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Tension, unspoken and thick, flitted about the room like glimmers of powdered glass, making it difficult to breathe.  A burly man leaned back in his chair, studying Feigndail with a level of scrutiny that felt almost invasive.  As if he could dissect apart every element of his being beneath the pallor of his cold skin; as if he could eavesdrop on every whispering secret locked away in that cerebral cell.  Dusklight filtered through the panes of the office window, illuminating motes of dust that balleted through the air like tiny spectres of ambiguity.

The same kind of uncertainty knits across the vampire's skeptical face.
"I'm sorry, Feigndail,"  the administrator continued with a steady voice laced with hints of regret.  "The council requires all professors in your field to take on an apprentice this year."

With an astute gaze, he met the soft eyes of the man on the other side of the desk, searching for any sign of leniency or understanding.  It was a familiar routine—the back-and-forth between authority and the one who wished to remain unencumbered.  The one whose nerves were in turmoil since that fateful encounter with one of many lost brothers.  Mulling over it made Feingdail's palms clammy, his temples lined with subtle glints of sweat.  He didn't have time to orchestrate any of this.

"You understand, of course,"  the administrator added gently, almost as if he were attempting to forge a bridge between the chasm that slithered between them like some monstrous black snake.  It would be a lie to deny that Feigndail grasped the necessity behind this, the push for mentorship, but he still felt that insistent tug of rebellion within him.  Damn the Queen and her appetite for power, for progression that went well beyond any of their wherewithal.  But he comprehended, begrudgingly, that all this was a necessity, a way of ensuring that they all survived against whatever threat had taken over the fields of Dunmeath.  Though he comprehended, that didn't mean Feigndail had to like it.

As he weighed his options, the air swelled with possibilities that felt both daunting and ripe with untapped potential.  On one hand, an apprentice could bring new insights and a fresh perspective to his studies; yet, the thought of relinquishing his curated solitude was a prospect that demanded considerable contemplation.  In the end, all Feigndail could do was labour a heavy sigh of capitulation.  After all, what choice did he have?




The office exuded a sense of calm order, every item systematically sorted into its rightful place.  It was an unsettling contrast to its usual state of bedlam.  Papers, meticulously categorized, filled their designated boxes.  On the corner of his oak piece desk, a small collection of books stood like sentinels, each one worn at the edges from years of careful handling.  Of late, he found himself lost in their pages, absorbing knowledge that would benefit his research and widen his understanding of what many vampires called "Blood bonding."  A technique to regain his lost control over the elements at the cost of tethering to yet another soul.  He was already bound to many, what was one more?

Feigndail sat at the desk surrounded by the warm glow of the hanging light.  The office was steeped in the scent of parchment and ink as he deliberately maneuvered his quill pen across the smooth surface of the paper.  His brow welled in concentration as he sifted through the pages of a hefty tome, thumbing through and capturing only the essence of what mattered.  The quiet rhythm of his writing filled the room with a symphony of quiet diligence.

Rituals and devotions.  Tethers and spiritual chains.  The subject was hard to come by and he took some... innovative leeway in filling the gaps. It wasn't until he heard the soft whine of the partially open office door that Feigndail looked up from the black rim of his glasses, his eyes wide with panic.  He'd been so lost in that labyrinth of thoughts he'd failed to notice the bond screaming for his attention.

His heart thudded with tempestuous fervency, and the quill shook in his unsteady hand; the sudden intrusion forced him into a renewed awareness.  Familiar misery flashed throughout his mind, a theatre of faces named and now forgotten.  It struck him as if Corvinus had resurfaced to thrust a knife into his chest over and over and over.  He felt exposed, stripped of his meticulous armor, vulnerable amidst the chaotic hum of thoughts and faces, long-lost conversations.  Yet, there was also tenderness.  Intimate ardency followed the trail of her fingers down the length of his face.  Her soft thumb skimming away the wet trail of tears that death kindled to the edge of his lashes.  Feigndail remembered kissing hers away before hesitantly tasting the softness of her mouth.

He abruptly slammed the pen down on his desk as he watched the door open.  The sweet scent of floral perfume wrapped around him like bewitching ribbons, stirring bittersweet nostalgia.  It was a scent that haunted the crevices of his mind, a memory of moments long past now obscured by the weight of grief.  He blinked, trying to refocus, unsure whether he welcomed or dreaded this intrusion.

If the princess was here, then so was Corvinus.

When Feigndail opened his mouth in welcome, he wrestled internally with the fear of what it meant for her to see him, to be made unshielded before that gentle gaze.  But she wasn't Pandora now.  She was new, birthed from this world the same as he.  She didn't bear his curse of memory, wouldn't know the discord they'd all suffered to keep her from falling into the hands of torment and control.  Soft fingers coiled into fists on his desk as he finally looked up at the shadow of a woman that made his heart feel as if it could pry apart the barrier of ribs and flesh to lay, throbbing, at his feet.

"Are you here for the apprenticeship notice?"  he asked, trying to keep his voice controlled.