The years in the military passed like relentless storms, shaping Cassian into something the world could not ignore. From the moment he was dragged back to the grounds, a frightened boy thrust into unending suffering, he had learned quickly: weakness was not an option. Pain became a constant companion, but endurance was his shield.
Every morning he rose before the sun, every night he fell into a bed of sweat and aches. He ran, he lifted weights heavier than his arms should bear, he sparred until bruises and burns made his skin an unrecognizable map of hardship. Months became years, and the boy who had once trembled under the lash grew into a warrior who moved with precision, speed, and an uncanny grace.
By the time Virelle went to war against a neighboring kingdoms, Cassian was no longer just a soldier. He was a storm on the battlefield. Sword in hand, he cut down enemy after enemy, anticipating their movements as if the very air whispered his opponents' intent. The soldiers came to know his name, murmured it in awe and fear alike. Commanders learned to rely on him, and even the ministers at the palace sent letters praising his skill.
But Cassian never celebrated those victories. He had seen too much death, endured too much pain to revel in the triumphs of war. While others laughed and drank in the great halls after campaigns, he retreated to the solitude of his chambers, letting the victories wash over him silently.
One evening, after yet another victory claimed in the name of Virelle, the celebrations spilled across the military grounds like wildfire. Laughter rang through the corridors, boots stomped against stone, and the sharp scent of fresh blood lingered in the air. Cassian shut it all out.
He had locked himself inside his chambers, the small space offering a familiar kind of refuge. The room was dim, lit only by a single candle that flickered softly against the stone walls. In his hands, he held a folded parchment, worn thin at the edges from being opened far too many times.
His mother's handwriting filled the page.
Cassian read the words slowly, as though savoring them might somehow shorten the distance between them. He had not seen her in years. He had left without a proper goodbye, torn from the palace and thrown into a life that had demanded everything from him. Her letters were the only proof he had that she was still there, still breathing, still waiting. They told him she was well, that she prayed for him and his return.
As he continued to scan through the letter, a knock sounded at the door.
Cassian didn't look up. He folded the parchment once, then twice, his thumb brushing over the familiar creases. The knock came again, louder this time. With a tired sigh, he rose from the cot and crossed the room, pulling the door open just enough to reveal the figure standing outside.
Derrick grinned at him.
He was around Cassian's age, broad-shouldered and perpetually relaxed, as though the horrors of war slid off him without leaving a mark. In one hand, he held a glass filled with dark, freshly drawn blood.
"Thought you might be dead in here," Derrick said lightly. "Or brooding. Hard to tell with you."
Cassian stared at him flatly. "Go away."
Derrick laughed, entirely unfazed, and nudged the door open a little wider. "See, that's exactly why I'm here. Everyone's out there celebrating, and you're doing whatever this is." His gaze flicked briefly to Cassian's hands before returning to his face. "So I figured I'd bring the celebration to you. I'm generous like that."
Cassian turned away without another word, moving toward the cupboard. He slid his mother's letter carefully inside, as though tucking away something fragile, then shut the door and made his way back to the cot.
Behind him, Derrick stepped inside anyway and placed the glass on top of a small desk close to the window.
"You know, it would have been a good idea if you.._" he started only to be interrupted by Cassian.
"Leave the blood," Cassian said, already lying back on the cot. "And leave."
Derrick lifted his hands in mock surrender. "As ordered." He paused at the doorway, glancing back with a smile. "Try not to miss all the fun. See you around."
For several long moments, Cassian didn't move. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the muffled echoes of laughter beyond the walls. Eventually, hunger crept in, dull and persistent. With a quiet breath, he sat up, reached for the glass, and took a sip from it.
Something was wrong.
The taste was only slightly off, so subtle that a lesser vampire might not have noticed at all. But Cassian did. A strange bitterness clung to his tongue, followed by a faint metallic tang that sent a warning ripple through his senses. His brows furrowed, and he pulled the glass away at once.
"What the hell," he muttered, setting it down.
He stood, intending to return to the cot, but the room tilted beneath his feet. Heat surged through his veins, unnatural and sharp, and his vision blurred at the edges.
"Fuck," he breathed.
His hand pressed against his forehead, his skin already too warm, his heartbeat pounding hard enough to echo in his ears. Each step toward the bed felt heavier than the last. By the time he reached it, his strength was gone.
Cassian collapsed onto the cot, darkness swallowing him whole.
******
Darkness clung to him.
Cassian did not wake, not truly. His body lay heavy and unresponsive, as though it no longer belonged to him. Every limb felt distant, locked away beneath layers of cold and weight. He could not open his eyes. He could not move. Yet somewhere beneath the paralysis, his mind lingered, drifting in and out of awareness.
Voices reached him, muffled and warped, as though he were submerged beneath water. His ears picked footsteps approaching his room.
"…but she ordered us to kill him. I think he's still alive."
The words slipped through the fog slowly, distorted. Cassian tried to focus, tried to cling to the sound. His ears rang. His senses felt dulled, blunted in a way he had never known before.
"There's no way one can kill a vampire."
That voice he knew.
Derrick.
The realization sparked something weak and furious inside him. A part of him knew the truth but he had tried to go with the other possibility, that Derrick had no idea that the drink had been poisoned. Cassian tried to move, to lift a hand, to force his body to obey him, but nothing answered. His muscles refused.
"Then what do you want us to do?" the unfamiliar voice snapped. "Wait for him to recover so he can kill us?"
"If you keep talking like that,you'll wake him." Derrick said in a hushed tone.
"We'll put him in a coffin, and take him to the military tomb. Without blood, his body will shut down on it's own" Derrick continued, his tone disturbingly calm.
The words settled over Cassian like a sentence already passed.
"Then what are we standing around for?" the other man replied, urgency creeping into his voice. "Let's get it done."
Hands grabbed him.
One at his wrists, the other at his legs. Cassian felt the pressure distantly, as if it were happening to someone else. His head lolled uselessly to the side, his vision remaining sealed behind darkness.
"He is so heavy," One of thw men muttered and that was the last thing he heard.
The world slipped away completely as consciousness finally abandoned him.
When Cassian's awareness did not return, the men worked quickly. They carried his unmoving body through the silent corridors, past stone walls that had once echoed with his footsteps, his victories, his bloodied returns from battle.
In the military tombs, they stole one of the coffins reserved for fallen commanders, its interior cold and bare. Cassian was placed inside without ceremony, his body laid flat, his arms folded stiffly at his sides.
The lid was lowered.
Wood met wood with a dull, final sound.
They sealed it.
Then they carried the coffin deeper into the tombs, past rows of stone, and slid it into an empty space meant for the honored dead. Heavy stone was rolled into place, closing him in.