"I told you two to stay inside for this exact reason!" Abriana scolded as she pressed a cold washcloth to Cordelia's head.

"W-we're sorry, Mom, but... was there really a murder?" Claudia asked nervously.

Abriana pursed her lips into a thin line before she sighed deeply. "Yes."

Cordelia widened her eyes, "Who... who did it?" She gripped her shirt sleeves. Who or what would do such a terrible thing?!

"They don't know yet," Abriana said, "but the police suspect that it was a wild animal."

Claudia swallowed and nodded slightly. Abriana hugged the two, "Listen. I'm going to clean up the bakery, and you two wash up for bed, alright?"

"O-okay," Cordelia stammered. She got up and, with Claudia's help, the two went upstairs.

Abriana watched them sadly, and she looked at the door nervously.

Cordelia washed her face as Claudia leaned against the door.

"I'm sorry," Claudia sighed. Cordelia looked at her in confusion.

"I'm sorry for taking you out there," her sister continued, "I shouldn't have—" "It's not your fault," Cordelia sighed, placing her hands on the sink, "I... I had never seen a body, is all. I don't blame you for that."

Claudia nodded. She rubbed her arms as Cordelia walked to her room.

She climbed into her bed and looked out the window. She took a deep breath as she lay down. The moonlight filtered through her window and lit up her room.

Her eyes slowly closed, and she fell into a deep sleep.

***

Harlan leaned against an old pillar, smoking a cigarette.

There were footsteps, and a twenty-five-year-old man stormed towards him. He had bronze-brown skin, black hair, and dark blue eyes. There was a scar that ran over his nose, and a scar that trailed up the right side of his face.

He wore a dark green and white jacket, dark gray jeans, and green and white shoes. He was also wearing a dark turquoise and orange scarf.

"Harlan," he growled, "what the fuck did you do?"

Harlan cocked an eyebrow. "I don't know what you mean, Demetrius."

Demetrius snarled, and he grabbed the other twenty-five-year-old man's wrist, eliciting a hiss of disdain from him.

"You killed someone!" Demetrius snapped angrily. "Do you have any idea what the Count will say?!"

Harlan yanked his wrist out of Demetrius's grip. "Will you relax?! It's not like I wasn't discreet."

"That's not the point," Demetrius sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You left the body, Harlan. You scared the Outsiders."

"And yet they still act like they haven't seen a dead body before," Harlan scowled, and he looked at the moon. "I don't even see why we're at war with the Werewolves."

"It's not a war," Demetrius frowned at the other man, but Harlan only scoffed again.

"Oh yeah! It's just pitiful territory disputes and getting in each other's way!" He ranted, bitterness in his voice. "It may as well be an actual war!"

"Then people would lose their lives," another voice chimed in, and the two turned their heads to see another twenty-five-year-old man walking over to them. He had porcelain skin, turquoise eyes, and jet-black hair. He wore a long-sleeved red and black shirt, dark gray jeans, and dark teal and white boots.

"Maddox..." Demetrius began, nervousness in his voice. The other man raised his hand to interrupt him as he walked over to Harlan.

"Harlan... do you remember the last war?" Maddox questioned, "the one that took your mother when you were young?"

Harlan flinched and looked away. Heat burned behind his eyes, and it made him wince.

Maddox walked closer, "I know you hate the werewolves. And you have every right to do so... but being reckless will not help you. It will put you and everyone else in danger. Is that what you want?"

Harlan flinched and took a step back. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. "...no," he growled through clenched teeth. He balled his hands into fists.

Maddox's eyes saddened, and he slowly placed a hand on Harlan's shoulder. "Look at me," he said quietly. Harlan flinched before he slowly looked at Maddox.

"You're a good person, Harl," he said, offering a gentle, almost sad smile. "We just don't want you to get hurt. Please?"

Harlan stared at him before he nodded begrudgingly, and he wiped his eyes roughly, grumbling. Maddox patted his shoulder in comfort.

"Let's head back," Demetrius said. "I'd prefer to wake up for tomorrow morning."

Harlan let out a laugh, and Maddox smiled. The three started walking. As they walked down a stone path, the sight of a metropolis greeted them. The metropolis was carved from black stone, silver crystal, and ancient magic.

SilverFlame City.

It stretched on endlessly, its vastness cloaked in a shroud of twilight. The 'sky' above was an endless cavern ceiling dotted with false stars—silver orbs of flame suspended midair that flickered like real constellations.

A strange, metallic mist lingered near the streets and alleyways, clinging to buildings like a second skin.

At the center of the city was a towering citadel.

Buildings curved upward like claws, some sleek and sharp as blades, others draped in ivy-like vines made of silver threads. There were stone gargoyles perched along rooftops.

Windows were stained glass in shades of crimson, violet, and black.

Harlan, Maddox, and Demetrius walked on an obsidian brick walkway that shimmered with reflected flame light.

Harlan took a deep breath and let it out. He walked up the steps of a small house, and he looked back at Demetrius and Maddox.

"See you guys later," he chuckled.

"You too," Maddox nodded.

"See ya, man," Demetrius said with a small salute.

Harlan smiled before he opened the door and went inside, closing the door behind him.

He clenched his jaw as he felt a familiar but almost suffocating presence standing behind him.

"...where have you been?" A forty-six-year-old man questioned, his tone icy. He had porcelain skin, black hair, and dark blue eyes. He wore a black turtleneck and white jeans.

Harlan's grip tightened on the doorknob. "I was out. Again."

"Where?"

Harlan spun around to face him, his lips curling back in a snarl. "You already know where, so why are you asking?!"

"Don't you raise your voice at me, boy!" His father snapped back. "You know damn well why I'm asking! You're not even supposed to be in London! Especially at this time of day!"

"It's night," Harlan chuckled dryly. His dad, Ammar, closed his eyes and inhaled sharply before he let out a deep sigh.

"Harlan..." he said, his voice calmer, almost... sadder, "I promised your mother I'd keep you safe."

Harlan walked past him, making his way up the steps. "What a fine job you're doing then."

Ammar turned to face him, "I know it's been hard. Especially for you. But... please, I don't want you to endanger yourself by going out and drinking the blood of Outsiders."

Harlan gripped the stair railing, "...goodnight, Dad."

He walked up the stairs and went into his room. He closed the door behind him.

Harlan's room was dimly lit, bathed in soft hues of deep red and violet light filtering from enchanted sconces mounted to the black stone walls.

His bed, large and set against the far wall, had dark navy sheets and a blood-red comforter, the pillows embroidered with silver thread in curling, arcane designs. A midnight-blue canopy hung above it like a shadowed veil, draping slightly at the corners to create a cave-like sense of safety. Beside the bed was a small nightstand with a phone charger coiled around a cracked book of ancient vampire lore, and an empty plate dusted with crumbs from a slice of strawberry cake.

The floor was sleek obsidian tile softened by a plush white and purple rug shaped like a wolf's head. A low black dresser with glowing blue accents sat beneath a stained-glass window depicting a blood moon, casting filtered red light across the room at night.

Mounted on the opposite wall was a display of sleek headphones, retro mobile consoles, and a few open game cases—Harlan's small shrine to escapism. Next to them, stuck to the wall with black pins, were study notes and diagrams, a mix of magical theory and historical trivia, meticulously written in red ink.

One shelf near the corner housed candles, half-burned and melted into dramatic wax shapes, alongside bottles of dark ink, a half-finished poem scrawled on aged paper, and the most precious thing he owned: a slightly faded photograph of himself as a small child, beaming between his mother and father. It sat in a deep blue frame shaped like twisted rose thorns.

The closet door was barely shut, with jackets spilling out—mostly dark colors with sharp edges, lined in scarlet or silver. Party clothes were folded awkwardly on a chair nearby, alongside a pair of scuffed white boots.

Harlan collapsed on his bed, letting out a heavy sigh. He sniffled and wiped his face. "Stop it," he growled to himself. He looked at a picture that was on his nightstand and pursed his lips into a tight line before he turned away.

He closed his eyes, and a small tear ran down his cheek.