The manor weighed heavy with silence as though every room was holding its breath. Upstairs, Nord tossed in her bed, her pale face glistening with sweat. A cold had gripped her after her harrowing near-drowning in the icy lake. Downstairs, Finnea and Kirara moved about the house, taking care of the guests left, their tasks reduced to mundane chores that filled the hours but did little to ease the mind. At the hospital, Perdita and Merlin kept vigil beside Bram's unconscious form, their prayers more rote recitations now, worn thin by hope deferred.

In the kitchen, Adamastor stirred a pot of soup, its steamy aroma filling the air with a promise of warmth and comfort. The winter's cold was biting, but what chilled him more was a sensation like they were all standing in the eye of a tempest, waiting for the other side of the storm to hit.

He adjusted the heat under the pot and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Tired didn't begin to describe it; he felt as though he was coming undone at the seams. And it wasn't just the physical exhaustion; it was the whispers, the incessant calling emanating from the cabinet where he kept the vampire poison.

He took a shaky breath, his eyes darting to the wooden doors of the cabinet as if expecting them to burst open. He could feel the pull of it, an itch in the marrow of his bones, a burning at the back of his skull. It was driving him to the brink. Why?

"Adamastor?" Kirara's voice broke through the haze, pulling him back from the edge.

He looked up, forcing a smile. "Yes? Something you need?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing," she said, her eyes narrowing with concern. "You look like you're about to crumple."

"I'm fine," he muttered almost too quickly. "Just a little tired, that's all."

Her gaze flicked to the cabinet and then back to him as if she sensed something but couldn't quite put her finger on it. "Well, if you need help, don't be a hero. We all need chicken!"

Adamastor nodded, watching as she left the kitchen. He turned back to the pot of soup, stirring more vigorously now as if he could disperse his own inner turbulence. Nord depended on this soup, as did everyone else. Betraying their trust was not an option, especially not Nord's.

Adamastor stood there for a lingering moment, his fingers clenched into fists at his sides. The soup was ladled, the kitchen in order, but his insides were a cauldron of chaos. It was as if a hand reached out from the cabinet, threading invisible tendrils through the air to entangle his thoughts.

He had to open it.

The urge gnawed at him like a rat on wood, sharpening his senses until he could almost taste the vile salty bitterness of the poison. He took one faltering step toward the cabinet, his breath caught in his throat. What was it that he hoped to find? A release? An end to the inexplicable pain that seared through him?

His hand touched the cool brass knob of the cabinet. His fingers trembled as they curled around it, his knuckles going white. A cascade of thoughts rushed through him—Nord's trusting face, Finnea and Kirara and their quiet strength, Perdita and Merlin praying beside Bram's bed. Were they all just better actors, better liars? Or was he truly on the verge of breaking in a way they weren't?

He exhaled sharply, as if releasing a pressure valve, and stepped back. His fingers uncurled from the knob, leaving it untouched, unopened. But his eyes remained locked onto the cabinet, a grim recognition settling over him.

For now, the door would remain closed, but the questions would linger, coiling in the dark corners of his mind like serpents. He couldn't say why the poison called to him, couldn't fathom why it gnawed at him with such insistent hunger. But in that moment, he understood something terrifying—his resolve was a crumbling wall, and on the other side lay a mystery that beckoned him toward a brink from which there might be no return.

The kitchen door creaked open, and Baal sauntered in, an easy grin on his face that vanished the moment his eyes landed on Adamastor. "Hey! Adamastor, could you... Dude, are you okay? You look like shit." Adamastor felt the knot of tension in his chest tighten. How much did his face betray? "Just tired, I can't complain," he said, forcing a smile.

Baal's brow furrowed in concern, his fingers tapping Adamastor's shoulder lightly. "Are you sure? If you need a break, I can take care of the kitchen. Maybe you could visit Ursula."

Adamastor blinked. "Who?"

Baal's face changed, a flicker of confusion darkening his eyes. "Oh... shit... you don't..." He cleared his throat awkwardly, then forged ahead with renewed bravado. "Well, maybe you can go to Mme Bougie and meet a girl called Ursula. I heard she's very... exotic!"

For a moment, Adamastor simply stared at him as if trying to decode an unfamiliar language. Finally, he lowered his voice, each word delivered with a tension that felt almost palpable. "Bram's in the hospital, clinging to life. Perdita's falling apart. Nord's upstairs, burning up with some ungodly flu. And you," his eyes narrowed, "are suggesting I go to a brothel?" Baal winced, the smile draining from his face. "Said like that, it sounds bad."

Adamastor sighed, the weight of his responsibilities briefly eased by his frankness. "Mr Berith, I appreciate the offer, but I've got too many fires to put out here to be chasing exotic girls."

Something shifted in Baal's demeanour, a newfound solemnity overlaying his usual casual air. "Alright, man, but if you need a break—"

"I know where to find you," Adamastor interjected, a tired but genuine smile forming on his lips.

Baal's eyes flickered with a touch of relief. "I just came here to get a bowl of soup for Nord. She just woke up."

"Sure, let me get a tray." Adamastor moved to assemble a simple but comforting meal—a warm bowl of the soup he'd just prepared, a piece of crusty bread on the side. Baal took it, nodding a wordless thank you as he retreated from the kitchen and made his way up to the first floor.

And then, once again, Adamastor was alone. He stood in the empty kitchen, the lingering steam from the soup coiling like ghostly tendrils in the air. His eyes strayed, almost against his will, to the cabinet. The poison's call was still there, quieter but insistent, like the distant howl of a wolf.

His fingers clenched and unclenched. He was still standing. For how much longer, he couldn't say. But for now, for this moment, he would remain the keeper of these walls, the steward of these troubled lives, and perhaps, just perhaps, the master of his own fraying soul.

----------------------------------------

Nord lay beneath a mound of blankets, yet each breath felt like inhaling the icy chill of the lake that had nearly claimed her. Despite three heavy covers, she shivered uncontrollably, her teeth chattering with her quakes.

"Dinner in bed!" Baal's voice sliced through the frigid air as he burst into her room, balancing a tray of steaming soup. But Nord could hardly muster the energy to move. He set the tray down on a nearby surface and knelt beside her, his eyes sweeping over her sweat-soaked face. "Hey, you not feeling better?"

"It's cold," she managed to stammer, her voice barely above a whisper.

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Baal's hand gently brushed away damp strands of hair clinging to her forehead. "I know, but you'll get through this. It's just a flu. Sirona said your lungs are clear. You just need some rest and to keep warm. Does your throat hurt?"

She shook her head. "No, and I'm not hungry."

"I don't care if you're hungry; eating is non-negotiable." Baal's tone brokered no argument. He picked up the bowl and a spoon, carefully blowing on the first spoonful to cool it. "Watch out, it's hot."

He guided the spoon to her lips, and for a moment, Nord wanted to refuse, to turn her head away. But as the warm broth touched her lips, she felt a flicker of heat seep into her, a tiny sun rising against the bleak of her surroundings.

Reluctantly, she opened her mouth to accept the spoonful, letting the warmth slide down her throat and spread a gentle heat through her shivering body.

"There you go," Baal said softly, his eyes meeting hers. At that moment, despite the debilitating cold that still gripped her, despite the fears and uncertainties that hung over the house like storm clouds, Nord felt a glimmer of something she hadn't felt for a very long time. And he was the cause of it. Yet she didn't dare to admit what exactly it was, but he was always there, always when she needed him the most.

Nord caught Baal's eye as he prepared another spoonful of soup. "Do you have news about Bram?"

"Nothing's changed," Baal said, his voice tinged with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. "I'm thinking of going to the hospital later so Perdita can rest, but she probably won't leave his room."

He guided another spoonful to Nord's mouth, but his thoughts seemed far away. "I still can't understand..."

Nord swallowed, the warmth of the soup settling into her. "What is there to understand? Bad things happen to good people," she said, forcing a weak smile, trying to offer him some comfort.

He shook his head vehemently as if rejecting a premise too terrible to consider. "No, it's not that simple. Bram made a wish; we have a contract. He wished for luck, and I granted it. So how does a little boy falling into a lake have anything to do with luck?"

Nord pondered this as she accepted another spoonful of soup. "Well... maybe something greater is on its way for him. Could his luck have run out?"

Baal's eyes flared. "It doesn't work like that. I've never failed a spell. Never. He can't be my first failure. Because if his spell fails, how can I be sure that your spells are working? What if I made a mistake? What if you're in danger and—"

His voice hitched as if coming upon an unthinkable notion. Nord placed her hand gently on his wrist, cutting him off. "Baal, whatever happened is not your fault."

"It is. The worst part is that it's my fault," Baal insisted, his eyes now a turbulent sea of emotion.

"Baal, that's not true," Nord whispered, her voice tinged with desperation.

"I don't lie," he said. His eyes were intense, searching hers for something he seemed afraid he wouldn't find: absolution, perhaps, or the reflection of his own unspoken fears. He was a demon cornered by the repercussions of his own power, shackled by the weight of consequences he'd never foreseen.

Nord looked into Baal's troubled eyes and felt the rawness of his pain. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that he wasn't to blame. But as her hand gripped his wrist, she knew that words—no matter how sincere—wouldn't be enough to banish the guilt that haunted him.

Finally, Baal set the half-empty bowl back on the tray. His fingers worked to fluff up Nord's pillow, adjusting it until it cradled her head comfortably. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Take off your clothes," Nord's voice came out as an unexpected whisper.

Baal's eyes widened. For a moment, he looked as if he'd been struck by lightning. "I beg your pardon? Did you just..."

"You're warm," she said, her eyes capturing his with a mixture of earnestness and vulnerability.

A flicker of understanding passed through Baal's eyes. "Ah, okay." He peeled off his long cardigan and started unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the intricate tattoos that spread across his back like a horrific tapestry of ugly doodles.

As he bent down to unlace his boots, Nord found herself fascinated by the lines of his physique, the way his muscles flowed seamlessly into one another and how his skin seemed to hold an ethereal glow.

Nord's fingers reached out instinctively, tracing the outlines of the ink patterns on his back. "Who did this to you?" she murmured, "Why would you let them?"

A soft chuckle escaped Baal's lips as he tugged off his last boot. "You don't remember?"

"Should I?"

He turned to look at her, his eyes alight with a teasing sparkle. "Well, it was you. Why wouldn't I let you?"

"What? No!" Her eyes widened in disbelief, "I wouldn't do this!"

"Yes, ma'am. You had to start somewhere," Baal said, his voice laden with a playful, almost endearing kind of humour. He slid under the layers of blankets beside her, his body radiating warmth like a living furnace.

Nord nestled into his arms, allowing herself to be pulled close. She slid her icy feet between his ankles, shivering at the contrast of temperatures.

"By Atua, your feet are like blocks of ice," Baal remarked, but his tone was more playful than reproachful.

"Why are you so warm?" she whispered, her voice tinged with wonder.

He tightened his hold around her. "Well, I'm a demon. It comes with the territory."

Nord let the words sink in, the air between them thickening with unspoken thoughts and feelings. "This feels good," she finally admitted, her voice tinged with relief.

"Yeah, it does," Baal replied, allowing himself a genuine smirk.

"It wasn't your fault, you know," she said softly, her voice laced with an intuition that made Baal's gaze lock onto hers.

He sighed. "You should try to sleep," he deflected, unwilling to weigh her down with his own guilt and insecurities.

She looked up at him, her eyes sharpening. "Don't do that. I don't like it when you shut me out."

"I'm not—" he began but caught himself, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead. "What do you mean?"

"You always push me away when something worries you," she pointed out.

He hesitated. "That's not..." But even as the words left his mouth, he knew he was failing to convince even himself. It struck him then how much he'd been guarding himself, constructing barriers even as he held her close. "I killed a vampire," he suddenly blurted out, his voice tinged with a heaviness that suggested the admission had been fermenting within him. Nord's eyes met his. "When?"

"At the grand opening. Adamastor's master came with someone... her master, I assume. I killed her. Her name was Marcella," he explained as if the act of naming her somehow made the weight of what he'd done a little more bearable. "I used one of the Allatori bullets and carved it into her skin. She probably suffered horribly."

"Why did you do it?" Nord's question came without judgment, a simple inquiry into his reasoning.

Baal sighed deeply. "When I absorb happy memories, I don't just see them; I feel them, I experience them. And she—she'd done things to Adamastor... things that no one deserves. I was angry, perhaps too eager for some kind of justice. Or retribution, I don't know."

Nord considered his words for a moment. "I would've done the same."

"You would've scorched the earth with hellfire and had them skinned by imps," he corrected a trace of admiration in his tone.

Her eyes widened in genuine surprise. "I can do that?"

"With the right spell," he confirmed.

She paused, collecting her thoughts. "Do you think her master somehow created the hoard?"

He didn't hesitate this time. "I don't think. I'm sure of it."

"Do we have a plan?" Nord asked, her eyes searching his for an answer.

"No, I have a plan," Baal retorted, his tone playfully evasive.

She leaned in closer, her voice tinged with an edge of authority. "Do we have a plan?" she repeated, deliberately enunciating each word.

Baal sighed, "You're so bossy."

"So, do we?" Her gaze was unyielding.

"Yes, we do. But first, I need to go to the hospital. I have to check on Bram, or my head's going to explode," he admitted, easing out of the bed. The loss of his warmth immediately hit Nord, and she started to shiver again.

"Does your head hurt?" she asked, her voice tinged with alarm.

"Just a tiny bit. It'll pass once I see Bram," he assured her. He was already half-dressed when he noticed her renewed shivers. Pausing, he took off again his cardigan and approached the bed. Gently lifting the blanket, he wrapped her in his cardigan. "You used to steal my hoodies when you were sick. I don't have any here, so this will have to do, okay?"

"Okay," she murmured, wrapping herself more snugly in the cardigan. "But we're not done with this conversation."

"I know," he said, lacing his boots with practised speed. "I'm going now," he added, crossing the threshold of the room. Then, almost involuntarily, as if spoken by a part of him that operated on instinct and memory, he added, "I love you."

"Love you more," her voice floated back to him, soft but clear.

Baal paused, one foot hovering over the threshold, his back to the room.

His heart thudded in his chest, lodging itself in his throat as if caught on a hook. Had he heard her correctly? Those words—they had slipped out from a long-forgotten, deeply buried place inside him. And she had echoed them back, a volley in a long-neglected game of emotional ping-pong.

Slowly, he turned back toward the room, his eyes finding Nord. She had fallen asleep, her face relaxed, her body cocooned in his cardigan like a protective shell. For a moment, he stood there, absorbing the sight of her, and all the heaviness, all the relentless questions and uncertainties seemed to lift—just a little.

Shaking his head as if to dislodge the surprising sentiment, Baal stepped out, pulling the door closed behind him. Yet, as he made his way to the hospital, the echo of Nord's words played in his mind, their syllables wrapping around his thoughts and, despite all logic and caution, warming him from within. His headache was gone.