The pinewoods rose like cathedral columns, wrapped in cloaks of moss and history, the scent of resin thick in the damp Highland air. Between the shadows of bark and bough, the loch glinted like a blade, its silver edge catching what little sun filtered through the canopy. The forest breathed. Deep. Slow. Old. And in its heart, magic stirred.
Hadrian moved through the clearing like a story made flesh.
No coat, shirt sleeves rolled, suspenders dangling loose. Every muscle beneath his white linen shirt flexed with silent strength, like a lion pacing beneath his skin. His eyes, dark and aglow with ancient fire, never left his opponent. The way he carried himself wasn't merely trained—it was earned, sculpted by a lifetime of battles, heartbreak, and immortality. He wasn't just a vampire. He was a weapon that had outlived gods.
Liam grinned at him from across the mossy floor, sleeves rolled and vest hanging open. His dark hair fell over his brow, and his smile was all wolfish charm and war-born memory. A cigarette dangled from his lips, but he wasn't smoking it—just chewing the end like a man thinking ten moves ahead.
"You move like a bloody fever dream, lad," Liam said, circling with languid grace. "You sure you didn't climb out of one of the old songs?"
Hadrian smirked. "If I did, I promise the lyrics were better than yours."
"Cheeky bastard," Liam muttered. Then he lunged.
They collided like thunder.
A blur of fists, knees, elbows. Hadrian ducked beneath a vicious hook, spun, and slammed a roundhouse toward Liam's ribs. The older vampire twisted mid-air, deflecting with his shin. The crack echoed like a gunshot. The fight was fast, feral, almost too quick for the eye. Centuries of violence folded into each blow.
Off to the side, Daenerys lounged atop a moss-draped stone like a queen watching her champions duel for her favor.
She wore soft slacks and a blouse the color of mist, her golden curls pinned up with pearl combs that shimmered when she moved. Fire flickered between her fingers—real fire, not magic cloaked in illusion. It danced to her heartbeat, warm and wild, forming glowing serpents and wings and blooming into phoenixes mid-air.
Maggie sat cross-legged beside her, blue eyes wide with wonder.
"You're showing off again," Maggie teased, her brogue sweet as cider.
Daenerys didn't even look away from the fire. "Of course I am. Look at him."
Siobhan leaned against a tree trunk nearby, arms crossed, eyes watching the spar with the alertness of a soldier and the smirk of a cynic.
"It's like watching two thunderstorms try to court each other," she muttered. "All sparks, no sense."
"Oh, there's sense," Daenerys said, her eyes never leaving Hadrian. "Just not the kind that plays by rules."
Another exchange. Liam lunged, feinted, spun. Hadrian dropped low, swept his legs, then ghosted forward, pressing advantage. Liam parried, but barely. He grunted, winded.
"You fight like you've got something to prove," Liam panted, shaking pine needles from his vest.
"I don't," Hadrian replied, brushing sweat from his temple with the back of his hand. "I've already proved it. Now I just keep score."
"Bloody hell," Liam muttered, chuckling. "You're insufferable."
"You love it," Hadrian replied, eyes flicking to Daenerys.
She smiled at the attention, fire still dancing along her fingertips.
Liam raised a hand, calling a truce. "Alright, alright. I'll admit it. You've got speed I haven't seen since... well, ever. You're stronger than a Newborn, quicker than an elder, and you're not burning out like the rest of us. That's not just vampirism. That's sorcery."
Hadrian nodded, serious now. "I never lost my magic. It lives in my bones. In my blood. In the fire I carry."
Liam sighed. "You want this land then? This cursed patch of moss and myth?"
"Yes."
"Even though the locals will whisper, and the Ministry will sniff?"
"Let them."
Daenerys stood then, fire extinguishing with a flick of her wrist. She crossed to Hadrian with the slow grace of someone who knew she could command armies with a smile. Her gaze didn't waver.
"And what will you build here, my moon-and-fire?" she asked, voice soft but edged with heat.
Hadrian's eyes darkened, but the corners of his lips curved.
"A sanctuary. A place where our kind can remember how to hope."
Daenerys tilted her head. "And will there be room for a dragon?"
He stepped close, fingers brushing her wrist. "Only if she shares my hearth."
Maggie fake-gagged loudly. "If you two start reciting poetry, I'm throwing myself in the loch."
Siobhan snorted. "Let the girl swoon, Maggie. She earned it."
Liam rolled his eyes. "Lord help me. Romance in the ruins."
Daenerys turned to him, smile wicked. "You're just jealous you never had someone look at you the way Hadrian looks at me."
Liam puffed his cigarette. "Oh, I've had looks. Just none that didn't end in betrayal or bloodshed."
"You're welcome to try again," Siobhan offered dryly.
"Tempting," Liam said with a wink.
Hadrian pulled his shirt back on, but Daenerys caught his hand and murmured, "Leave it off. For Maggie's sake."
"For Maggie's sake," he repeated, amused.
"And maybe mine," she added, voice like velvet.
He leaned down, lips brushing her ear. "Then I'll leave it off forever."
Maggie clapped. "S'mores now! You promised!"
Daenerys conjured fire again, the kind that smelled of cinnamon and old woodsmoke, and began to roast her magical vampire-friendly concoctions. The clearing shifted from battleground to hearth, from thunder to twilight warmth.
Liam wandered to the edge, watching the loch shimmer.
"You know they'll come for you eventually," he said quietly. "The Volturi. The Order. The Old Blood."
Hadrian looked at Daenerys, golden in the firelight.
"Let them," he said. "But they'll have to get through us first."
—
Over the Next Month
The days that followed split themselves cleanly—half into parchment and politics, half into passion and pleasure. One foot in the world of land disputes and lineages, the other dipped in firelight and soft moans beneath Highland stars.
The villagers of Glen Caorann, nestled low in the crook of the glen like a secret whispered too many times, began to murmur. The American had returned, they said. No one quite remembered what American he was meant to be, only that he walked like a king and stared like he knew your sins before you'd spoken them.
And he wasn't alone.
Hadrian McArdle-Peverell—broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, sleeves rolled past his elbows as if he'd just stepped out of a myth and into 1936—stood beside the striking woman no one could quite describe. Some swore she looked like a Roman goddess. Others whispered dragon.
"What sort of woman traipses about with her hair done like a silver crown?" Mrs. MacAuley asked over tea.
"A dangerous one," said Father Beag, crossing himself.
—
In truth, Daenerys was utterly uninterested in fitting into any of their boxes.
She strolled through the markets in mist-colored blouses tucked into high-waisted slacks, her curls pinned back with ivory combs that shimmered like dragon teeth. Every gesture was poised, but playful—the kind of woman who might command an army before breakfast and flirt outrageously over lunch.
"I can't tell if they want to burn me or crown me," she whispered to Hadrian one morning, eyes dancing.
"Both," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "But I'd kill the first and kneel for the second."
"Oh, you'll kneel either way," she said sweetly, striding off with a sway of her hips that made three elderly farmers nearly drive their cart into a fence.
Hadrian watched her go, grinning like a man struck dumb.
—
Meanwhile, Liam Blackstone—exuding the lazy menace of an Irish fox in gentleman's clothes—handled the land deals. Dressed in pinstripes and confidence, he played the part of solicitor with razor-edged charm.
"I still say I'd do better work if you let me kill a few old geezersl," he said to Siobhan one afternoon.
"You're not in Ireland anymore, Liam," she replied, rolling her eyes beneath a dark sweep of red curls. Her brogue was like whiskey poured neat. "Besides, your mouth's already a deadly weapon."
Liam smirked. "You noticed."
Siobhan snorted and turned away, but not before he caught the hint of a smile.
—
Their most delicate meeting came with the laird of Glen Caorann, a grizzled old brute with fingers like roots and suspicion etched deep across his brow.
"You don't look like your grandfather," he rasped, pipe smoke curling like ghosts.
"I don't carry his face," Hadrian said, calm and steady. "But I carry his debts, his sword, and his memory. And I'll pay what his honor couldn't."
The laird studied him for a long moment, then spat into the grass.
"So long as you don't wake the forest."
Hadrian's eyes didn't flinch. "The forest was never asleep."
—
Papers were signed in the ruins of an old kirk, rain leaking through the slate. Liam leaned across the table like a gambler at his final hand.
"Initial here. And here. And don't smudge the ink like last time," he muttered.
"I was distracted by your sparkling personality," Hadrian drawled.
Daenerys perched on a low stone bench, twirling a daisy between her fingers.
"He means your biceps," she added. "They really are criminal, darling."
"I'll turn myself in," Hadrian offered, leaning toward her.
Maggie, seated cross-legged with a dog-eared book, made a dramatic gagging noise.
"God save us. There's no escaping the honeymoon, is there?"
—
And it was a honeymoon—of sorts.
The ruins of the old MacArdail keep sat high above the loch, nothing more than moss-covered stone and legend. They pitched canvas over its bones, warmed it with fire and laughter. Daenerys slept in silk sheets embroidered with runes; Hadrian bathed shirtless in the loch like some mythic selkie come to shore.
One night, with rain drumming softly on the tarp, Daenerys read aloud from a book of Celtic myths, her head against Hadrian's chest.
"You're the kind of creature they'd write poems about," she murmured, thumbing the page. "But they'd all end in blood."
"Then we'll rewrite them," Hadrian said. "Something with less tragedy. More kissing."
"More shirtless stargazing," she added.
"More s'mores," Maggie chimed from her pile of blankets.
Daenerys raised her hand, conjuring a tongue of flame that snapped into the shape of a phoenix.
"S'mores it is."
They roasted enchanted marshmallows and swapped stories. Siobhan told tales of ghosts that rode deer. Liam swore he once made out with a banshee.
"And survived?" Daenerys laughed.
"Barely. She had terrible breath."
Later that night, Hadrian and Daenerys slipped away beneath the pines.
"I like it here," she whispered, standing barefoot in the loam. "It's wild. Sacred. Hungry."
"You sound like you want to claim it."
"I want to belong to it."
He kissed her like the answer to a question neither of them had spoken aloud. Her blouse fell away like mist from the loch. He worshipped the burn of her skin and the thunder in her pulse. She left scorch marks on his chest, curling like runes. He left bite marks on her throat shaped like poetry.
They woke tangled in furs, with wildflowers blooming exactly where they'd lain.
Daenerys stretched languidly and sighed, "Well. That's one way to plant a garden."
Hadrian just smiled, brushing a strand of silver from her cheek.
"Come what may," he murmured.
And the forest listened.
—
Liam strode through Inverness like he bloody owned it—every stitch of his tailored grey tweed pressed to perfection, his charcoal scarf knotted just so, his hair combed back with the kind of meticulous vanity only the Irish could make charming. He moved like a shark through the city's legal underbelly, his battered leather briefcase full of forged documents, antiquated wills, and land records aged in firelight to look convincingly pre-war. His tongue? Silver. His charm? Lethal. His forged identity work? Impeccable—enough to fool anyone not equipped with a resurrection spell or the bloody Eye of Ra.
He met with solicitors in draughty offices, bribed notaries with expensive cigarettes and sly compliments, charmed clerks at the Land Register of Scotland with whispered Gaelic and whiskey-laced wit. Every document added another brick to Hadrian's legend: the prodigal heir of the McArdle-Peverell line, raised in America, lost to the Highlands by war and time, now returned to reclaim his birthright.
That evening, back at their camp in the wilds of Glen Caorann, Liam handed Hadrian a stack of signed deeds beside the fire. The Highland air was crisp, their makeshift camp staked atop the mossy bones of an old stone foundation. Siobhan was carving protective runes into the rocks with her wand, while Maggie, barefoot and grinning, sang a soft folk tune to the loch.
Liam uncapped his silver flask and took a long swig. "Six pounds an acre," he said, his voice curling with smoke and satisfaction. "And you paid ten. That's either generous… or mad as a March hare."
Hadrian—broad-shouldered and sun-kissed, his collar undone and his sleeves rolled past his elbows—tossed a twig into the fire. "It's not generosity," he murmured, watching the flames. "It's restitution."
From behind him, Daenerys chuckled—a honeyed, lilting thing that sent sparks down his spine. She emerged from the shadows with a conjured flame floating at her shoulder, like a will-o'-the-wisp in a gown of shadow and moonlight.
"Restitution," she repeated, her lips curling in amusement. "How noble. You sound like one of those American vigilantes Liam grumbles about."
"I grumble because they wear their trousers too high and think 'justice' is a brand of soap," Liam interjected, dry as ever.
"I think it's romantic," Daenerys said, slipping her hand into Hadrian's as if she'd always belonged there. Her hair was unbound, gold tumbling like a river down her back. Her eyes caught the firelight, wild and warm. "Reclaiming lost things. Taking back what the world tried to steal from you."
He turned to her, thumb brushing the soft skin of her knuckles. "Not just reclaiming," he said. "Restoring. Rebuilding."
She raised a brow, mischief dancing behind her lashes. "Do I get a say in this restoration? Or am I just your conquest, oh noble lord of moss and burnt trees?"
"You're the wildfire that burns down the old world so we can plant something new," he replied without hesitation.
"Gods above," Liam muttered, sipping again. "That was so sweet I felt a molar crack."
Siobhan appeared behind him, smirking as she tossed a stick onto the flames. "Better sweet than sour, love. And admit it—you like watching the two of them moon over each other."
"Aye," Maggie added, flopping beside them with a satisfied sigh. "They're like a bloody romance novel, only with more daggers and less corsets."
Daenerys grinned, resting her head against Hadrian's shoulder. "Give me time."
Later that night, with the moon full above them and the stars blinking through the veil of pine trees, they walked the land they now owned—by law, by blood, by magic. The flame floating beside Daenerys shimmered brighter when it passed cairns long swallowed by earth. Stones glowed faintly beneath her feet.
"Feel that?" she asked, halting by a crumbling wall overgrown with lichen.
He nodded, reaching out to press his hand against it. Magic hummed there, slow and ancient. "It knows we're here."
"Good," she whispered, stepping closer, her voice a promise. "Then it will remember us when we're gone."
They didn't build a house. Not yet. There were only tents, layered enchantments, and roaring firelight. But this place—this wild, half-forgotten patch of Highland soul—belonged to them now.
Legally. Magically. Utterly.
—
They never spoke of honeymoons, not aloud. But every moment hummed with that sweet, stolen delirium—the kind born of borrowed time and too much love for one lifetime.
Daenerys swam naked in the loch beneath the moonlight, her alabaster skin glowing against the ink-dark water like a dream carved out of starlight. She arched backward with a gasp when the cold touched her spine, hair slicked to her shoulders like wet silver. From the shore, Hadrian watched in silence, one knee bent, forearm resting on it, lips parted just slightly. There was no lust in his gaze—just reverence. As if a knight had been sent not to slay the dragon, but to worship her.
"You know," she called out, lazily floating, arms stretched wide as if offering herself to the stars, "you stare like you've never seen a woman before."
"I haven't," Hadrian murmured. "Not like you."
She laughed—a bright, bell-like thing that startled an owl from a pine branch. "You're terrible."
"I'm truthful," he said, rising to his feet. He stepped toward the water's edge, boots crunching on loch pebbles. "And terribly besotted."
She cocked her head. "Besotted. That's a delicious word. Say it again."
"Come out of there and I'll whisper it into every inch of your skin."
She swam to shore.
—
They hunted in the woods, their movements swift and silent, gliding between trees like living shadows. A stag burst from the underbrush—Daenerys pounced, bringing it down with graceful, brutal efficiency. Her eyes gleamed violet as her fangs pierced the creature's throat. Hadrian watched her feed, chest heaving slightly, his own hunger mirrored in his gaze.
When she rose, blood slicking her chin like warpaint, he kissed her hard. Not out of hunger. Out of awe.
Later, she kissed him again, slow and aching. They lay together on the mossy floor of the forest, limbs tangled, silence heavy with everything they didn't need to say. When their lips finally parted, neither of them spoke for hours.
—
Maggie adored her. That much was obvious.
Daenerys conjured fire shaped like butterflies that flitted and danced around the young vampire's head. Maggie squealed and twirled, chasing them like a child with soap bubbles. "Do it again!" she begged. "Make them red this time! Like Siobhan's hair!"
Daenerys winked. "Red butterflies coming right up."
"You're a proper witch, you are," Maggie said in awe.
"No, darling," Daenerys replied with a wicked little smile. "I'm a dragon pretending to be a lady."
Siobhan, watching from a nearby log with a bow across her knees and an apple in hand, rolled her eyes. "Aye, and a bloody dramatic one at that."
"Isn't that why you like me?" Dany asked sweetly.
"I like ye because you've got good aim and bad manners. Reminds me of meself. Now, hold the bow like I showed ye. And stop conjuring fire with your eyebrows when you're annoyed. It puts the deer off."
—
Liam found the whole thing endlessly amusing.
He taught Daenerys Gaelic—well, Gaelic curses. And she picked them up with alarming speed.
"So if I want to call Hadrian a smug bastard, I say—?"
"'Pógaim mo thóin,'" Liam said, smugly sipping his tea.
Hadrian raised a brow. "That's not what that means."
"Ah, he's wise to me," Liam muttered. "Never mind then. Just call him a gobshite. It works across dialects."
—
At night, they curled around the fire, its glow flickering against their skin like old magic reborn. Daenerys would whisper her names into the dark, not like titles, but like memories.
"Khaleesi," she would say, tracing runes into Hadrian's chest with a glowing fingertip. "Stormborn. Firewalker."
They didn't sting anymore. They no longer carried weight. Just echo.
He would pull her closer, brushing her silver hair from her cheek, and whisper names of his own into the space between heartbeats. "Hermione. Sirius. Luna."
Names that still ached.
Together, they built a fire and fed it their pasts. Not to forget—but to give them light. Letters. Old wands. A silver snitch. A broken chain of dragonbone.
Daenerys threw in a ring that had once belonged to a tyrant. Hadrian tossed in a cloak that had once made him invisible.
They kissed, slow and unhurried, as the fire consumed what was and made room for what might be.
The flames crackled. The loch whispered. Somewhere, high above, the stars watched in silence.
They were vampires, yes. But more than that, they were alive.
—
The campfire cracked low in the stone ring, casting flickering shadows across Daenerys' pale cheekbones as she lounged on a moss-covered rock, her silver-blonde hair loose and tousled, her cloak slipping from one shoulder like a fallen promise. A flame no larger than a candle's tongue danced across her fingertips, twirling and spinning like a bored cat.
Hadrian sat cross-legged beside her, his shirt open to the third button, sleeves rolled to the elbows, ink-stained fingers thumbing through old boundary parchments. The moonlight silvered his hair and cast his angular jaw in clean-cut shadow. He looked every bit the Highland chieftain reincarnated—with the faint, predatory smirk of someone who didn't have to raise his voice to be obeyed.
Liam's boots crunched over frost-laced pine needles as he approached, wool coat billowing like a stage curtain. In one gloved hand, he held a folded telegram. He didn't say a word at first—just handed it to Hadrian with the same solemnity he might've used to pass a sword.
Hadrian caught it lazily. "If this is another land dispute," he muttered without looking up, "tell them to speak with my solicitor. I'm very busy pretending to be rustic and mysterious."
"It's from Carlisle," Liam replied, voice low and touched with the lilt of Dublin. "Straight from Forks. Came by owl post, which should tell you how important it is."
That got Hadrian's attention. He flicked the paper open, eyes scanning the short message. Daenerys leaned over his shoulder, her chin grazing his collarbone.
Volturi aware. Twins visited. Aro offers congratulations. Jane and Alec now in New York. Waldorf Astoria. Expect your presence. Safe travels. —C
"Bloody hell," Hadrian murmured, a slow grin spreading across his face like a storm on the horizon. He passed the telegram to Daenerys, who read it aloud again, lips curling.
"'Congratulations,'" she repeated, voice heavy with mocking amusement. "How very... imperial of them."
"They're not coming to toast your nuptials," Liam said flatly, seating himself on a log beside the fire. "They came to measure your strength. Decide if you're a threat. Jane and Alec may look like children, but make no mistake—they're the sharpest knives in Aro's drawer."
"Jane's the one with the pain thing, right?" Maggie piped in, brushing red curls from her face as she joined them with a blanket thrown over her shoulders. Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "Makes you feel like your brain's melting? Sounds like a riot at parties."
"And Alec's the fog," Siobhan added, slipping beside Liam, hip against his thigh like they were carved that way. "Takes your senses one by one. Sight. Sound. Thought. Leaves you in the dark with your fear."
Hadrian's eyes, bright green and laced with old venom, gleamed. "Then they'll find I do rather well in the dark."
Daenerys smirked, running her fingers through his hair in a casual gesture that made Maggie raise an eyebrow. "And what shall I wear to this… audience?" she teased. "Flame or fang? I have a new dress that smells like gunpowder and satin."
"Both," Hadrian said, pulling her gently onto his lap. "You're a queen now. Why pick?"
She laughed—light, delighted, the sound of embers on wind. "A queen who never bends the knee."
Liam raised an eyebrow. "You're both being very calm about two of the most dangerous immortals in Europe waiting for you in Manhattan."
Hadrian's smile widened, teeth glinting just behind his lip. "I'm not calm, Liam. I'm curious." He gazed across the clearing to the stone foundations rising slowly beneath magical scaffolding—the bones of their sanctuary. "Let them see what they came to see."
Daenerys rose from his lap, cloak catching the breeze as fire coiled around her wrists. Her eyes glowed amber-bright in the dark. "And if they came to bind us in golden chains?" she asked, her voice like velvet and lightning.
"Then," Hadrian said, rising too, "we'll break the chains."
"We'll burn the thrones," Daenerys added.
"We'll build our own."
Liam stared at them for a long moment, then looked sideways at Siobhan. "They do realise the Volturi are over a thousand years old and rule the entire vampire world, right?"
Siobhan shrugged. "So were the Romans. They ended up speaking Gaelic in the end."
Maggie leaned forward, grinning. "I give it two weeks before someone ends up dead and the Waldorf gets set on fire."
Liam swigged from his silver flask. "I'm giving it one."
Hadrian's voice dropped to a low whisper, eyes on Daenerys. "Let them come. Let them see how fire marries ice, how crown marries claw. We're not their story to write."
Daenerys tilted her chin, gold flame curling behind her. "And if they try?"
She reached for his hand.
"We rewrite history."
—
The wind cut across the Highlands like a blade, sharp with mist and memory. The glens whispered stories in old tongues, and the ruins that dotted the hills stood like ghosts, waiting for someone to listen. Hadrian walked through it all with a quiet, effortless grace, his boots brushing heather and bloodstained from his earlier hunt.
His emerald eyes flicked toward the woman walking beside him, and the smallest smile curled at his lips. Daenerys, with her silver hair tied into a low braid and violet eyes glowing faintly in the twilight, looked every bit the goddess the mortals had once mistaken her for. Her lips were still red from the deer she'd drained, and her corseted riding coat was flecked with earth and starlight.
"You've blood on your chin," Hadrian murmured, tone dry.
Daenerys lifted her fingers, wiped it away lazily. "It was a fast one. Had a mind to outrun me."
"You let it think it had a chance, didn't you?"
"Of course," she said, flashing him a grin. "What's the point of the chase if there's no drama?"
"You are a menace."
"I am a delight, and you're lucky I don't drink you out of boredom."
He laughed softly—low and warm—and was about to reply when the wind shifted.
Screams. Human. Panicked. Full of hatred.
They froze. Eyes locked. They didn't need to speak.
They were already gone.
In a blur of limbs and wind and silence, they crested the ridge overlooking the village. It looked like something out of the Dark Ages—torches, pitchforks, shouting men. The kind of scene that reeked of fear and fragile masculinity.
Two girls—barely more than children—lay on the dirt. One blonde, skin pale as death. The other dark-haired and fierce despite her bruises, still trying to shield her friend with her body.
"She called the wind!" one man shouted. "It twisted the trees! Unnatural!"
"The other made the garden bloom in midwinter!" cried another. "Witchcraft!"
"A witch hunt?" Daenerys hissed. "In 1936?"
"Some things never change," Hadrian growled. Then he stepped forward.
No roar. No fire. Just presence.
One heartbeat they were alone. The next, he was among them—tall, broad-shouldered, his emerald eyes blazing in the firelight.
The villagers recoiled instinctively.
Daenerys appeared at his side like wrath given flesh. She took one step forward, and the temperature dropped.
"Lay another hand on them," she said, voice like silk laced with steel, "and I'll decorate the heather with your intestines."
One man, braver—or stupider—than the rest, lifted his pitchfork. "They're witches, they—"
"They're children," Hadrian snapped. The magic rippled off him like a wave. "Obliviate."
The word struck like thunder.
The villagers froze. Blinked. Then their torches sputtered and they stumbled backward, dazed and murmuring.
"Where… what were we doing…?"
"Where's my wife?"
"Time to go," Hadrian murmured. "Now."
They fled, mumbling and confused, like frightened cattle. In moments, the square was empty.
Daenerys knelt beside the dark-haired girl. "She's bleeding heavily," she said, brushing blood from the girl's temple.
"Caitriona," the girl gasped faintly, voice thick with a Highland brogue. "M'm name's Caitriona."
The blonde stirred, barely. "Elspeth," she whispered. "M'm name's Elspeth…"
Then they both collapsed.
Hadrian was already lifting Elspeth into his arms. "We don't have long."
Daenerys cradled Caitriona. "They'll die before morning."
"We can turn them."
She met his eyes. "We should ask—"
"We'll lose them."
She swore softly. "Then we turn them. But gods help us if their blood is too sweet."
—
They returned to the watchtower in silence, their burdens limp in their arms. The fire flickered inside, and Liam rose the moment he saw them.
"Saints preserve us," Liam muttered. "What happened?"
"Witch-hunt," Hadrian said shortly. "Scotland's not changed in four hundred years."
Maggie darted forward, concern writ clear on her freckled face. "They're still breathin', but barely."
Siobhan stood slowly, her eyes calculating. "You mean to change them."
"We don't have a choice," Daenerys said. "They'll die otherwise."
Hadrian laid Elspeth down. Daenerys laid Caitriona beside her. The air shifted.
Then the scent hit them.
Fresh. Blood. Young.
Maggie's eyes blackened instantly. "Oh—hell," she snarled, body trembling. "It smells—"
"Liam—" Hadrian barked.
Liam seized Maggie from behind, pinning her arms as she thrashed.
"Hold fast, lass!" Liam grunted. "Ye need tae control yerself!"
"They smell so sweet," Maggie sobbed, shaking.
Hadrian's jaw clenched. He looked to Daenerys, and she nodded.
No more time.
He bent to Elspeth.
Daenerys leaned over Caitriona.
Their teeth broke skin skin. Their venom laced into the girls' veins.
Elspeth jerked violently, a choked scream leaving her throat. Her back arched, her fingers curled into claws.
Caitriona shrieked like a banshee, her body convulsing, eyes wide in terror.
Hadrian fought every instinct, pulling back as the blood lit his throat like fire.
Daenerys nearly wept with restraint.
Liam hauled Maggie away. Siobhan stood at Hadrian's back like a sentinel.
The night was filled with their screams.
Then silence.
Elspeth's skin was pale now. Almost luminous. Her lashes fluttered.
Caitriona's pulse was fading—but still there. Still changing.
"They're alive," Daenerys whispered. "Or… what counts for it."
Hadrian sat back, breathless though he had no need of air. "We saved them."
"Let's hope they forgive us for it," Liam muttered.
The wind howled outside—but this time, it felt less like mourning.
More like a promise.
And somewhere in the shadows, the earth stirred. The wind shifted. Magic remembered its name.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!