The cave was silent except for the slow drip of water somewhere in the dark. Hazel had followed the whisper of her name through the midnight woods, barefoot and half-dreaming, until the trees parted and the mouth of the cave swallowed her. The voice had been low, velvet-rough, ancient. It knew her. It needed her.
In the heart of the cavern stood a single stone coffin, black as obsidian, carved with runes that hurt to look at directly. A heavy glass lid sealed it. Inside lay a man—no, something more than a man—pale as moonlight, impossibly beautiful, dark hair spilling across the silk lining like spilled ink. He looked like he had simply paused mid-breath five centuries ago and never resumed.
Hazel's fingers trembled as she touched the cold glass. She only meant to see him closer. The lid was heavier than it looked; she tugged harder, and the sharp edge of an old iron latch sliced across her palm. Blood welled instantly, bright and warm. A single drop slid down the inside of the glass and found his lips.
The air turned to ice.
The coffin lid shattered outward in a spray of glittering shards. The man inside opened his eyes—crimson, glowing faintly—and drew in a slow, shuddering breath, as though tasting the world for the first time in half a millennium.
He rose in one fluid motion, the tattered remnants of an ancient shirt hanging open, revealing a chest carved from marble and shadow. His disheveled black hair fell across his brow as he stepped barefoot across the broken glass without noticing it. The cave seemed to shrink around him, the darkness bending in his direction.
Hazel stood frozen, heart hammering so loudly she was sure he could hear it. Blood still dripped from her cut hand, pattering softly on the stone floor.
He stopped an arm's length away and studied her with those burning eyes. A faint, wondering smile curved his mouth—the same mouth now stained with a single crimson line of her blood.
"Little rabbit," he murmured, voice low and rich, threaded with an accent lost to time. "Breathe."
The words brushed against her skin like silk. Only then did she realize she had forgotten how lungs worked. She sucked in a shaky gasp, and the cave spun.
Primus tilted his head, gaze dropping to the cut on her palm, then to her throat, then slowly back to her eyes. Hunger flickered there, ancient and terrible, but something gentler rode beneath it—relief, gratitude, perhaps even awe.
"You came," he said softly. "After all these years… you came to me."
Hazel found her voice at last, small and trembling. "You called my name."
"I have called it every night for five hundred years." He lifted a hand, hesitating before brushing a knuckle gently beneath her bleeding palm, careful not to touch the wound. "And you answered."
The cold began to ease, warmth radiating from him now, like a hearth finally lit after centuries of winter. His thumb traced the air just above her skin, and the cut sealed itself, leaving only a thin pink line.
Hazel stared at her healed hand, then up at him—at the sharp, elegant lines of his face, the faint scar that crossed one eyebrow, the lips she couldn't seem to stop looking at.
Primus noticed. His smile deepened, revealing just the tips of fangs.
"Careful, little rabbit," he whispered, stepping closer until she could feel the cool brush of his breath. "Keep staring like that, and I might decide your blood isn't the only thing I've waited five centuries to taste."
Hazel's heart stuttered, but she didn't step back.
Outside, the moon rose higher, bathing the cave mouth in silver. Inside, an ancient vampire lord and the woman born to wake him stood inches apart, the long night stretching endlessly before them—full of hunger, wonder, and something neither of them yet dared to name.