The hush after Radiel's song lingered in the air like a thick, silken curtain.
The lake's surface was glass once more, reflecting a thousand distant stars, and the ancient forest around them seemed to hold its breath. The only sound was the faint rustle of leaves and the steady, aching beat of Druvok's heart.
Maliny remained nestled against him, her pale lashes resting like fragile threads upon her cheeks, and the faintest curve of a wistful smile still on her lips.
And then — in a voice soft as a sigh, as though afraid to disturb the night itself — she spoke.
"Thank you, Druvok… This was the most beautiful gift I've ever received."
For a heartbeat, he couldn't breathe.
The words struck something raw and ancient within him — a place he hadn't known still existed.
A place he had long buried beneath blood, fury, and chains.
He didn't trust his voice.
So he simply nodded, his grip tightening a fraction as if the very thought of letting go now was unbearable.
Radiel, still lazily floating on the water's surface, watched the exchange with a knowing glint in his sea-deep eyes. Then, with the grace of a creature born of tides and storms, he swam closer to the shore.
In his hand was a seashell — pale as moonstone, its inner surface shimmering with iridescent light.
It looked like it had been shaped by sorrow itself, the soft spiral of it capturing some long-forgotten lullaby.
"Here," Radiel murmured, his voice a liquid purr.
"For you, little star. Whenever you wish to hear my voice, press this to your ear, and I will sing for you… even from the ends of the world."
He extended it toward her, the fragile shell cradled between elegant fingers.
Maliny's lips parted in surprise. Slowly, her slender hand reached out, the tips of her fingers brushing his, and she took the shell with the kind of delicate reverence one might give a relic of the gods.
A warm, honest smile touched her lips — the kind that rarely graced them, unburdened and real.
"Thank you, Radiel."
And for once, the siren said nothing flirtatious in return.
He merely smiled, a strange tenderness passing through his features before he sank silently beneath the water, leaving only ripples and starlight.
Druvok didn't wait.
Without a word, he scooped Maliny into his arms once more, holding her as if she weighed nothing.
Her body was cool and impossibly soft against his rough, battle-scarred chest.
And as he carried her back through the woods, he could feel the steady beat of her heart through the thin silk of her gown — a gentle, mortal rhythm that felt, to him, like the only sound worth hearing.
The night air was thick with the scent of moss and night-blooming lilacs.
The forest around them whispered of old magic and forgotten oaths.
And Druvok… for the first time in a century, did not feel entirely like a monster.
He reached her chambers, slipping inside without so much as a sound.
The room was bathed in moonlight, silvering every surface.
He laid her gently upon the bed, careful as though she were something precious and breakable — something sacred.
Maliny let out a soft breath, the shell still cradled in her palm, and almost immediately drifted into sleep.
Druvok stood there for a long moment.
And then… he sat beside her.
The weight of the night settled around him, thick and heavy, but he didn't care.
His fingers — calloused, stained by a thousand battlefields — reached out to tangle themselves in the cool strands of her silvery hair.
He let them slip through his hand again and again, fascinated by the way it caught the moonlight like spun glass.
And then, so softly it barely stirred the air, he spoke.
"I was supposed to hate your kind."
A bitter chuckle escaped him, low and rough.
"Humans… weak, fragile, treacherous things. I was supposed to curse you all, and yet…"
He swallowed hard, his gaze locked on her sleeping face.
"Yet here I am, unable to stop this wretched urge to protect you… to keep you near. To… claim you."
His jaw tightened.
"And when another man looks at you… when his voice softens, when his eyes linger… it makes my blood burn. It's wrong. It's foolish. It's dangerous."
His voice dropped even lower, no more than a whisper meant for himself.
"And yet, gods help me… it feels more right than anything I've ever known."
He leaned down, brushing a kiss against her brow.
It was a fleeting, feather-light thing — but to him, it felt like a battle lost.
He lingered there for a heartbeat more, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.
Then, without another word, Druvok rose and left the room, his steps soundless as a ghost.
⸻
⸻
But he did not return to his own quarters.
No.
The forest path swallowed him once again, his massive figure a shadow against the darkness as he made his way toward the royal palace.
There was a storm in his chest now, and he needed answers.
Why was Prince Aldric — that smug, silk-tongued parasite — suddenly circling Maliny like a hawk over a wounded dove?
What did he want?
Why now?
By the time Druvok reached the palace gates, the night was at its deepest, and the guards were dozing.
Within, word reached Leonardo quickly.
A servant, pale-faced and breathless, stammered:
"Master… the goblin has left the estate."
Leonardo — seated in his study, a glass of dark wine in hand — let out a low chuckle.
His gaze drifted to the portrait above the hearth: a younger version of himself, his mother, and a much smaller Maliny caught mid-laughter.
Bitterness twisted his lips.
"My beautiful, blind little sister," he murmured.
"Even without sight, you gather the hearts of men as easily as you used to gather flower petals in the garden."
His fingers brushed the painted face of his mother with a strange, gentle reverence.
A sigh, long and weary.
"Let us pray your fate doesn't mirror hers."
And to the empty room, in a voice raw with old grief, he whispered:
"Why were you so weak, mother…?"
The fire cracked in the hearth, and the night went on.