by the corridor, the rich velvet of his coat catching a soft sheen under the golden wall sconces. His jaw was clenched, eyes narrowed, his mind echoing Yurellion's taunts. "You've let them tame you. Listen to that tongue—how pitifully human you've become."

That is exactly what Yurellion had meant and those words burned.

He had stopped speaking in British English after that, almost instinctively. It felt like his entire ancestry, carved in stone and blood, was being questioned. And Xenelov was not the kind to let such insult stain his legacy.

He sighed, deep and cold, like wind brushing past crypts. Then turned, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade dipped in snow.

"What do you mean, Winford—?"

His words halted mid-air.

Rostin was climbing over the balustrade of the second-floor railing.

The boy’s pale fingers gripped the polished iron. His knees were trembling, chest heaving, tears spilling down cheeks sallow from a week of grief. One leg was already dangling in the void above the marble floor two stories below.

“ROSTIN! WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING!” Xenelov’s voice cracked into his former tongue—British, sharp, and furious. It felt unfamiliar on his tongue now, but the moment demanded no pretense.

Rostin turned to glance back, his face streaked with tears and anguish, eyes wild like a stormed sea. And then—he let go.

He fell.

But death did not embrace him that night.

In less than a heartbeat, a gust of icy air spiraled through the corridor as Xenelov blurred through space, glitching into speed faster than mortal eyes could follow. He reached out and snatched Rostin’s wrist, catching him mid-drop, the boy’s body hanging over the edge like a broken marionette.

“Let go of me!” Rostin thrashed, his other arm clawing at empty air. His feet flailed as he stared down at the cold marble below. He was so close—so damn close to escape. “Just let me go!”

“You’ve lost your mind! Are you insane?!” Xenelov barked, barely holding his grip as Rostin’s weight dragged on his arm. “Why are you suddenly trying to off yourself, you stupid human?!”

Rostin looked up at him with hollow, broken eyes. “I want to! I don’t want to live anymore!” His voice cracked as his sobs tore through his chest. “What kind of life is this?! Supernatural freak shows, death, blood—people are dying because of me! Nothing’s normal anymore!”

Xenelov's grip trembled for a fraction of a second. And then he growled under his breath, furious and desperate.

“FINE!” he yelled back, louder than he meant to. “Fine... I’ll leave. I’ll let you be. I’ll vanish from your house, from your miserable little life. If that’s enough to anchor you back to this cursed earth, then so be it.”

He yanked Rostin up and over the railing, hauling him back onto the second-floor corridor. The boy collapsed against the iron banister, panting, trembling, eyes glassy.

Rostin let out a breathless gasp, bending over with both hands on his knees. “Emma...” he muttered, voice raw.

Xenelov exhaled deeply and leaned back against the wall, placing one foot slightly behind the other in his signature poised stance. He watched the human boy from under hooded crimson eyes.

“You’ll be fine,” he said quietly. “So will she.”

The words came like a whisper wrapped in frost. Rostin's head snapped up. “What?” he asked, voice wary, desperate. “What do you mean?”

But Xenelov only looked away.

And then—he snapped his fingers.

Just like that, he vanished.

One blink. No sound. No trail. No farewell. Just emptiness where he stood.

Rostin stared wide-eyed at the now-barren space in front of the wall. A second ago, Xenelov had been leaning there like a statue chiseled from aristocracy and wrath. And now—nothing. Just the faint echo of cold silence.

“Where... wow...” Rostin whispered to himself, dazed. No matter how many times he’d seen it, Xenelov’s powers always found a way to shake him.

But his heart ached, and confusion set in heavier than any fear. What had he meant?

He slid down to the floor slowly, resting his back against the wall, his body folding into itself. The house was dead silent again, nothing but the distant ticking of an old grandfather clock reverberating in the stillness. Empty halls. Empty rooms. Just him.

Alone. Again.

But wasn’t this what he wanted?

Alone meant safe. Alone meant no more blood. No more monsters. No more magic.

His breath caught in his throat as he muttered bitterly, “Back in the book you came from, huh?”

And then... nothing. He lay flat on the cold corridor floor, letting the numbness pull him under. The moon passed slowly across the high windows. Midnight sank into the walls.

Morning came quietly.

Sunlight stretched over the marble floors like golden fingers, creeping up to where Rostin lay curled on the corridor.

He stirred, groaning softly.

One hand was draped across his forehead, shielding his eyes from the light, while the other lay limply over his stomach. One leg was bent at the knee, the other outstretched. His lips were dry. His shirt was crumpled. His soul? Still cracked and unsure.

But he was breathing.

And for now, that was enough.

Rostin yawned as he slowly pushed himself upright, bones aching from a night spent curled on the cold corridor floor. One hand cradled his forehead, fingers brushing against his tired eyes, while the other pressed against his stomach as if to ground himself in reality. One leg was bent, the other stretched out like a forgotten branch after a storm. The cold marble of the hallway chilled him, even through the thin fabric of his nightwear. Morning light was seeping in through the high windows, pale and grey, the kind of light that only an October morning in Cambridge could offer—a sallow, muted glow that turned every shadow colder.

With a slow stretch, he stood. His joints protested, his shoulders rolled, and a dull pain throbbed in the back of his neck. As he moved through the hollow house, it echoed with a strange silence—an absence. He opened the door to his room, stepping inside without a word.

An hour passed before Rostin emerged again, dressed in a full-length black turtleneck that clung to his slim frame, the collar rising to his jawline. His baggy white trousers flowed as he walked, a striking contrast to his dark top, both choices purposeful, symbolic—a blank slate and mourning cloth combined. A sleek messenger bag hung across his shoulder. He locked the door to his room, fingers fumbling with the key just slightly before finding their grip.

Jogging down the grand staircase that spiraled like a serpent in the heart of the house, he didn’t glance back even once. At the front door, he paused, letting the heavy metal click shut behind him before locking it as well. Then, the air hit him—sharp, crisp, and cruel.

He breathed it in.

The cold October breeze kissed his cheeks, burning slightly as it rushed into his lungs. The sky above was overcast, clouds like smudged ink across a greying canvas. But it was the freedom in the air that stirred something deep within him—freedom and finality. Xenelov was gone. Vanished into the ether like the apparition he was. Disappeared from his life, maybe forever.

Rostin threw his head back and screamed at the sky, “AAAAAHHHHH!!”—his voice ringing with laughter, manic glee masquerading as peace. It echoed in the street, too loud, too strange. A few passerbys turned. Mothers ushered their children away with wary glances. A group of teens laughed under their breath. But Rostin didn’t care. He couldn’t care. His mind was filled with the echoes of last night—the shouting, the tears, the brush with death.

He jogged to the university, his steps light despite the weight of the night still pressing on his chest. Upon entering the lecture building, he greeted everyone he passed, waving and grinning like nothing had ever happened. As he stepped into his classroom, the usual morning buzz halted for just a breath before exploding again—all attention on him.

“Rostin, mate, how have you been?”

“Are you alright now?”

“You looked dead last week! Were you sick?”

“Why didn’t you answer your bloody phone?”

“Oi, you scared us, you knob. What’s going on with you? All good?”

He offered them all a sheepish smile, shrugging like it was nothing. “Just a headache,” he lied smoothly, his voice low and steady. “Needed a bit of time.”

Why would he tell them the truth? That he'd had a falling out with a vampire? That his classmate had died and the scent of blood and the scent of guilt still clung to his mind like wet smoke?

Emma.

The thought sliced through him like frost on bare skin. She had been in this class. The same laughter, the same voices now, but missing hers. A weight settled again, heavier than before. He waved a few students off and slipped through the small crowd, making his way to the back of the classroom—the window seat. Always the window seat.

He sank into the chair, his body folding into itself like paper. His chin dropped to the palm of his hand, elbow resting on the desk. Outside, the trees were nearly bare, just bones now in the soft light. Wind rolled through them like a whisper, reminding him again—nothing was the same. Not anymore.

Fame. Power. Money. What did all of it mean without love? Without something real?

He had never truly known Emma, but her absence pressed on him as though he had. As if his soul recognised the hole her death left behind. He had to move forward now, not just for himself—but for her. For all of them. The ones touched by this world of shadows.

A tap broke through his thoughts.

He turned to find a boy with sharp features and a mischievous grin standing beside his desk. Callum, a fellow student known for his sarcasm and late-night caffeine-fueled rants in the dorms.

“Alright, mate? Look, Professor Elsmore’s posted that anyone who missed the last essay and the group discussion’s looking at a formal warning on their file. Especially with our Cambridge evaluations coming up—don’t want that, yeah?”

Rostin sighed, smiling awkwardly. “Ah, right. Yeah. Cheers, Callum. I’ll talk to the professors today.”

Callum nodded and gave him a pat on the shoulder, his hand warm and real—a grounding touch. “Good lad. Don’t vanish on us again, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Rostin muttered, eyes drifting back to the window. Not unless another bloody vampire shows up in my hallway.

He exhaled long and slow, letting his elbows support his head as his thoughts twisted inward again. Xenelov’s magic… it’s still here. Everyone’s still drawn to me. Still… talking like nothing ever changed. Still seeing me as the golden boy. Maybe he was right…

But then, just before the first class bell rang, the air in the room shifted. Something strange, like a ripple over still water. A few students near the door glanced up, smiling.

And there she was.

Emma.

Blonde hair in soft waves, her eyes clear and blue like a frozen lake under moonlight. Her smile was gentle, radiant—almost too warm. Her energy was bubbly, light, like nothing had ever happened.

Rostin froze. His breath caught. Every limb stiffened.

It was Emma. But how?

She walked into the room like any other morning. Laughing. Chatting. As though her blood had never stained the dust of the ground at the back of the building. As if she'd never screamed. As if she'd never died.

His hand trembled slightly, hidden beneath the desk. His throat went dry.

Xenelov… what did you mean?