Nord was basking in the crowd's attentiveness, jotting down names and appointment times in her notebook. Her ink-stained fingers danced over the pages, marking the hours and days when she would bestow upon these townsfolk the blessings of her tattoo charms. The business seemed destined to boom, filling her daily routine with new clients and a sense of purpose she hadn't felt in a long time.

As she pencilled in another name, she felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere—like the subtle dropping of temperature just before a storm. It was then that she felt a familiar presence slide up behind her. Adamastor leaned in close enough for his breath to caress her ear.

"Can I steal you away for just five minutes?" he whispered his voice a gentle contrast to the clamour of the crowd.

Nord felt her heartbeat quicken. She looked at the sea of faces still waiting for her, their eyes filled with expectation. A momentary pang of guilt flickered through her, but she brushed it aside. After all, her schedule was filling up; she could afford a brief detour.

She turned her eyes toward Adamastor, offering him a smile. "Five minutes? I suppose I can spare that."

Adamastor grinned, and as he led her away from the crowd, Nord couldn't shake the feeling that those five minutes would hold more significance than any charm she could ever craft.

Adamastor's office was an unlikely nook behind the kitchen, a small square space cluttered with an odd assortment of papers, old books, and curiosities that seemed out of place with his otherwise impeccable conduct. His face was solemn, his eyes weighted down by something unspoken.

"Is everything okay?" Nord asked, her arms instinctively crossing over her chest as if to shield herself. The air between them was thick with a tension she couldn't quite identify.

"I still scare you," Adamastor concluded, reading her body language as easily as the fine print on an ancient parchment. His eyes momentarily met hers before darting away, searching for something in the room.

"I'm sorry, it's just—" Nord began, but her words faltered.

"I get it," he interrupted softly. "I wouldn't be as forgiving as you've been. Hell, I haven't forgiven myself. Especially knowing what I've done to you."

Nord's gaze followed him as he moved around the tight space. "What are you looking for?" she asked, more to break the silence than out of genuine curiosity.

"Come inside; we'll both fit," he said, his tone inviting yet guarded.

She hesitated, the walls of the small room suddenly seeming to close in on her. But despite her unease, something propelled her forward—a mix of curiosity and an inexplicable trust in this dying man before her.

Taking a shallow breath, she stepped into the confined space, not fully understanding why she was willing to share such close quarters with a man who had, not so long ago, been a source of her deepest fears.

As Nord stepped into the room, the hem of her gown seemed to sweep up all the leftover air, leaving the atmosphere denser, almost electric. Adamastor was close, perilously so, and she felt as if she were standing at the edge of a cliff. There was a strange musk that hung about him, both salty and iron. She found it oddly intriguing.

His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, his eyes soft and pleading. "I'm going to show you something. The only thing I'll ask is that you not get angry before I can explain myself. I know I don't deserve it, but it's really the only thing I'll ask of you."

At that moment, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes, Nord's arms uncrossed, and she nodded. Whatever wall had been there—built out of wariness, perhaps even fear—seemed to crumble just a little.

He placed a small, unassuming black leather box on the cluttered desk, unhooked the clasp with his thumb, and opened it. Inside were flasks filled with a liquid that looked almost like water, their transparency masking whatever secrets they held.

"What is it?" Nord's curiosity overcame her trepidation.

Adamastor took a deep breath as if gathering his courage from the very air around him and finally spoke. "This is my venom."

The words hung between them like an invisible thread, fragile yet brimming with implications. And for a moment, Nord felt as if she were suspended in time,

Adamastor looked drained, the weight of his confession etched into the lines of his face. His eyes met Nord's, and it was as if he were baring his soul, exposing his most vulnerable fears.

"I paralyzed you last time. You were lucky it wore off. I don't know if you'd even be standing here today," he confessed, his hand braced against the table as if it were the only thing holding him up.

Nord realised that Adamastor didn’t remember it was Baal who saved her from drowning.

"I wanted to give you every chance to protect yourself from me and probably from others. I saw two vampires in the ball, and I don't trust them, whoever they are."

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Nord felt her mind racing, trying to catch up. Her eyes flitted to the vials of venom, and she finally made the connection. "The salty taste in my orange juice, in my food... you've been giving me...?"

"Just small doses, a couple of drops per meal," Adamastor nodded, his face flush with relief and guilt. "And yes, the venom has a slightly salty tang. I've been administering it to you in hopes of building up your immunity—against hypnosis, against paralysis, well against vampires. I didn't trust myself not to hurt you again."

Nord's thoughts swirled, a whirlpool of emotion. She was torn between outrage and an aching understanding of his intentions. Then Adamastor's next words cut through her internal chaos like a blade.

"I'm dying, Nord."

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She looked up, her eyes wide, locking onto his, "I know..." she whispered.

"I've been collecting as much venom as I could over the last few days," he continued, his voice tinged with a sorrow he couldn't mask. "I want you to continue taking it. Eventually, you should be completely immune."

For a long moment, they stood there, caught in a silence thick with implications. The vials on the desk were no longer just flasks of venom; they were Adamastor's last desperate attempt to protect her, even from himself. And for Nord, they symbolized a haunting dilemma—was this an act of betrayal or the most bittersweet form of love?

Then, Adamastor handed over a worn brown wallet and the collection of keys with trembling hands, the weight of his secret almost tangible in the air.

Nord looked down at them, her fingers tracing the contours of the leather and the cold metal. These objects were so mundane, yet they held pieces of a past she'd almost forgotten, pieces of herself she hadn't even realized were missing until now.

"These are mine," she said softly, more of an affirmation than a question.

Adamastor's eyes darted away, avoiding Nord's searching gaze as he took a shaky breath. "Yes," he stammered, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "When you first arrived here, I hid it. You didn’t remember… you didn’t ask for them. I was trying to shield you from your past, I guess, but also... I was being selfish."

Nord exhaled sharply, her eyes shimmering with a storm of conflicting emotions—anger, confusion, and something more elusive that gnawed at her. "You had no right, Adamastor. You had absolutely no right to decide what pieces of my life I get to keep. What the fuck were you thinking?"

His shoulders slumped, defeated. "I know. By Atua, I know. I've been carrying around this crushing guilt, this secret, like a millstone. I needed to come clean and give you back something I've stolen from you. I want to leave as a free man."

Adamastor's hands trembled visibly. Nord saw his facade cracking, saw how he was wrestling with his conscience. "After what I did, I couldn't muster the guts to return it to you. I don’t really know why. It doesn’t make much sense now. I just wanted a stupid, childish chance, Nord. I wanted something like what Rosemary had with Frank." A red tear oozed from the corner of his eye, lingering briefly on his cheek before he hastily wiped it away.

Nord gripped her wallet, the leather feeling like the only solid thing in a world gone awry. "I'm sorry, Adamastor, but I don't share those feelings. I don't feel that way towards you..."

"I'm aware," he said, his voice edged with bitterness as he continued to dab at his eyes. "And I think I know why. I'm dying, and it's ridiculous even to ponder love, isn't it? I just wanted... a chance."

She tightened her grip on the wallet until her knuckles turned white. "You weren't the only one left out of the romantic equation. I've never had a boyfriend, never experienced anything even remotely like that. But you have friends, Adamastor, people who care about you. I care about you."

A hollow laugh, tinged with irony, escaped his lips. "You should open the wallet. But..."

She looked up, her hand poised over the clasp. "What is it?"

He met her eyes, the weight of his next words pulling his shoulders down even further. "You are not Nord Morningstar."

The atmosphere in the room grew dense like the air itself was holding its breath. Adamastor watched intently as Nord emptied her wallet. Bills, coins, cards—each item landing on the worn-out cluttered table between them as if part of a ritual. Nord snatched her Visa card and waved it at him, triumph in her voice. "See? Nord Morningstar. It says it right here!"

His gaze flitted over the cards, finally settling on the ID card encased in a plastic holder. She held it up, still wearing that look of relieved indignation. "Nord Morningstar! So, what kind of game are you playing, claiming I'm not me?"

She unfolded the paper that was tucked with her ID—a receipt signifying the card's renewal. Her eyes darted back and forth across the text, reading each line as if hoping it would change with the next glance. The room seemed to tilt, her equilibrium thrown off course as she grasped at the table for support. "No, this can't be... I would remember."

"Nord?"

The atmosphere in the room reached a crescendo of tension, the air becoming a thick medium through which every word and movement seemed amplified. Nord's fingers were trembling as they gripped the table edge as if she were trying to anchor herself to something solid, something real.

"Why didn't he say anything? How could I not remember this?" Her voice was tinged with a panic that squeezed at Adamastor's heart.

He took the sheet from her hands, his voice nearly mechanical as he recited, "Name, Nord Salomé Morningstar,” he paused and swallowed dry, “…Berith, status... married."

As if sensing that she was on the brink, Adamastor sifted through the remaining contents on the table and pulled out another paper—pink and inscribed with blue ink. "I think you should read this. I believe you wrote it."

She took the paper with hands that still quivered and read the words aloud, her voice breaking on each syllable. "I, Nord Salomé Morningstar, I now take you, Baal Berith, to be my wedded husband... forsaking all others, I and all my memories, be they sad or the happiest, will be yours alone when death takes us apart."

Adamastor looked up at her, his eyes searching her face. "Those are beautiful vows. Whoever he is, He’s a lucky guy."

Nord's legs gave out, and she slid to the floor, her body wracked with sobs. "I don't remember anything. I... don't even remember him..."

Kneeling in front of her, Adamastor chose his words carefully as if navigating a minefield. "Nord, I think you might have struck a deal with a demon. A pact that might have involved all your happy memories. I heard of one that could do that," Adamastor clicked his tongue, “But I can’t remember his name.”

"But I can see him!" she wailed, ignoring Adamastor, her eyes filled with the pain of a fractured reality, "In the videos, his face, his eyes—I can see him! If I made a deal involving my memories, shouldn't he be like a blank space to me? I see him every day! I can even slap him!"

"You're a Morningstar," Adamastor repeated, pulling her back to the present. "If he was important, wouldn’t you do anything to save your memories?”

“I have a plan…” she mumbled, recalling her exact words.

Don’t forget Morningstar!

But what plan?