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Chapter Text

Isaac had just defeated the mage who controlled the people of the city. The Forgemaster ordered his creatures to bring him the corpses suitable for transformation.

As he looked around, Isaac noticed the pile of bodies accumulated in one corner of the ruined room. At the center stood a wooden table, and atop it lay a single corpse. It belonged to a young man roughly Isaac’s age. With minimal damage, he would be the first to be forged after the battle.

Isaac gripped his dagger firmly as it began to emanate a red aura. He sliced into the corpse’s flesh, shaping the body. Isaac had no control over what his creatures would become, but as a Forgemaster, he could exert a minimal influence over certain traits.

As he carved into the body, Isaac realized that although he was performing the ritual as he always did, something felt different.

The dark-skinned man pierced the corpse’s chest — both to dispel lingering doubts and to begin the transformation.

The moment the blade struck, the young man’s eyes snapped open and screams of agony echoed throughout the tower. His clothes tore as his muscle mass and stature increased. Horns emerged from his forehead, wings unfurled from his back. His skin turned gray, and multiple eyes appeared on his face — a larger one at the center of his forehead and two more beneath his original eyes.

Isaac observed everything carefully. He knew something unusual had occurred, though he could not yet understand what.

When the process ended, he was finally able to examine the creature calmly.

The demon possessed an appearance far more human than the others Isaac had created — and, though he refused to admit it, strikingly beautiful. He resembled an angel more than a creature born of hell. His previous creations had been far more bestial. There was also something else about him — an uncommon aura, something powerful and distinct. Because of that, Isaac felt compelled to name him.

The Forgemaster considered for a moment, studying his creation. Then he decided.

Abel.

A simple, brief Hebrew name, representing purity and innocence.

He spoke firmly:

“Go with the others. Rebuild the city and bury the corpses unfit for the forge, Abel.”

The creature’s eyes gleamed with understanding — both of the order and of the name.

Abel obeyed, leaving the building. He stumbled slightly, adjusting to his new body.

Fulfilling his master’s command, the night creature exited the tower and walked toward where the others were burying the dead.

Along the way, Abel came upon a river. He crouched and observed his reflection in the water. Night surrounded him, and the moon shimmered upon the surface.

He stared at his own face.

It was different now. Something new. A creature born of hell, created for the sole purpose of serving his Forgemaster.

Abel raised a clawed hand to his cheek. The cold of his touch contrasted with his warm skin. He traced upward to where his horns began, then let his hand fall.

He thought of his master — the man who had given him a second chance at existence. A purpose. A name.

Abel had no memories of his past life, but that did not matter. He had already received everything he needed from Isaac. And in return, he would offer his loyalty.

Continuing his task, he reached an open field. It might have been peaceful, almost dreamlike, if not for the dozens of night creatures burying bodies.

Abel picked up a shovel left behind and began to dig.

 

---

Days later, Isaac had finished his work in the tower. Now he wished to assess the reconstruction’s progress — and to check on one particular creature: Abel.

The Forgemaster walked through the city, observing his creations laboring to rebuild the structures. If they maintained that pace, they could march toward Carmilla’s castle in a matter of days.

Isaac continued to the burial field. Only a handful of creatures remained there, with few bodies left.

In the distance, he spotted Abel. The creature carried a corpse effortlessly, his movements far more fluid than on the day of his creation. Abel placed the body carefully into the grave and covered it with earth.

Isaac watched for a long moment, attentive to every gesture.

Abel then turned his head and met Isaac’s gaze — though the eye contact lasted only a brief instant before he returned to his task.

Isaac wished to understand the nature of that many-eyed being better.

But not now.

 

---

The Forgemaster continued walking through the city, assessing the reconstruction. He also needed to maintain his physical conditioning.

The attack on Carmilla’s castle was approaching. He would use a teleportation mirror to lead his army there and defeat her.

He briefly considered what he would do afterward. He wanted to create a kinder world… but how? He knew human kindness existed despite the overwhelming cruelty — the blind merchant who gifted him, the captain who transported him, Miranda who taught him. How could people become more like them?

He pushed the thought aside. He did not even know if he would survive the battle against Carmilla.

Lost in thought beneath a ruined structure, Isaac suddenly felt a wing cover him.

He sensed the light texture of feathers against his body and shivered slightly at the contact. Surprised, he looked up and met Abel’s five eyes.

The creature stood before him, wings and arms wrapped around him — like an embrace. Isaac could hear his heavy breathing.

Upon closer inspection, he noticed blood running down Abel’s face. He touched the demon’s cheek briefly. The skin was cold. For a moment, Isaac perceived his fragility.

He straightened and exhaled. Maintaining eye contact and composure, he withdrew his hand and said:

“Release me.”

The words lacked their usual coldness. They weren’t gentle — but something had changed.

Abel obeyed, stepping back. Blood stained the rubble at their feet.

Isaac examined the scene and deduced what had happened. He then spoke coolly:

“Allow me to see your wings.”

Abel approached, turned his back, knelt, and opened his wings hesitantly. The injuries were light and would heal quickly with proper care.

“Come with me.”

They returned to the room where Abel had been created. Along the way, the creature walked closer to Isaac than necessary — their arms nearly brushing.

“Sit.”

Abel complied. Isaac cleaned the wounds, feeling the softness of the feathers beneath his fingers. Each touch drew low sighs and soft sounds from Abel; his wings trembled slightly.

The Forgemaster was startled by the sounds — the creature’s voice was unexpectedly gentle. He hesitated briefly, then continued.

Concern pricked at him. He inhaled deeply, pushed the thoughts aside, and applied the salve.

When he finished, Isaac exhaled in relief.

“You shouldn’t fly for now,” he said. “You’ll recover by tomorrow.”

Abel’s eyes followed every word.

“Before you go, I have a question. Why did you do that, when I gave no order?”

Abel placed one hand over his heart and bowed.

“Loyalty.”

Isaac murmured something so softly that only Abel could hear it. Air escaped through his nostrils, and his lips nearly curved into a smile.

“You are dismissed.”

 

---

That night, Abel patrolled the tower as cold winds swept through the city.

While walking the halls, he noticed an open door — Isaac’s chamber. He entered.

Isaac slept peacefully, even with the window open, letting the freezing air inside.

Abel closed the window and approached the sleeping man. He exhaled slowly, grasped the blanket — hesitated — released it — then gently pulled it back over Isaac.

He observed his master for a while.

It was strange seeing him like this. Normally stern. Now at rest. Abel studied the tattoos on Isaac’s face, feeling the urge to touch them — but he did not.

The memory of Isaac’s hands on his wings and face returned.

Something warmed in his chest — a gentle, unfamiliar heat.

And Abel realized he liked that feeling.

Chapter Text

Isaac sat in the mage’s tower library. The scent of old books and dust filled the air.

He sat on a sofa, flipping through a random book while lost in thought. The attack would occur in a few hours, after nightfall.

He was restless.

He wondered what he would do after achieving his goal. What awaited him then?

Throughout his journey, Isaac had met people who made him reconsider his beliefs — especially his former desire to exterminate humanity. He did not regret his actions; they had shaped who he was.

He wanted revenge on Hector — yet knew vengeance only bred more hatred. Hector had betrayed Dracula, yes — but had also suffered immensely at the hands of the four sisters. Isaac no longer knew what to do about him.

What if the emptiness remained even after revenge?

His thoughts turned to Abel.

Would his fighting style be as graceful as the way he buried the dead? Or would he be brutal, tearing enemies apart?

Questions without answers flooded his mind.

Abel watched from near the door, silent as a shadow — a habit formed after the window incident. Isaac had grown accustomed to the presence, pretending not to notice.

But Abel noticed everything.

Isaac stared at the same page for minutes. His mind was elsewhere. Abel approached and touched his shoulder — without hesitation.

Isaac startled. The claws rested gently against his cloak. His body relaxed instantly. He closed the book and looked up.

Abel’s five eyes reflected concern.

“I’m only lost in thought,” Isaac said calmly. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

Abel didn’t move.

He withdrew his hand but stayed close, watching Isaac carefully.

Isaac felt grounded — anchored by Abel’s presence. He could finally read.

It hardly felt like a massacre loomed ahead.

The calm before the storm.

 

—

Isaac and his army of night creatures gathered in the basement of the Magician’s Tower.

The place was dark and dusty, revealing how long it had gone unused. The only source of light came from the teleportation mirror, which emitted a pale blue glow. On its surface, Carmilla’s castle was displayed from above.

Every night creature Isaac had created so far was present. Most of them yearned for the command that would allow them to attack. The desire to kill coursed through their veins; they trembled and sweated with every passing second.

Isaac stood closest to the mirror. He observed the vision intently, his mind empty. One hand rested on the dagger still secured in its leather sheath.

Abel remained at Isaac’s side — not behind him, like the others — close enough that their arms brushed at times. His gaze shifted between the mirror and the Forgemaster’s face.

As a final act before battle, Isaac turned toward Abel. Their eyes met.

Isaac studied Abel’s face as though it were the last time he ever would — a possibility that was not unlikely. He tried to carve every detail into his memory: the curve of his horns, the fangs visible even when his mouth was closed, the way the fins connected seamlessly to his skin. Everything.

Then, as swiftly as writing the final period of a story, Isaac drew the dagger from its sheath, pointed it toward the mirror, and after a few seconds of silent tension, commanded:

“Attack.”

The bloodthirsty creatures surged forward as if there were no tomorrow — and for most of them, there truly would not be.

Abel grasped Isaac’s hand, still dazed by the look he had been given. He spread his wings and launched himself into the glass.

Passing through the mirror felt strange for both of them. Though Isaac had done it before, the sensation of vanishing from the world for a few seconds never ceased to be unsettling.

There was no time for reflection. Abel descended in flight and released Isaac.

The stench of blood was overwhelming. The clash of metal and inhuman screams echoed through the space, loud enough to become unbearable.

Most of the night creatures were already brutally slaughtering the vampires, tearing flesh and shattering bodies.

Abel was no different. He stayed close to Isaac at all times, shielding him from danger. Vampires — or Hector’s night creatures — barely had time to approach before being mortally wounded by Abel or Isaac himself.

Together, they advanced toward the chamber where the vampire resided. Accompanied by other creatures forged by Isaac, they entered the room. The floor resembled a lake, so vast was the amount of blood spilled.

The remains of destroyed night creatures scattered throughout the chamber were no surprise, considering Carmilla’s strength and skill.

Throughout the battle, Abel positioned himself ever closer to Isaac, intercepting attacks and serving as a living shield. Despite their losses, they were winning — until, for a brief moment, Abel lowered his guard.

Carmilla struck him, hurling him aside.

In a desperate attempt to kill Isaac, Carmilla detonated herself, taking much of the castle with her.

Before that, Abel gathered every last ounce of strength he possessed and threw himself forward, spreading his wings over Isaac.

The last thing Isaac saw was Abel’s face.

The last thing he felt was the weight of wings and arms enclosing him — the same way he had been protected from falling rubble weeks earlier. He felt the warmth, the pressure, the almost ticklish texture — just like when he had tended to Abel’s wounds.

Then he heard the creature’s heart beating, seconds before both were slammed into the wall by the explosion.

 

---

When Isaac opened his eyes, the first thing he felt was Abel’s body pressing down on his — firm, protective. Even unconscious, Abel still held him tightly, as though continuing to shield him from any remaining danger.

Snow and wind swept through the ruined structure, covering their bodies and freezing not only Isaac’s lashes, but his hope as well.

There was no time to think.

The only image his mind could process was Abel’s shattered form: feathers burned and torn away, shards of glass embedded in his skin, deep gashes scattered across his body.

Isaac trembled violently. His heart beat too fast, painfully so, as the sight tore through his soul.

His Abel… reduced to this.

Tears came mercilessly. The companion — the one who had comforted and protected him countless times — lay broken before his eyes.

“Because of me… because of my orders…” he whispered through sobs.

He pressed his face against Abel’s neck, searching for some kind of refuge.

And then he felt it.

Weak breathing. A slow, but present heartbeat.

They were still alive.

His body relaxed slightly at the realization, though the guilt remained far too heavy for true relief.

With extreme care, Isaac freed himself from Abel’s arms, trying not to cause further harm — a difficult task, given the strength with which he was still held. When he succeeded, he gathered Abel in his arms and, despite his exhaustion and his own injuries, carried him to a room that still stood.

There, he cleaned the wounds with whatever alcohol he could find. As he worked, he noticed the faint sighs and low groans of discomfort escaping Abel. Those sounds, however weak, soothed him.

Isaac’s hands trembled as he stitched the gashes, the thread slipping nearly as often as his focus. When he finished, he gently caressed Abel’s injured face.

That was when something unfamiliar formed in his chest.

The air felt heavier. His heart beat differently. An uncomfortable warmth spread within him, and a faint flush rose to his cheeks.

Was this… love?

No.

Isaac had never felt anything like this for anyone. Love was not a word that belonged to him. It never had.

And even if it were… he was not worthy of it. Much less worthy of Abel.

If Abel lay in that condition, it was his fault.

A storm of emotions struck him all at once — fear, guilt, relief, denial. Isaac gently tightened his grip on Abel’s hand, as if that single gesture were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

He did not know what to do.

He only knew that, for the first time in his life, losing someone terrified him more than any war ever had.

 

---

As the days passed, Isaac remained at Abel’s side whenever possible — reading in silence or simply watching his wounds slowly heal.

With each injury that closed, he felt a little calmer; with every scar revealed, the guilt weighed heavier in his chest.

At one point, he needed to speak with Hector. Throughout the conversation, Isaac forced himself to appear unconcerned, nearly indifferent. Only he knew how tight his chest truly was.

Only when he returned to the room where Abel rested could he breathe normally again.

Carefully, he traced a fingertip over a large scar on Abel’s torso, feeling the rough, uneven texture beneath his skin.

When would Abel wake? Would he wake at all?

Isaac was certain he would — he had to be — yet his mind insisted on exploring every possible outcome, each ending with the same image: his growing solitude.

Abel was not merely a night creature. None of the others followed or protected him that way — not even the oldest among them. None showed such devotion.

He could not be replaced. Even if Isaac wanted him to be.

In a low, trembling voice, Isaac murmured:

“What am I supposed to do without you by my side?”

As though some force had answered his plea, a hand wrapped around his wrist. The grip was not firm, but gentle — almost shy. Isaac felt the faint vibrations of Abel’s touch against his skin.

He looked up.

All five of Abel’s eyes were open — bright, alive. A faint smile rested on his face, one of relief at seeing his master there, unharmed.

Isaac’s heart surged violently. Stronger than when he had first acknowledged his feelings. The air felt heavy, yet his body relaxed as Abel’s touch steadied.

Abel tried to sit up, but a groan slipped from his throat.

“Be careful,” Isaac said immediately. “You’re not fully recovered yet.”

Gently, he helped him sit more comfortably, his hands resting over Abel’s injured wings as he supported him against the headboard.

Abel smiled — this time showing his fangs slightly. Isaac took in every detail of that expression.

Abel was grateful. Grateful for not being abandoned. For being cared for. For being seen, touched, protected.

He did not fully understand why Isaac had done all of this, but gratitude flowed through him like warmth.

Driven by a genuine feeling he could barely name, Abel lifted a hand to Isaac’s face. He caressed his cheek, tracing the tattoos on his skin with utmost care, ensuring his claws would not harm him.

Isaac was confused. He did not understand the gesture or its meaning — yet he did not pull away.

On the contrary.

He wished, intensely, that the moment would never end.

 

---

Isaac slept peacefully.

It was a comfortable bed — a rarity after months of travel. Not the cold floor of a ship, nor the harsh sand of the desert. A quiet luxury he had yet to fully accept.

His sleep was broken by an indistinct noise.

Isaac opened his eyes in the middle of the night, alert. The sound did not repeat, but unease lingered. He partially sat up, scanning the room until he found the source.

Abel stood near the door. Motionless. Asleep.

That was wrong.

Denying Abel proper rest was not just unfair — it was dangerous. An exhausted body made mistakes. Isaac relied on precision. Control. The thought of issuing an order to someone too tired to carry it out made his jaw tighten.

His hands curled, nails biting into his skin.

Isaac rose and approached the creature.

“Wake up.”

All five of Abel’s eyes opened at once, glowing in the dimness. He was awake, but clearly drowsy — wings half-spread, his body reacting more by instinct than awareness.

“Sleep,” Isaac ordered.

Abel blinked, confused.

If not for the command, he would still be asleep. Isaac exhaled sharply and added:

“In the bed.”

The confusion deepened. The place was not his. It never had been.

Still, Abel did not question it. His master commanded; he obeyed.

He walked to the bed and lay beneath the covers, mimicking what he had seen Isaac do countless times. He tried to turn onto his side, but his wings prevented it. He remained on his back. Within moments, exhaustion claimed him.

Isaac watched for a moment.

Then he moved silently to the sofa.

It was comfortable too. Yet sleep did not return. The irritation faded, replaced by a quiet vigilance. Isaac picked up a book and turned its pages, letting time pass.

From the bed came only the steady sound of Abel’s breathing.

And, for some reason, that was enough.

 

---

Isaac was in his chamber — a room that had likely belonged to one of the four sisters in the past. It was vast. Even more so now, without Abel’s presence.

He had awakened earlier than usual, unsettled by the sense that something was missing. To quell the feeling, he rose and went to the castle’s kitchen for water.

The castle had running water — a technology that still fascinated Isaac. The only place he had seen it before was Dracula’s castle. After so much time traveling, he still had not fully adjusted to such comfort.

Meanwhile, Abel returned to Isaac’s room after a brief absence. Isaac had been asleep when he left, so he assumed his absence would go unnoticed. There were still hours before his master would wake.

Yet upon entering the empty chamber, his heart raced.

His body shuddered; fins bristled, wings spread instinctively in alarm. Isaac was not there.

Abel searched the castle for his master. He did not fly in panic — his movements were controlled, almost too calm — yet something inside him was wrong. Since when did he react this way?

Unaware, he collided with Isaac, who was returning to the room.

The impact brought a flush to the creature’s ashen cheeks. His heart pounded too fast, wings half-spread by reflex.

Isaac, in turn, was genuinely confused. Abel flying through the castle was not one of his habits.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Abel pointed at him. His feet were now on the ground, but his wings remained raised, his body tense, his heart still racing.

Isaac understood.

He found it curious — almost amusing — but he did not laugh. Not at Abel’s concern. He remembered feeling the same way weeks earlier, when Abel had vanished from his sight.

Gently, Isaac took Abel’s hand, a silent attempt to calm him.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said. “I would never leave the castle without warning.”

That was not typical of Isaac. Nothing he did involving Abel was. It was as if he became someone else in his presence.

Then Isaac noticed someone behind him — too late.

He released Abel’s hand and turned sharply, meeting Hector’s surprised, curious gaze. The silver-haired human looked almost embarrassed to have witnessed the scene.

Isaac felt his face heat. Something that had never happened before Hector, Dracula, or anyone else he had known.

“I’m sorry,” Hector said awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Isaac took a breath, regaining his composure.

“You’re not interrupting anything. It was simply an interaction between Abel and me.”

“Abel?” Hector echoed.

“Yes. Abel,” Isaac confirmed, indicating the creature with a slight nod.

“I didn’t know you named your creatures,” Hector remarked.

“I usually don’t. He’s an exception.” Isaac paused. “Now, we’re returning to our quarters.”

It was a clear attempt to end the conversation. Isaac was far too embarrassed to prolong it. He had never shown such vulnerability.

Hector nodded, took his leave, and walked away.

Isaac and Abel walked side by side down the corridor. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but peaceful.

Neither commented on what had happened.

There was no need.

They both knew exactly what it meant.

 

---

Isaac was in the library of Carmilla’s castle. It held a greater variety of books than the Magician’s Tower.

It was a sunny day, despite the snow. The curtains were open, allowing light to flood the room.

Isaac read while seated on a sofa near the window. His breathing was calm, his mind undisturbed.

Abel stood near the door, as always. A strong beam of sunlight struck him, blinding him briefly.

Isaac noticed the demon’s discomfort and closed the curtains before realizing Abel had already moved elsewhere.

Their gazes met.

The silence that followed was unnatural.

Isaac sat back down, attempting to appear calm despite the tension in his body and the sweat forming on his brow.

Since when do I feel like this around Abel? he thought, his heart accelerating.

He cut the thought short. His mind had betrayed him — he did not wish to dwell on it, yet it had surfaced mercilessly.

Abel returned to his usual position, offering a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

 

---

Winter had grown harsher that week. A snowstorm covered the grounds, and the temperature dropped abruptly.

Isaac stood near the fireplace, seeking warmth. The fire crackled softly. Without realizing it, his eyes searched for Abel.

“Come closer,” he ordered, the words leaving him before he could reconsider.

The creature obeyed, approaching with quiet steps and sitting in the chair beside him.

Silence settled again, but Isaac was not at ease. No matter how many times he denied it, he knew — he felt something more than the bond between master and creature.

He missed Abel when he was absent. He trembled at the thought of a life without him. His body reacted to every small interaction, betraying what his mind tried to suppress.

It was wrong, undeniably so. A Forgemaster and a night creature.

Yet Abel was not merely loyal. Isaac knew that.

Pressure tightened in his chest, uncomfortable, almost painful. He wanted to rid himself of the feeling that had followed him since Carmilla’s defeat — but he could not.

On impulse, the words escaped him:

“Abel… there’s something I need to tell you.”

He hesitated briefly. Now that he had begun, he would not turn back.

“I didn’t plan this,” he continued softly. “But I can’t keep this pain to myself anymore.”

Abel watched him with unusual attentiveness. His body was rigid, his hands cold, damp.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Isaac said, as though each word pierced him. “I don’t want to force you into anything. I don’t want our bond as master and creature to interfere.”

For a moment, silence expanded.

Then Abel moved.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and wrapped Isaac in a gentle, careful embrace.

He felt the same.

He did not know how to name it, nor fully understand it — but his body never lied. His heart raced, warmth bloomed in his chest, his body trembled whenever he was near Isaac.

Isaac had not expected the touch — but he welcomed it. His arms wrapped around Abel, restrained yet firm, as if afraid it would vanish. A sincere smile appeared, his eyes glistening.

The room remained quiet. Only their breathing existed.

They stayed that way for a long time before slowly pulling apart.

Isaac lifted a hand to Abel’s face, stroking his cheek gently.

“May I?” he asked, eyes fixed on the creature’s lips.

Abel nodded.

Isaac kissed him carefully. His hand slid to the back of Abel’s neck, drawing him closer. Abel’s lips were soft; his fangs brushed against Isaac’s.

Instinctively, Isaac closed his eyes. His heart raced wildly. Everything was new — for both of them.

They parted briefly to breathe. Abel’s gaze returned to Isaac, intense, eager. His tongue sought permission, and Isaac allowed it, surprised yet unresistant.

Time lost meaning.

They remained by the fireplace, exchanging silent caresses, sharing warmth.

The future was uncertain — but, for now, it was enough.

 

---

Isaac was in his private chambers, seated in a luxurious chair as he ate his meal at the table. There was nothing troubling him at that moment; he simply ate in peace.

Abel stood guard near the door, arms held behind his back in a formal posture.

Gradually, his shoulders relaxed. He remembered that such rigidity was no longer necessary.

The creature moved silently to the chair beside Isaac and sat, observing him.

Every sip. Every bite. Every movement — as though Isaac were a masterpiece displayed in a museum.

Abel’s attention did not go unnoticed. The silence that settled over the room was not uncomfortable; it was comforting.

It was as though Abel’s presence filled a space that had once been empty — both in the room and within Isaac himself.

Without a word, Isaac stood, retrieved a glass of water and a bowl of fruit, and placed them before Abel without changing expression.

Abel accepted the gesture without question. He no longer searched for reasons as he once would have.

He already knew.

For a few moments, they shared the meal and each other’s company, untouched by the rest of the world.

Chapter Text

It was night. Abel had accompanied Isaac throughout the entire day. The forge master slept.

The creature watched his master’s face, but his thoughts were not on his appearance — they lingered on his habits.
Isaac read, studied, forged, walked, ate. He had a routine, however irregular it might be. There was an order there, even if imperfect.

Abel followed him like a shadow, alert to any sign of danger. His own routine existed solely in response to Isaac’s will.
A tightness formed in his chest. Something was missing. He did not know what — only that it hurt, that it lingered, that it did not fade.

The sensation remained until the demon eventually fell asleep in some forgotten corner.
(. . .)
Abel woke up. Isaac was still sleeping.
He remained leaning against the wall, feeling the cold of the floor seep through his body. His arms wrapped around his legs, wings closed tightly around himself. Waiting.

He did not know what he was waiting for. Nor why he did not stand, nor why he did nothing at all.

Still, he stayed there for a long time.
When Isaac awoke, he sat up on the bed and yawned — until he noticed Abel curled up in the corner of the room.

“What are you doing?” he asked, not moving, confusion and concern fixed on the creature.

Abel lifted his gaze toward him.

“Come here,” the forge master ordered.
Abel stood and took a step forward.

His body froze.

Cold sweat. Trembling hands. A racing heart — as if the air had been stolen from his lungs.

Abel stared at his own hands as though they no longer belonged to him.

Isaac immediately noticed something was wrong. Without thinking, he rushed forward and firmly grasped Abel’s shoulders.
It was impossible not to see it — the rigidity of his body, the frantic heartbeat, the labored breath betraying the rising panic.

“Look at me and trust me… I won’t let you hurt yourself,” he said, his voice firm and urgent. “Now come. Do as I say.”

Isaac guided him to the bed, helping him sit, trying to impose rhythm on the restless body. He did not realize that, in his rush to protect, he was pushing Abel back into a place of dependence he himself did not yet understand.

The silence between them grew heavy.
Convinced he had helped, Isaac exhaled deeply, unaware that something fragile had cracked in the process.

He placed his hand on Abel’s thigh, trying to convey comfort.

Slowly, Abel’s hands stopped trembling, becoming rigid instead. His breathing eased, still uneven. His wings, once stretched tight, folded inward.

He began to feel the world again: the texture of the blanket beneath his fingers, the weight of his wings against his back, the cold air brushing his skin.

Abel pushed Isaac’s hand away. Not in rejection — it was almost unconscious.
Isaac sighed in relief. He was better.

“You did well trusting me,” he said, without realizing it. The words sealed a dependency Abel had never chosen.
Abel did not respond. His gaze remained lowered.

The tightness in his chest had not disappeared, but at least now he had control over his own body.

Silence spread once more through the room. There was no touch, no words. Abel was distant — and Isaac noticed.

(. . .)

In the days that followed, the tension between them only grew.

Abel continued to follow Isaac wherever he went, but something had changed. He stayed close, as attentive as ever — yet distant. He no longer relaxed. He no longer allowed himself to.

The silence that had once felt natural became unbearable. There was no sound, yet Isaac felt as though something was screaming constantly.

It was as if they no longer knew each other.

Since when did Abel’s silence become so heavy — so… painful?

The question followed him as he searched his memories, trying to pinpoint where he had gone wrong.

He remembered the day Abel broke down.
Why had it happened?

Isaac had been so focused on pulling him out of that state that he never thought to ask why it had begun. Could Abel have been hurt by that? It did not seem like something so small… Abel was not petty. Or perhaps Isaac was wrong about that too.

The realization was bitter: he did not know Abel as well as he had believed.

Still, it was undeniable — he was the one who knew him best. The creature protected him, followed him, chose him. Not merely out of loyalty. Isaac knew their feelings were mutual.

But then… what had made Abel love him?
What made Abel Abel?

Did Abel himself even know the answer?
Isaac could not remember ever having a truly honest conversation with him.

Abel did not speak — which made everything harder. But that was no excuse.
He could have written. He could have tried other ways. He never had.

At the time of the breakdown, he had received no answer. Now, however, he began to suspect the reason.

Throughout all this reflection, Isaac was accompanied by Abel — at least in appearance. The creature avoided any form of contact, something unthinkable days before. He would have noticed Isaac’s introspection and interrupted it without hesitation.

Now, he remained there like an empty presence. The body occupied the space; the mind was somewhere Isaac could not reach.

Isaac turned to him.

“Abel…” he called, hesitant. “Did I do something wrong for you to be avoiding me?”

He did not want to rush. Nor hurt him any further.

Abel did not lie.

He raised his gaze and held Isaac’s for a few seconds. Then he nodded, faintly. After that, he placed a hand over his chest and took a deep breath.

You hurt me — but before that, I was already hurting.

He used no words. Still, Isaac understood.
The silence remained.

And this time, Isaac knew exactly what he needed to do.

He picked up a sheet of paper and a fountain pen from the table. He wrote something, pulled out a chair, and offered it to Abel with a restrained — almost shy — gesture.

Abel sat down.

He read the message written in elegant handwriting, slightly slanted to the right.
“Can you tell me how you felt?
This is not an order.”

Several minutes passed before Abel decided to answer.

He picked up the pen with difficulty; his claws made the motion awkward. The letters came out shaky, uneven.

After the first step, I panicked.
I realized that when I receive your orders, I obey without question. It’s inevitable.
It feels as though my individuality is about to disappear with every new task — even the simplest ones.

When you told me to obey, it was as if my ability to choose vanished.
I felt so small that even my love for you seemed false.
As though I were nothing more than an object.
A marionette in your hands.

When Isaac finished reading, everything fell into place.

The mistake had never been the gesture. It had been the position he had placed Abel in.

Carefully, Isaac rested his hand on the creature’s thigh again. This time, there was no intent to guide, restrain, or command. The touch was light, deliberate — a silent request for permission, not an assertion of control.

Abel did not pull away as before.

Instead, he placed his hand over Isaac’s, stopping it from leaving. Not out of dependence, but by choice. He stayed there, accepting the contact for as long as it was offered.

Little by little, the silence between them began to change.

It was still fragile. Still marked by wounds. But it no longer hurt.

It slowly became comfortable again.

(. . .)

Isaac was in the library, cataloguing the countless books that filled the space. Even months after the battle, the task seemed endless.

Stacks of volumes surrounded him. Returning them to the shelves would be impossible alone.

By reflex, his eyes searched for Abel.
“Abel, come—”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. A few seconds passed before their weight reached him.

“No… could you come here?” he corrected himself quickly.

Abel approached, but not without hesitation.

There was a quiet tension between them, as though both were trying to understand what the next step should be — and how to take it.

“Could you help me put these books away?” Isaac asked, his voice lower than usual, careful.

Abel nodded.

He picked up the books with ease, spreading his wings to reach the shelf Isaac had indicated. Not by order, but by choice.

They worked side by side in silence until the last stack was put away.

This time, the silence did not press down on them. It simply existed.

(. . .)

It was an ordinary day. Abel stood beside Isaac, watching him in silence.

At one point, Isaac rose from his chair and went to a nearby dresser. He opened a drawer and took something out.

“Abel… could you come here, please?”

Abel approached, curious about what he had retrieved.

On the surface of the dresser lay a small stack of papers and a fountain pen.

“Could you keep these?” Isaac asked after a brief pause. “I’d like to be able to talk to you more often.”

Abel took one of the sheets and wrote hesitantly.

Yes.
But how should I carry them?
It wouldn’t be practical to hold them all the time.

He showed the message to Isaac, his chest tightening as he waited for a response.

Isaac read carefully. Then, gently, he took the pen from Abel’s hand and wrote back.

I can keep them.
Whenever you want to tell me something, just ask.
Is that alright for you?

Abel nodded.

The nervousness, however, did not leave him. Whenever Isaac wrote, it felt like an uncomfortable wait — he never knew what would come next, and that unsettled him.
Gathering his courage, Abel picked up the pen once more.

I feel uncomfortable when you write.
Could you speak instead?

Isaac read the message and answered aloud, a calm smile forming on his face.

“Yes. Thank you for telling me.”

He waited a moment.

“Would you like to write anything else?”

Abel shook his head. That admission alone had consumed all the courage he had.

Isaac placed the papers and pen into the bag he carried with him.

“Please don’t hesitate if you want to tell me something,” he added. “You wouldn’t be bothering me. On the contrary… you’d be helping both of us.”

Abel nodded and stood.

For the rest of the day, he observed Isaac — a little closer than before.

(. . .)

Isaac was in the library, seated with dozens of books spread around him, reading and taking notes for hours without stopping to eat or rest. He was clearly exhausted.

Watching him, Abel felt tempted to help, to ask him to rest — but he had not yet found the courage.

When he saw Isaac rubbing his temples and forcing himself to stay awake, he could no longer hold back.

There was nothing Isaac could be studying that justified treating himself that way.
Abel approached and placed a hand on the forge master’s shoulder, asking for the paper.

They made eye contact.

Isaac’s eyes were heavy, his eyelids drooping.

He handed Abel the paper, and Abel wrote quickly.

Please rest.
You’re clearly exhausted.
Whatever you’re doing can be finished tomorrow.

When he went to hand the note back, Isaac was already unconscious.

As Abel looked around, he noticed the books Isaac had been reading — volumes about creatures of the night.

Then he saw Isaac’s notebook. The title written at the top of the page made his heart skip a beat.

How to free Abel.

Guilt tightened his chest. He was the reason Isaac was tormenting himself.
Not knowing what else to do, Abel carried him back to his chambers.

He spent the entire night awake, wondering what would change if he were free of Isaac.

The forge master was trying to change. He no longer gave orders — and when he did, it was rare, and he corrected himself immediately.

There was no need for him to force himself to find a solution. Abel no longer felt bound to him. He was beginning to assert power over himself.

After thinking for a long while, Abel decided to write a note.

I saw what you were studying.
There is no need for it.
I don’t feel bound by your will anymore — I feel like myself.
I am already free in my own way.
Please don’t torment yourself because of me.
I don’t want my name to be synonymous with pain for you.

Abel placed the note on the table. He would show it to Isaac in the morning.
Then he sat in a chair beside the bed where the man slept — and eventually drifted off.

(. . .)

Isaac woke the next day confused to find himself in his chambers. He didn’t remember going there. He had been in the library late.

He must have collapsed from exhaustion. He hadn’t had a proper night’s rest in a long time.

He looked around and saw Abel asleep in a chair beside the bed. He was certain Abel had carried him there the night before.

Guilt pierced his chest. He didn’t want to cause him more harm.

Abel opened his eyes and saw Isaac awake, sitting on the bed, lost in thought.
Taking the moment, the creature stood, picked up the note, and handed it to him.
Isaac was surprised. He hadn’t expected this from Abel — yet the gesture filled him with warmth.

As he read, his expression grew serious, careful.

He folded the paper gently, holding it as though it might vanish at any moment.
He felt ashamed. He hadn’t wanted to misinterpret Abel’s feelings.

And yet, he also felt relief. Abel had initiated an interaction. He had expressed his wishes.

Isaac opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

He couldn’t even bring himself to look at the creature.

He was vulnerable. The armor he had built over a lifetime had been dismantled piece by piece by Abel — and now not even fragments remained.

Isaac finally understood his mistake.
At no point had he thought to ask Abel how he felt. He had acted on assumption — on believing that understanding was enough.

He thought he was fixing his mistakes. In truth, he had only widened the distance between them.

Abel waited.

He watched his master in silence, waiting for anything — a word, a gesture, a glance.

None came.

Isaac did not approach. Did not touch. Did not meet his eyes.

And the silence between them was not the absence of sound, but space.

(. . .)

The day passed. No one mentioned the note.

They returned to the room — same positions. Different hours, situations, emotions.

Isaac gathered the courage to face Abel.
His gaze called to him.

Abel approached the same chair he had slept in the night before and sat down.
Isaac stared at his intertwined hands for a moment before speaking.

“Abel… I thought freeing you from me would solve everything.”

He took a deep breath, his voice gaining steadiness.

“But I think I was only trying to ease my own guilt.”

Abel watched him closely, unmoving, waiting.

“I never thought about what you wanted. I never asked.”

He looked away briefly.

“My ego wouldn’t allow it.”

When he looked back, his gaze was different. Serious. Open. Honest.

“I’m willing to try to change. I can’t promise I’ll succeed.”

Silence filled the room. The seconds stretched.

The next words were difficult to say — caught in his throat, painful — but once spoken, they brought relief.

“I love you… and love is not control. I’ll love you as genuinely as I can. That’s all I can promise.”

His voice faltered, but he continued.

“I’m afraid of losing you. You are an important part of my life. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

He said it plainly. Isaac had never been one for speeches; those few words were more than he usually allowed himself.
Abel remained silent, absorbing it all. He had never expected to hear this.
He didn’t know what to do. Write? Touch him? Stay still?

He stood for a moment, as if to write — but stopped. The paper remained where it was. He didn’t take it.

He looked at Isaac.

He seemed smaller than before. Not fragile — exposed.

Abel sat back down.

Carefully, he placed his hand over Isaac’s. The touch was too light to be comfort, too firm to be indifference.

Isaac inhaled deeply, waiting for something that didn’t come.

No words. No promises.

Just presence.

Abel held his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, as if he still couldn’t face him fully.

Isaac understood.

It wasn’t rejection.

But it wasn’t forgiveness either.
And that hurt more than any answer could have.

Silence settled between them — not as shelter, but as the necessary space for something broken to exist.

(. . .)

Days passed, and they continued to share each other’s company.

Isaac stood by the window, preparing tea, carefully pouring boiling water into the cup.
When he finished, he leaned against the windowsill and looked outside.

The snow was beginning to melt; the harsh winter slowly gave way. In a few weeks, spring would arrive.

Abel approached and sat on the freshly made bed. His eyes lingered on Isaac’s back for a long time, until Isaac turned.
Their eyes met.

Abel did not look away.

They remained like that, in silence, for an indeterminate amount of time.

Nothing was said.

Like the snow outside, something between them began to yield — slowly, without promises, just enough to let time do the rest.

The days continued in that way.

No explanations. No grand gestures. Just presence.

The silence no longer hurt. It learned how to exist between them as something alive, flexible.

When the last of the snow disappeared, both knew — without saying — that something had survived the winter.

(. . .)

It was a sunny day; spring had finally arrived after the harsh winter. Small flowers bloomed among the still-damp grass.

Isaac and Abel walked along a narrow trail, attentive to their surroundings.
Isaac cast a brief glance at Abel. It was the first time they had gone out together since the change of season, and it made him quietly happy.

“Want some?” he asked, offering him the water bottle.

Abel studied it for a moment, then shook his head and returned his attention to the path ahead.

Isaac didn’t insist.

A faint smile appeared on both their lips — discreet, almost shy.

There was no rejection there. Only choice.
And that was enough.

(. . .)

Their walks had become an important part of their routine.

Observing the surroundings while sharing each other’s company was revitalizing. The sun shone over the melted snow, and vibrant flowers bloomed everywhere, announcing the new season.

They walked side by side, arms occasionally brushing, in silence — a silence built slowly, patiently.

Suddenly, small drops of rain began to fall. The cold made Isaac shiver.

Sensing his discomfort, Abel gently took him by the wrist and drew him closer, positioning him in front of him. With care, he wrapped his wings around him, forming an intimate, silent shelter.

Isaac felt the softness of the feathers against his skin, the warmth of Abel’s body pressed gently to his back. The rain grew heavier, carrying with it the fresh scent of wet earth; a few drops slipped past the makeshift cover, but they didn’t seem to matter.

They stayed like that for a while, simply breathing together. Isaac felt Abel’s warmth slowly seep into his own body.
Then Abel gently turned him to face him. Their eyes met. Water streamed down the creature’s face, mingling with the shimmer of the rain, and there was a quiet courage in his gaze — almost shy.

Abel’s head tilted slightly to the right, bringing his lips closer to Isaac’s. The man’s heart raced.

The touch was soft. The gentle lips awakened a sensation that seemed to lift his thoughts beyond the moment. Abel’s hands slid to Isaac’s waist, pulling him closer.

Isaac closed his eyes and yielded. His hands found the creature’s neck, firm and hesitant at once.

They parted for a brief moment, breathless.

Abel caressed Isaac’s face and rested his forehead against his, placing a delicate kiss on his cheek before returning to his lips — now with more intensity, still careful, still curious, as though learning.

A thin thread of saliva connected them when they pulled apart again.

The kisses continued, accompanied by soft caresses and attentive touches, until the rain finally ceased.

When the sound of water faded, they separated slowly. Breathless, hearts racing — yet unhurried.

They continued walking side by side, their hands now intertwined.

The silence between them made it clear that they were no longer master and creature, nor merely companions — but something more, something precious, something that did not need labels to exist.