Malin stood beside Philip in the stables, brushing down one of the dappled mares. The quiet rustle of hay and soft snorts of horses were the only sounds between them. Over time, he and Philip had grown closer—but even now, Philip remained a man of few words. Stoic, reserved, and annoyingly tight-lipped.
Still, that didn't stop Malin from trying.
As he worked, his thoughts drifted—inevitably—to the forbidden. That locked wing in the mansion's left corridor still gnawed at his curiosity like a persistent itch. With everything he'd seen and experienced since arriving, Malin's need to uncover the truth had only sharpened—especially when it came to Lord Rhaegal, the living enigma. The man was a riddle in obsidian: cold, unreadable, and dangerously fascinating.
"Philip," Malin said, breaking the silence, "do you know why the quarters in the left wing are sealed off?"
Philip stiffened slightly, then turned his head. "Malin," he said, voice low and edged with warning.
"What?" Malin replied innocently, brushing a stray wisp of blond hair from his face. The morning breeze tousled it right back into place.
"You're too nosy for your own good. That wing is off-limits—for a reason. Don't go back there."
Malin offered a sheepish grin. "I know. I'm just… curious."
Philip leaned his broom against the stable wall and crossed his arms. "And has your curiosity ever ended well?"
Malin shrugged. "Well, I'm still alive, aren't I?" he quipped, flashing a smirk.
Philip gave him a long, resigned look before sighing. "That used to be Lord Rhaegal's quarters."
Malin blinked. "Really?" The surprise in his voice was genuine. "What made him move out?"
But Philip had already turned away, resuming his brush strokes on the horse. "That's all I know. And it's best you leave it alone."
Malin nodded slowly and returned to grooming. He still had questions—plenty of them—but he'd learned when to press and when to let things lie. Philip didn't entertain idle gossip, and Malin had discovered the hard way that rumors in the mansion spread like wildfire. The fewer tongues wagging about him, the better.
Still, the mystery lingered like a shadow clinging to the back of his mind.
A prickle danced up Malin's spine.
He had that feeling again—the strange sense that someone was watching him. It had been happening a lot lately, quiet and creeping, like eyes following him just out of sight. Malin raised his head and looked around but found no one. A frown formed on his face but said nothing. He buried the moment, like so many others, and went back to his work.
By midday, Malin sat among the other servants, halfway through a bowl of stew, when Alfred approached with his usual stiff composure.
"Lord Rhaegal has requested your presence," Alfred said curtly.
Malin blinked. "Now?"
Alfred gave a single nod before walking off. Malin pushed aside his half-finished meal, thoughts spinning. He hadn't seen much of Lord Rhaegal since that night. He'd half-convinced himself the man was avoiding him—but that was ridiculous. Why would someone like Rhaegal waste time avoiding someone like him?
Still, the thought had lingered.
He dusted off his hands, adjusted his collar, and made his way to Rhaegal's quarters. The moment he knocked, a deep voice from within responded:
"Enter."
Malin stepped inside and froze just over the threshold. Lord Rhaegal sat across from a stranger—an older man with sharp eyes and a scholar's air. Malin bowed respectfully.
"My lord," he said, his voice steady despite the sudden tension thrumming in the air.
He stood in silence, caught between the two men like a pawn awaiting orders. The atmosphere was thick, heavy with something unspoken. Rhaegal's gaze pinned him in place—cool, unreadable, and laced with something Malin couldn't quite name.
"How old are you, Malin?" Rhaegal asked suddenly.
The question caught him off guard. "Sixteen, my lord."
Rhaegal nodded slowly. "Can you read?"
Malin hesitated. His mind scrambled for clues, wondering where this was going. "No, my lord," he said at last. "Wasn't exactly raised with books and ink." He offered a nervous chuckle, trying to mask the discomfort prickling beneath his skin.
Rhaegal turned to the stranger beside him. "Well? What do you think of him?"
The man shifted in his chair, studying Malin with a clinical eye that made him feel like a specimen. He looked him up and down before speaking.
"He appears older than sixteen. Strong build. Alert. But as for intellect… I'd have to test him to know more."
Malin shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very aware of how exposed he felt.
Rhaegal's gaze returned to him, and this time, there was a flicker—something between amusement and calculation. A glint of mischief, dangerous and deliberate.
Malin braced himself.
Rhaegal leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. The flicker in his eyes hadn't dimmed—it had only sharpened.
"Let's put your wit to the test then, shall we?" he said smoothly, voice as calm and cold as moonlight. "A simple exercise. No reading required. Just… perception."
Malin's brows lifted. His pulse quickened, but he didn't flinch. "Alright," he said, feigning ease. "Hit me with it."
The scholar exchanged a curious glance with Rhaegal, then leaned forward slightly, intrigued.
Rhaegal's voice was quiet but cutting. "There are three men. One always tells the truth. One always lies. The third answers at random—truth or lie, no pattern. You may ask one question to one man. Your goal is to find the man who always tells the truth."
Malin blinked. His breath caught in his throat. This wasn't just a riddle—it was a trap wrapped in logic, a noose disguised as a test.
The scholar folded his arms, clearly expecting Malin to flounder.
But Malin didn't.
He lowered his eyes, thinking, not rushing. He repeated the puzzle in his mind, tracing its threads like strings on a harp. There had to be an angle, a way to control chaos—just one move that could pull the truth from a sea of deception.
His eyes lit up, just faintly. A glimmer, like starlight behind storm clouds.
"I'd ask one of them," Malin began, voice slow, deliberate, "what the others would say if I asked them who the truth-teller was."
The scholar's brows furrowed, intrigued despite himself.
"And then?"
Malin smiled faintly. "Whatever name he gives me, I'd pick someone else."
The room stilled.
The scholar leaned forward, stunned. "That… that's correct. But—how did you—?"
Malin shrugged, a bit of that old mischief creeping into his grin. "Lies cancel each other out. Doesn't matter if I talk to the liar or the random—both will mislead me through the logic of the question. But the trick is… when you make them tell you what the others would say, you invert the deception. Two wrongs don't make a right, but in this case… they make clarity."
The scholar looked at Rhaegal, blinking in disbelief. He's sharper than he looks."
"I usually am," Malin muttered under his breath.
Rhaegal's lips twitched. A near-smile. Almost.
But his voice remained unreadable. "Curious. You solve logic puzzles with ease, but can't read the letters of your own name."
Malin's smile faded slightly. He swallowed, eyes dropping. "I've had to think my way out of things most people never live through," he said quietly. "Books weren't part of that."
The scholar shifted, uncomfortable at the vulnerability in his tone. But Rhaegal… Rhaegal watched him, silent and still, as if weighing that confession like gold in his palm.
"Would you like to learn?" Rhaegal asked, suddenly.
Malin's eyes snapped up. "What?"
"To read. To write. To wield knowledge like a sword," Rhaegal said, his voice smooth but laced with something deeper. "Would you want that power, Malin?"
Malin hesitated. No one had ever asked him that before. The place he used to live in never really cared for education. They could barely afford to eat two meals a day, let alone spend money on learning. No matter how wealthy or educated a human becomes, he could only rise so far. Humans were never regarded as equals in society and now that he wasn't a human. What is his place in the hierarchy?
With much doubt, Malin raised his eyes to meet Rhaegal golden ones. "I—yes," he said, the word cracking through the quiet. "More than anything."
The scholar arched a brow in approval. "That's good."
But Rhaegal wasn't looking at the scholar. He was looking only at Malin. He could see the uncertain in malin eyes. He of all people knew how the world worked and malin thoughts, however. He had a goal in mind that must be fulfilled for the purpose of what to come.
"Then I'll see what you're taught," he said softly.
For the first time, Malin saw something behind Rhaegal's cold composure. Not warmth. Not quite. But interest. Dangerous, focused interest
The silence stretched a moment longer before Rhaegal spoke. "Meet Sir sullivan. Your tutor"
Malin was surprised but bowed politely. " I'm Malin, sir sullivan. It's a pleasure to meet you" he said.
"Indeed." Sullivan nodded. " I admire your brilliance and wit. I hope you can apply it to your learning and we won't have a problem."
"Yes, sir,"Malin nodded. Waiting for further instructions, Rhaegal turned to the door. "You're dismissed—for now." He said.
Malin bowed again, lower this time. "My lord."
As he turned to leave, he felt the scholar's eyes still tracking him, dissecting him like a specimen under glass. But it was Rhaegal's gaze that lingered—silent, piercing, unreadable.
Malin stepped out, closing the heavy door behind him with a soft click. Only when the sound faded did he allow himself to breathe.
The corridor was quiet.
He leaned against the cold stone wall, heart still thudding in his chest. His palms were slick with sweat, though his face burned with the rush of excitement. He had passed the test or at least, he hadn't failed. Malin felt that those questions held a deeper meaning than what it means on the surface and his answer wasn't close to being right. For once, malin had had an insight on Rhaegal blackthorn's calculative nature
Why me?'' Malin questioned. Was it because of his peculiar blood? Or perhaps it was his unknown origin?.
Malin pushed off the wall and began walking. The mansion's corridors stretched endlessly, He passed the left wing and slowed—just for a moment.
The locked door loomed at the end, like a scar in the mansion that refused to heal.
That used to be lord Rhaegal's quarters.
The words echoed in his mind like a bell tolling in a fog. Something had driven the vampire lord to abandon that place. Something—or someone.
His curiosity flared again, he took a step towards it but retreated. Malin reached his room and closed the door behind him, slumping against it. For a moment, he simply stood there, letting his mind replay every word, every look, every pause in Rhaegal's voice. There had been something in his tone at the end. Not pity. Not kindness. Something colder.
Would you want that power, Malin?
Rhaegals voice echoed in his mind. Malin knew that he hadn't just meant reading. He meant survival. The past Malin was unfamiliar with and the future not yet trusted to see.
Malin rubbed his face, pacing.
If lord Rhaegal was going to teach him, he'd take everything he could. He would learn, and be the best. A person Lord Rhaegal could count on.
He would learn to win.