In his nightmares, he saw children locked in a deathlike slumber. Porcelain cheeks with a faint blue hue, eyelashes utterly still. In his distant childhood, he would sometimes wake up to see them beside him, their small heads on the adjacent pillow, wearing crisp, new nightgowns with frilly ruffles.

As a child, Morveyn was badly injured after crossing paths with a distorted animal. The memories of that fateful night were shrouded in darkness, for he was too young to recall the details, and the wound was so grievous that it almost claimed his life. The trauma was so intense that it erased all recollections of that dreadful event. What he knew for certain was that his father had performed a miracle, saving his life by stitching into his body a scheme known only to him—a combination of saap stones. The monster nearly bit the kid in half, the salamanders could only shrug helplessly. The Protectorium’s research into implanting enhancement circuits in soldiers was still purely theoretical at the time, but young Morveyn must have been in such dire condition that Menno turned to it as a last resort. Reworking the enhancement scheme and redirecting it toward regeneration, leaping ahead by decades of future research in a single night— desperate father gambled everything. This intricate procedure brought Morveyn back from the brink of death, but it left a grotesque scar marring his abdomen.

Despite everything, Morveyn’s health remained frail. The stones took hold so poorly that the child spent weeks writhing in fever, his stitches refusing to heal. It seemed as if the entire procedure only prolonged his suffering rather than bringing him any closer to recovery. Time passed painfully slow, casting a long shadow of sorrow over the household. And yet, step by step, day by day, he was still alive—and it was too soon to give up. His mother, unable to bear the sight of her son’s suffering, was often overwhelmed with grief. She hid behind books or in the garden, unwilling to leave the estate yet unable to stay near her son.

His father, deeply engrossed in his work, visited rarely, leaving Morveyn to endure his trials largely alone. With the fury of a desperate man, he threw himself into research, searching for a solution that might prove more successful. Yet he kept circling back to the same conclusion—there was no way to fix or adjust anything while the child remained in such an unstable state.

The house was steeped in an atmosphere of mourning, with each day bringing a fresh wave of despair. His parents, who had adored each other before the tragedy, grew distant, unable to endure what was happening. Each coped with their grief alone.

His grandmother, however, was a constant presence. The elderly woman spent days and nights in prayer, pleading with the Almighty to protect the unfortunate child. And one night, it seemed, the Sleeping God answered her prayers.

In one of those dark nights, as boy lay in a fevered sleep, his faithful dog, Morna, defied the household rules to stay by his side. As the only child in the estate, Morveyn spent all his time in her company. His partner in mischief, his loyal friend—she pined away while her little master spent weeks confined to his bed. She was even chained up because she kept trying too desperately to reach his bedroom.

But that night, she howled so mournfully and loud that the entire hawk’s nest lay awake, unable to sleep through her grief-stricken cries.

It was decided to let the dog guard her master’s door and allow her to see him from time to time when the doctor came to check on him and change his bandages. But at night, the doors remained closed to her. She was not allowed near his bed, as everyone feared she might disturb his fragile stitches. Yet, Morna managed to slip into his room, lying beside him, her warm body pressed against his, her fur tickling his pale hands, and her heavy head resting on his chest.

When Morveyn awoke the next morning, the first thing he saw was Morna’s sturdy neck, just as he had so many times when they fell asleep together. But something was different—her usually soft, pink ears were now lifeless, her massive chest no longer rising and falling. Morveyn understood, with an instinctive, primal awareness, that she was gone. Despite never having been taught what death looked like, he knew.

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That morning, he clung to Morna’s lifeless body, crying out in heart-wrenching sobs. His cries drew the servants, who summoned his father. His father and grandmother inspected his wound—it seemed the tight, crimson stitches had finally held firm, no longer threatening to tear apart at any moment. It was then that his grandmother spoke of deceiving death, of outsmarting it, so it would claim another instead. Death had taken Morna, granting Morveyn a precious chance at life.

From that day, boy’s recovery, while still slow, seemed more assured. The household began to emerge from its deep sorrow, though the memory of that night, the scar on his abdomen, and the sacrifice of his beloved Morna would forever linger in his heart.

Children brought to Morveyn's room were always clean, bathed, and already fast asleep. His grandmother explained that they were orphans from the workhouse. She said that in the morning, when they were taken away, they woke up and returned, carrying with them a rich reward. They slept soundly because she gave them a sleeping draught, ensuring they wouldn't wake up during the night and cause trouble. They were dressed in pristine nightgowns, never worn by anyone else before, and she explained this was to deceive death. If death came for Morveyn, it would have to consider carefully whom to take.

However, the mere thought that the peacefully sleeping child beside him might already be dead terrified Morveyn. He lay awake many nights, straining to hear the faintest breath, any sign that the child next to him was still alive. The fear of accidentally touching a cold, unresponsive body was paralyzing. The children were brought after he had gone to sleep and taken away at dawn. On lucky nights, Knasse wouldn't even know if anyone had been beside him. But sometimes, the icy grip of terror would awaken him, and he would lie there, frozen, staring at the gentle profile of the sleeping child, imagining death standing nearby, unable to decide between the two.

His palms would sweat, and tears would flow unbidden as he realized how close death was. He would squeeze his eyes shut, trying not to move, hoping that death, confused, would retreat, unable to determine which child to claim.

Years later, he came to understand that perhaps none of those children ever woke up again. They never lived the miserable lives they might have had. How many orphans from the vanished provinces wandered the streets, meeting their end in ditches or working themselves to death in grueling labor, only to receive a roof over their heads and a bowl of gruel in return? Perhaps it was kinder for them to end their journey in a soft bed, having enjoyed a hearty last meal.

But from that day on, Morveyn's mother never smiled at him again. He remembered the joy in her eyes that morning when he first awoke, but it was the last time she looked at him without fear and disgust. It was as if he had become a hideous insect, a monster that had taken Morna's life and, each night, claimed the life of a new child. Meanwhile, his health improved, and a month later, Morveyn could finally get out of bed on his own. That night, his grandmother didn't place another child beside him. Instead, she set a bouquet of peonies at the head of his bed. Each morning, she brought a fresh bouquet because the delicate flowers would wither and fall overnight. When the flowers lasted through the night, his grandmother declared they had finally deceived death. He could walk on his own and even sit in the garden with a book for long periods. He was relieved not to fear death looming at his bedside, but dreams of dead children continued to haunt him, waking him in the middle of the night, terrified to move.

Those were distant times. Nightmares of his forgotten childhood rarely troubled him anymore. Yet today, just before dawn, he had the eerie sensation of someone lying beside him—small, cold, and indescribably terrifying. Too many shocks had befallen the falconet in the past day. Though he had long since learned to hold back tears, the vile heaviness in his chest did not easily subside. In the morning gloom, he lay with his eyes shut, recalling the ghosts of his past and fervently hoping that the grim reaper would finally come for him. He wished to quietly fall asleep, slipping into an endless abyss, never to awaken, like those children from the distant past. Peacefully, without causing anyone harm, simply surrendering to the comforting darkness, and never emerging from it again.