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Whispers Upon The Binding
*

After that accursed night—after the confrontation with Yurellion, and Emma's pale body falling still in his arms—Rostin Winford had not stepped outside his room.

A week had passed. Seven entire days since the air had smelled of ash and magic. Since the world he knew had shattered into something cruel and arcane.
Since Emma had died.

The once golden boy of university, the beloved Rostin, had vanished without explanation. He lay under his duvet like it was burial linen, limbs coiled in silence. Curtains drawn. Lights never turned on. The only illumination came from the weak silver haze that slipped through the blinds when the sun dared to set.

On the porcelain nightstand by his bed, papers were stacked—lecture notes, neatly summarised by Xenelov’s hand, precise and perfect. Day after day, he brought them back from the university and placed them with a near ceremonial rhythm, like one placing offerings before a shrine. But Rostin never touched them. The pile had grown so thick that the pages had begun to slide and crumple, scattered on the floor like forgotten prayers.

His phone lit up every few hours, notifications buzzing. Messages from classmates, concerned professors, group mates requesting his input for an essay due last week. All unread. All ignored. The device eventually died. He never charged it again.

And so the next week began. Monday. Evening.

Xenelov stepped through the iron gate, his long coat catching in the breeze. The gate remained open. As always. Hope had teased him, just this morning, that perhaps today he would return to find it closed—to find a sign that Rostin had come out, that the boy had moved. But no. The silence of the house remained unchanged, like a crypt.

He exhaled. A sigh that misted with the cold.

With a click, he shut the gate behind him, the clang of metal echoing through the quiet. He moved through the front path with elegance only creatures of old age carried, unlocking the front door and slipping inside. The manor was still. Too still. The air hung heavy with dust, sorrow, and the quiet remnants of human grief.

Xenelov climbed the staircase slowly, each footfall a ghost. His silver hair flowed behind him like silk in water, brushing the back of his dark cloak. He reached his room, passed by Rostin’s closed door, and stopped.

That feeling again. Like a thorn pressing into the chest.

Guilt.

It made his jaw tighten. His brows drew ever so slightly. His hand hovered over the doorknob to his room—but then, he turned.

He walked back, stopping in front of Rostin’s door.

Why? Why did he care? He was born from darkness. Molded in the cold halls of vampire royalty. Humans were fragile things. And yet…

He lifted a hand, his knuckles tapping gently against the sleek surface.

"Winford," he called, voice like carved obsidian, smooth, royal, ancient. "Open the door."

Silence.

His voice darkened, the edge of command sharpening.

"Rostin Winford," he spoke louder, firmer. "You must arise. This stillness does not serve you. You cannot persist like this. You are still of the living."

Still, silence.

Xenelov's throat tightened. This was not his war. He had always held contempt for human fragility, for the naivety of mortals. Yurellion had been correct in his scorn. Xenelov had sworn never to meddle in human lives, never to tangle his eternal thread with their fleeting ones.

Yet here he was.

And then—it creaked.

The door opened slowly, like the mouth of a grieving beast.

Rostin stood there. His face was hollow. His eyes, sunken. Fragility shadowed his jawline, his hair unkempt, his skin pale beneath the sickly light that crept in from the hall. His shoulders slumped like they bore the weight of the dead.

He didn’t look at Xenelov at first. His gaze fixed to his own feet, lips trembling, as if the words he was about to say would taste like poison in his mouth.

Then he looked up.

And something inside him broke.

“You...” he started, voice low, dry, cracking. “This is all your fault.”

Xenelov stiffened, but said nothing.

Rostin’s eyes gleamed—wet, wide, wild. “You came into my life. You—you made your rules. You dragged me into your world. I never bloody asked for this!”

His voice rose, his throat tightening, spit catching at the edges of his rage.

“I didn’t ask for magic! Or for monsters! Or for gods-forsaken skeletons talking in dead tongues! I didn’t ask for you, Xenelov!”

He screamed the name like it was venom.

“XENELOV!”

And with a furious snarl, Rostin lunged.

He collided with Xenelov, fists pounding against the vampire’s chest, striking again and again like a caged animal. Not to hurt—but to release. To scream. To cry. To be heard.

Xenelov stood still, unflinching, the strikes dull against his immortal body. But each blow echoed with meaning. With grief. With fury.

Rostin pressed his forehead against Xenelov's chest and let out a sound—not quite a sob, not quite a scream. Something in between. Raw. Broken.

Xenelov raised his arms slowly, as though unfamiliar with the gesture. Then placed them on the boy’s shoulders. Not to push him away. But to steady him.

In the ancient tongue of his people, he whispered something. Something sorrowful.

Then, in the tongue of men:

“I did not intend for her to die.”

And still softer:

“But I did not intend to care either.”

Rostin's rage unleashed further with those words. Xenelov stumbled back as the weight of Rostin's fury collided with his chest. The vampire's long coat fluttered like the wings of a shadowed beast before he fell back with a harsh thud, seated now upon the marble floor at the top of the grand corridor, his back slamming into the wrought iron railings behind him. The impact echoed faintly through the vast, hollow halls of the mansion.

Rostin knelt before him, panting, eyes red-rimmed with grief and rage, trembling fingers twisted into the fabric of Xenelov’s shirt. His knuckles were white, his entire form shaking violently with repressed despair. “Why?!” he cried, his voice breaking like glass, raw and exposed. “Just why?! What did I ever do to deserve all this?!”

Xenelov’s crimson eyes narrowed, glowing dimly in the hallway’s dusky twilight. His arms hung limply at his sides, unmoving, yet his expression remained coldly composed—dangerously composed. “Winford,” he said, voice echoing with ancient authority, like a curse chanted beneath stone temples. “Thou didst wish for a life adorned with love and camaraderie. That desire was thine own, not mine to bear.”

“You said you’d grant my wish!” Rostin roared, his voice hoarse and furious as he yanked Xenelov by the collar. “You said—” his throat caught as fresh tears streamed down his cheeks, “—you said there wouldn’t be any consequences! You lied to me, Xenelov! You lied!”

Xenelov did not resist. His hands remained still, careful. Even as Rostin shook him, he dared not retaliate. He was forbidden. The terms of the contract forbade him from harming the boy, not even a single push could be risked.

“Yes,” he murmured with venomous serenity. “Welcome to the world of lies and deceit. Thou, of all creatures, shouldst know it well. For humans do lie to one another with such...delightful ease.”

Rostin’s breath caught in his throat. He clenched his jaw tightly and glared at the vampire, the pain in his chest rising like bile. “Get out,” he said, voice trembling, “of my house... my life.”

Xenelov raised one elegant brow, the corner of his lips twitching in subtle surprise. “What was that?” he asked, his tone dipped in mockery.

Rostin’s hands released Xenelov’s shirt. The fabric fell back into place with a soft rustle. He leaned forward, speaking with a hush, a whisper meant only for the vampire’s ears, his voice weighed with defeat. “Destroy the contract,” he muttered. “I don’t want to be the most popular kid anymore. Just... just leave me. Leave this place. Go back to where you came from.”

A shadow flickered across Xenelov’s face. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing like a feline considering its prey. “Destroy the contract?” he echoed, his voice now quiet and cruel. A beat passed, and then he smiled. That cold, inhuman smile that made the air grow still around him. “Thou canst not destroy it.”

“Why?!” Rostin snapped.

Xenelov’s voice dropped lower, smooth and merciless. “Because I shall not allow it.”

He rose slowly, the movement graceful, deliberate. He adjusted his sleeves and brushed imaginary dust from his coat with a regal flick. “What choice dost thou possess, Winford?” he asked as he turned away, voice swelling in command as he strode towards his chamber. “I granted thee the very thing thy soul yearned for. And thou didst bask in it... until the price was revealed. But now, thou expectest me to vanish, like a whim, like a servant dismissed?”

He laughed then, low and bitter. “The residual magic shall linger. The eyes of men shall still follow thee. But what of me, hmm? I received nothing from thee in return. Nothing. And I shan’t depart empty-handed. Do not be foolish.”

Rostin staggered to his feet, his legs quivering beneath him, heart pounding violently in his chest. The corridor felt colder now, darker. He looked up as Xenelov reached his door, fingers wrapping around the silver handle.

“Right,” Rostin murmured, his voice hollow. “No matter what I do, I always end up in the most ridiculous of situations. My life was never beautiful. It was never real. And now this...” His voice cracked. “Emma didn’t deserve to die…”

Xenelov paused.

“You killed her,” Rostin whispered, eyes burning with pain.

“I did not,” the vampire said evenly, not turning back. “That mortal perished because she lacked the strength to endure the truth.”

Rostin stepped slowly forward, each movement dragging like a burden he could barely carry. He gripped the railing beside him, staring out into the dim hallway, breath ragged. “Then I can’t handle it either.”

Silence.

The shadows of the house deepened. The air itself seemed to still, waiting for what came next.