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Mother used to say that deceit was the noblest weapon of our kind.
—Wolves don’t hunt only with their fangs—
She would repeat.
Luka had always believed that life was divided between obedience and survival.
And that both tasted the same: like iron and earth.
The night his mother gave him the mission, the fire from the bonfire illuminated the faces of the pack, deformed by the glow of duty. He was to deceive the son of a vampire lord, Rhys, a creature of ancient lineage and immense fortune, and lure him into a trap.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
His mother looked at him with those eyes that seemed to pierce through flesh.
—Do what you must, Luka. Let not your heart interfere with the wolf’s hunger.—
And he nodded.
Because that’s what Luka always did: nod.
He found him in a tavern, in a shadowed corner where the wine smelled of blood and the murmurs were knives. Rhys sat alone, a glass between pale hands, oblivious to the noise.
Too confident.
Too… human, to be a Vampire.
—Is this seat taken?—
Luka asked, with a smile he had practiced by the river’s reflection: kind, false, irresistible.
The vampire looked up. His eyes gleamed, lingering a second on the supposed farmer’s face.
—Ah… no, it’s all yours.—
His voice was soft, almost shy.
Luka sat down.
—Great. I’m Luka.—
He hadn’t expected the vampire to actually take his outstretched hand. He had dirt under his nails, the mark of the fields. And yet Rhys didn’t hesitate.
—I’m Rhys. A pleasure.—
His skin was cold as marble, but his gesture was so warm it unsettled him.
Everything was going too easily.
And Luka smiled again.
It was the beginning of the disaster.
The following days were strangely simple. Rhys wasn’t the monster his mother described in her moonlit sermons. He was clumsy, reserved, too polite for someone who drank blood. He apologized for everything, even when he wasn’t at fault.
And he listened. He listened with a patience that made Luka forget why he was there.
Day after day, word after word, Rhys began to trust him. And Luka, against his will, did too.
The plan was simple: win his heart, then tear it out.
But the vampire’s smile was a weapon far deadlier than any fang.
Rhys spoke little, but he listened intently. Luka, who had never been good with words, found himself speaking like a river. He told stories of harvests, of mud, of the scent of rain. He lied about many things, but not about that.
Yes, he was a farmer.
Yes, he loved the earth.
Rhys, in turn, spoke of his confinement. Of his father, of the castle, of the high walls and the silence.
—It’s a gilded cage—
The vampire confessed.
—You’ve never left the castle, have you? Not until now—
Luka teased.
—My father doesn’t allow it.—
Luka laughed bitterly.
—Then we’re alike. I’m trapped too… only my cage has no walls, just orders.—
Rhys looked at him and smiled.
—Maybe we can teach each other how to break them.—
And Luka didn’t know if that was the first lie… or the first promise.
I remember his laughter. It was a brief sound, light, almost childlike. They rode through dew covered paths, between trees and birdsong, under a blue sky that seemed to belong to neither of them.
Rhys looked at everything with a wonder that broke Luka’s chest: insects, clouds, air. And Luka only looked at him.
—I didn’t know air could have a taste—
Rhys said, eyes closed.
—It tastes like freedom—
I answered.
And he smiled again. His smile was a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.
Sometimes I forgot that my purpose was betrayal.
Sometimes I forgot I was a wolf.
One day I got hurt. A stupid thing: a slip, a broken branch, a bleeding leg. Rhys ran to me with a kind of urgency no enemy would ever show.
—Let me see—
He asked, his voice trembling as he knelt beside me.
—I’m fine—
I murmured, though I wasn’t.
His hands were gentle, careful, almost reverent. A tenderness that disarmed me.
—Don’t move—
He ordered, with a tone that allowed no argument.
I tried to joke.
—I could heal myself—
—Let me do it—
He whispered.
His fingers shook, and when he finished tending the wound, he looked at me as if afraid I might vanish.
(“Has anyone ever cared for us before?”)
Asked the wolf inside me.
I didn’t know what to answer.
And for a second, just one, I wished to feel those hands again, even if it meant another wound.
The weeks slipped by without me noticing.
Luka fell ill one night; fever left him trembling, delirious. Rhys, unable to stay still, went into the kitchen, the only safe place in Luka’s world, and clumsily made a soup.
When Luka woke, the vampire stood before him, a steaming tray in his hands.
His fingers were burned. Luka laughed. So did he, the soup was too salty, but it was made with care.
—Why are you doing this?—
Luka asked.
—Because you already do so much for me—
Rhys replied, shrugging.
—What do I do for you?—
—You’re teaching me how to live.—
Luka didn’t know what to say. His chest hurt as if pierced with pure silver.
Then the wolf inside him howled:
(“He’s warm. Stay here. Don’t hurt him.”)
Luka tried to drown that voice.
But each day, it sounded more human.
Rhys taught him to read, to write his name in crooked letters. He taught him not to be ashamed of who he was. And Luka… taught him to laugh.
It was an invisible exchange, like air:
Rhys gave him peace.
Luka gave him life.
But nothing beautiful lasts in the world of wolves.
And the day came.
The pack was waiting. His mother, impatient, demanded results, he was her pride; he could not fail.
That night, Luka lied one last time, he invented a tragedy. Asked for help. And Rhys, as always, believed him.
The sky was a torn wound that night.
Luka feigned despair, and the vampire, faithful to his nature, offered shelter to his “friend.”
—Of course—
Rhys said, worried.
And so it was. He opened the castle doors, welcoming the wolves disguised as men.
Inside, the silence shattered into screams and steel.
Luka didn’t stop. He couldn’t, his mother was watching from the entrance, proud. He raised his weapon and followed the flow of blood.
Until he heard his name.
—Luka…—
The voice came from behind, wounded, broken. Rhys stood in the shadows, his eyes drowned in disbelief.
—What have you done? Why?—
Luka didn’t answer.
He lifted his weapon.
—I’m fulfilling my duty—
He said, his voice trembling beneath the mask of coldness.
For the first time, Rhys wasn’t smiling.
—Then may your duty weigh on you for all eternity—
He murmured.
And he attacked.
The strike was swift, fierce. The vampire’s claws tore through flesh and memory. Luka didn’t defend himself, it was the first time Rhys’s gentle hands had hurt him.
He fell to the ground, bleeding, watching as Rhys fled through smoke and ruin.
Since then, every night, Luka searches for him. In his wolf form he moves through the woods, chasing traces that vanish like dry petals.
The wind smells of withered roses and broken promises.
His inner wolf whimpers, pleads, cries:
(“I’m sorry”)
(“Forgive me”)
But Rhys never returned. And each time Luka finds him from afar, his gaze cuts like a blade. No tenderness. Only fear, only hate.
Luka runs after him, hopelessly. The ground beneath his paws tastes of the past, of loss.
(“Don’t go. Stay. I beg you.”)
But he has no right to ask.
No right to beg for love.
He destroyed his world, his faith, his laughter.
And still, he follows him.
Like a ghost that doesn’t know how to die.
Because some sins, the worst ones, aren’t washed away with blood, but with the eternity of guilt.
Until the end of the world.
Every night, when the moon rises and the wind carries his name, my wolf howls.
And I let him.
Because in that lament, between teeth and sorrow, I still hear his voice, soft, distant.
“You’re teaching me how to live.”
And I think… I wish he had taught me how not to destroy him.