A minute passed after that fateful incident.
The child had fallen back asleep, wrapped gently in blankets, unaware of the storm that had torn through her home. She slept soundly—still nestled in the warmth of dreams, completely untouched by the carnage and grief around her.
She had been sleeping within their arms as they wept—Corven and the mother, both clinging to her like she was the last light in a world drowned in shadow.
And then, tenderly, the mother placed the child back into her room, pulling the door closed behind her with trembling hands.
Now, only silence remained.
Corven and the mother sat opposite one another, the cold distance between them marked by nothing but a pair of worn wooden chairs and the unbearable weight of what had been lost.
Between them sat a cooking spit, the iron pot above it steaming gently, still half-full with water that no longer served a purpose. A simple wooden ladle rested against its rim.
Off to the side, the body of the man—her husband—lay covered with a towel. His presence still loomed, even in death. The room refused to let him go. His absence screamed louder than any voice ever could.
Two broken souls sat in silence.
Minutes passed.
The fire popped and hissed, casting flickering shadows against the walls.
Finally, Corven—tried to speak. His voice cracked as it escaped his throat.
"I—"
But he was cut off.
"What are you…?" the mother said, voice hollow, yet heavy with anguish.
She stared directly at him, tears pooling again, her body rigid with unresolved fury.
"Vampires don't feel bad. They never do," she said, her voice trembling now. Her jaw clenched, lips twitching as she fought back another wave of grief.
"So…" she hissed, her fingers curling into fists, nails biting into her palms, "So what gives you the right to feel empathy?!"
She snapped.
The ladle flew across the room with a sharp crack of air, hurled with all the strength of a woman who had lost everything.
It struck Corven in the forehead with a dull thunk.
But he didn't flinch. Didn't dodge.
His vampire body felt nothing.
No pain.
No bruise.
No justice.
"I–I don't," he choked, voice shaking. "I don't…"
His body crumpled in his chair, face buried in his hands.
"I don't deserve it!"
The words shattered in the space between them.
"I thought… I thought this world might be a second chance," he sobbed. "A place where I could start again… become something more than the failure I was before…"
His words drowned in his tears, shoulders heaving under the weight of the past and the horror of the present.
The mother glared at him, eyes burning with rage.
But slowly… her expression softened.
"You…" she whispered, still stunned, "You really aren't a normal undead."
She slowly walked back to her chair and lowered herself into it once more, exhausted.
"So… what do you plan to do now?" she asked, voice low, as she pinched the bridge of her nose.
"I want to…" Corven's voice faltered again, but this time he fought to hold it steady. "I want to atone."
Still crying, he met her eyes.
Before this world, before all of this—he had been human. Just a regular person. Broken, yes. Lost, maybe. But human.
Even now, twisted by hunger and cursed with vampirism… something within him still remained.
A fragment of humanity.
"I'm not sure I can offer you that," the mother murmured, eyes dull and unfocused, locked on the spit's low-burning fire.
Her voice dropped.
"I'm not even sure if…"
She trailed off.
Her hand reached forward—slowly, like sleepwalking—toward the flames.
Despair. Raw. Heavy. Endless.
Corven's eyes widened.
He recognized that look. That hollow resignation.
He had worn it himself.
"No!" he shouted, launching from his chair.
In a blur, he lunged toward her. The wooden chairs clattered to the ground as both of them toppled onto the dirt floor.
"Don't—!" Corven cried, wrapping his arms around her. "Burning yourself won't make it better!"
For a moment, she blinked—not in fear, but disbelief. Someone had stopped her.
They sat there on the ground, tangled in desperation.
"You still have the child… she still needs her mother," he whispered, his voice hoarse and cracking.
He knew he didn't have the right to say that.
He was the one who had destroyed their world.
He had only been in this one for barely an hour.
But still—he said it.
"I'll take responsibility," Corven muttered, gripping her shoulder. "So please… hang on. Just a little longer."
He remembered how the man smiled when tucking his daughter in. How he had once said, 'She'll never know pain—not if I can help it.'
The mother didn't speak.
Her eyes were vacant, cheeks wet with fresh tears.
The man she had loved—the man who had provided for them, protected them—was gone. Her whole life had been carved out around his presence.
And now he was just… a memory.
Dead, and buried beneath a towel on the floor.
She bit down on her lower lip, her pride screaming against the very thought of accepting help from the one who had caused this devastation.
A monster.
But she thought of the child.
She thought of her smile. Her laugh.
Her gentle, hopeful voice.
She deserved better.
And Corven… had offered.
He hadn't killed them when he had the chance.
He could have.
He didn't.
Her heart ached. Her stomach twisted.
But in the end, she whispered:
"Fine…"
She collapsed onto the floor beside him, no longer able to hold up the weight of her grief.
"But this doesn't make up for it," she added quietly.
Her voice was cold. Broken.
But not closed.
And so—Corven found his reason to exist.
Not for glory.
Not for revenge.
But for redemption.
To provide for this family.
To become a father figure for a child whose world he shattered.
Even if it was far more than he deserved.