The wine lingered warmly on his tongue long after he set the crystal glass down.
Its scent—rich, deep, nostalgic—clung faintly to his breath, reminding him of old courts, old nights, old lives. But the food before him he barely touched. A small bite, a faint nod of approval, and then nothing more. The aroma pleased him, the flavour even earned a passing thought of fondness, but the need to indulge was absent.

He rose from the table without ceremony.

The brawl behind him had only grown louder—smashing glass, slurred shouts, the crack of someone's fist meeting someone's jaw—but he walked straight through the inn's dining hall as if he were deaf to all mortal chaos. Not a single glance backward. Not a pause. The door swung shut behind him, muffling the noise to a distant storm.

Outside, the air was cool, the moon a silver crescent drifting through quiet clouds. Lanterns flickered along the street, casting pools of amber light across the cobblestones. The town had quieted significantly; only a few late-night wanderers shuffled home, and even they were too tired or drunk to give him more than a passing look.

He stepped into the shadow of an alleyway, the night air brushing against his pale skin like a greeting from an old friend.

With nothing more than a thought, his left index fingernail extended—not violently, but with a delicate, precise whisper, like a blade sliding from its sheath. It gleamed in the moonlight, sharp enough to sever silk without disturbing a single thread.

He lifted his right wrist.

And with a swift, emotionless motion, he slashed.

There was no pain.
There was no wince.
Only a faint pressure, the sensation familiar, ritualistic.

But blood did not gush. It slipped out in slow, heavy drops—thick pearls of crimson that floated rather than fell, rising gently behind him as though pulled by invisible strings.

The drops gathered behind his back, aligning themselves in a careful horizontal line. Then they stretched, sharpened, forming a small, bladelike needle of blood.

He exhaled quietly.

The crimson needle drifted toward his spine—and carved a thin, nearly perfect slit from shoulder to lower back.

A soft groan escaped him.
Not in pain, but in release—as if this, too, was a ritual, something his body remembered even when his mind did not.

From the slit, blood rose in a slow, steady stream. It did not fall to the ground. It climbed into the air, swirling, folding, shaping itself into skeletal structures. Thin, vein-like arches of crimson extended outward from his back. Bones made of pure blood formed first—the framework of wings, delicate yet sharp.

They were incomplete.

No membrane filled them. No flesh, no feathers, no shadowy webbing. They were bare, skeletal wings carved entirely from congealed blood—impossibly thin, unnaturally strong, glowing faintly under the moonlight.

They did not look like something one could use to fly.

And yet, Aurelius paid no mind to their shape.

All other awareness left him. His surroundings blurred. His senses narrowed to a point of extreme focus, all of it dedicated to forming the wings. He was fortunate no one was nearby; any witness would have screamed at the sight, would have fled in terror. Even those who fancied themselves brave would have dropped to their knees or run blindly into the night.

But the street was empty.

The world was quiet.

He bent his knees.

And then he leapt.

The ground beneath him cracked, splintering in a spiderweb pattern as his legs propelled him upward with impossible force. He shot into the air, rising over fifteen meters in a single bound, coat fluttering, hair trailing behind him like a streak of moonlight.

At the apex of his jump, his wings moved.

The first flap halted his fall.

The second lifted him slightly.

The third gave him the sky.

With a sudden burst of force, he shot upward, a dark silhouette streaking through the night. Wind tore around him—not cold to him, though it rippled against his clothing and trailed behind his skeletal wings. Houses shrank below him; the forest became a patchwork of shadows. The town lanterns looked like scattered embers.

Higher he rose, until the clouds hovered just above his head—soft, white giants with silver linings.

He stopped there, hovering.
His wings flapped only occasionally, each movement precise and minimal, conserving energy, holding him steady.

His eyes scanned the vast darkness.

Aurelius was searching.

He did not know what he was searching for.
He only knew he always did this after waking.
Every era. Every time he emerged from a slumber deeper than dreams. He searched.

Sometimes he found something.
Sometimes he did not.
But the ritual was ingrained in him.

His right eye—black as the abyss—pierced through shadows.
His left—white, almost glowing—caught every trace of light.

Yet tonight, the skies held nothing.
No flicker.
No signal.
No hint of whatever ancient purpose tugged at his instincts.

But then—

His head turned.

Far in the distance, a mountain rose from the earth, smaller than the one he had descended earlier but marked by an odd, unremarkable shape. Nothing about it should have caught his attention.

Yet something pulled at him.

A soft whisper.
A tug.
A faint, magnetic draw at the core of his being.

He narrowed his eyes.

He could not explain it.
He did not understand it.
But he trusted it—because every cycle, every awakening, he felt this same pull. This same pursuit of something undefined yet essential.

His wings shifted.

His body tilted forward, aligning parallel to the ground, arms relaxed at his sides. His wings flapped again—once, then twice. The air buckled around him, sending him forward in a swift, silent glide.

His speed was respectable—not the terrifying burst of earlier blood techniques, but steady and swift nonetheless. The wind flattened his hair against his skull, then flowed behind him in a white streamer.

The lights of the town faded behind him.
The forest blurred below him.
The mountain approached rapidly.

Within minutes, his boots scraped against stone at the summit.

The moment he landed, the pull intensified.

What had been a distant whisper became a steady hum in his mind, a faint vibration in his bones. Something here—something ancient, something hidden—called to him.

He began walking.

Unlike before, when his descent from the mountain had been leisurely, this time his steps were quick. Almost impatient. There was a strange excitement building within him—a rare, curious spark that made his focus sharpen like a blade.

Each step was purposeful.
Each breath unnecessary.
Each heartbeat a quiet drum of anticipation.

He rounded a cluster of boulders and froze.

There, half-buried in the stone of the mountain, was a wooden door.

Old.
Worn.
Warped by time.
Wedged so tightly into the rock that it looked as though the mountain itself were trying to swallow it.

He approached slowly.

The door felt wrong—not threatening, but… familiar.
Like a fragment of a dream refusing to fade upon waking.

He placed his hand on the handle.

Nothing happened.

He pulled harder.

The wood did not creak.
The hinges did not whine.
The frame did not shift.

It refused to budge.

He tried again, gripping the handle with enough force to crush stone.

Still nothing.

He exhaled softly.

Very well.

His left wrist still bore the thin slit he had carved earlier. A faint line of crimson remained there—just enough. He coaxed it with a thought, and a small quantity of blood slipped free, hovering in the air like a obedient petal.

Enough to fill a wine glass.
Not more.

The droplet descended toward his right boot, coating the sole in a thin, glossy film of red. The blood shimmered and hardened over the leather like a delicate armor.

He stepped back.

Raised both arms—not to strike, but to shield his face from what might follow.

Then he kicked.

The impact sounded soft—almost gentle.

But the door flew inward as if struck by a giant, vanishing past the frame and falling into utter blackness without so much as a thud. No echo. No crash. No splintering wood.

As if it had fallen into nothing.

Aurelius held his stance for a moment longer, letting the dust settle. Then, slowly, he lowered his arms.

His expression—which had remained cold, restrained, unreadable for so long—shifted.

Just a fraction.

His eyes widened.
His lips parted.
Not in fear, but in awe.

He stepped forward.

The doorway opened into something impossible—something that should not, could not exist within a mountain. A space vast and silent and shimmering faintly with impossible darkness.

His breath caught—not because he needed air, but because even an immortal could be taken aback by beauty.

He stared into the darkness.

And the darkness stared back.