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it was snowing slightly when mona finally found the metal trapdoor to the underground dungeon. the dungeon where scaramouche's been trapped since last week. it had been really hard for the knights of favonius to find out where the fatui imprisoned him. jean charged mona to interrogate every person related to fatui even in the slightest, and mona used the stars to find out where scaramouche might have been taken to, as soon as possible. but still, it took her a whole week.
and there she was, using all her strenght to open the metal lit. it looked almost like a manhole cover, but in the middle of a endless forest. so she was sure she would find him under there. but she wasn't really sure if she could find him alive. the fatui had locked him up and left him thirsty all this time, depriving him of blood. she wasn't sure if he could resist his thirst for blood this long. finally lifting the heavy lid, she found herself feeling nervous— worried even. too many feelings for a vampire who was meant to be nothing more than a source of knowledge.
mona tore the metal hatch free and began her descent, each step measured as she slipped into the pitch-black depths of the measure. she tried to stay quiet. she wasn’t sure what she would find inside, and the thought of scaramouche — his thirst for blood — made her afraid he might be dangerous, if he was still alive. when she stepped onto the last rung, the darkness swallowed her whole. for a moment, she stood still and listened. there was nothing but the sound of heavy breathing. relief washed over her. scaramouche was still alive.
she realized there was no one else in the room but him. quickly, she struck a small spark from a lunar prism—a faint crystal used by astrologers to read the flow of starlight—and a weak bluish glow spread across the dungeon’s walls. scaramouche lay on the cold stone floor, his body unnaturally still. the faint light revealed his pale skin, even colder than usual, almost translucent against the iron shackles biting into his ankles. his breath was shallow, his lips tinged with a sickly gray-blue.
mona hurried toward him, her hands trembling as she reached for the chains.
“scara,” she whispered, her voice breaking the silence, “can you hear me?” his eyes fluttered open, unfocused, lost between fever and exhaustion. through the dim light, he could barely make out her figure.
“who… are you?” he rasped, voice hoarse and distant. “it’s me,” she said softly. he blinked once, then murmured with a cracked smirk, “couldn’t tell without the hat.” a small laugh escaped her—relieved, fragile. at least he could still make jokes. as she worked to unfasten each chain, she said, “i left it behind. didn’t want to draw attention.” he exhaled, a faint trace of amusement crossing his expression. “don’t worry,” he muttered, smirking weakly, “you definitely didn’t.”
after freeing the last of his chains, mona lingered for a heartbeat, watching his chest rise and fall. he was alive. barely—but alive. she grasped his wrist tightly, murmuring the same incantation she had once used to flee from him. the dungeon dissolved in a swirl of starlight. cold air rushed in as they reappeared among the trees, snow falling in slow, silent sheets. flakes clung to her lashes, melted against his pale skin. the world was white and breathless, the forest wrapped in a heavy stillness that felt almost sacred.
mona staggered forward, the snow crunching beneath her boots. she tightened her hold on him and hauled him upright. “we have to move,” she said, her breath visible in the freezing air.scaramouche leaned into her, his weight almost too much to bear. the snow soaked through his torn clothes, clinging to his hair, to the cold blue of his skin. still, he forced his legs to move, step by step, following her rhythm. the faint trail of her magic shimmered briefly beneath the falling snow, fading as the two of them vanished deeper into the winter silence.
they walked for what felt like hours, deeper into the snow-covered woods. the wind had stilled; only the faint crunch of their steps broke the silence. mona’s breath came in uneven bursts, her arms trembling from the effort of holding him up. behind them, the trail they left was already vanishing under fresh snow — no one would be able to follow. but scaramouche’s body was growing heavier, his steps slower, until suddenly his legs gave out. he collapsed into the snow, dragging her down with him. she landed beside him, her hands sinking into the icy ground.
“no… you have to stay awake,” she whispered, voice shaking. “we have to keep moving.” he didn’t answer. his chest rose faintly, each breath shallower than the last. his skin looked almost translucent in the pale light, the color long drained from his face. mona froze for a moment, heart pounding, torn between panic and focus. she could feel time slipping away — he wouldn’t survive much longer like this. pressing her lips together, she forced herself to move. climbing off him, she slipped her arms under his shoulders and began dragging him through the snow, inch by inch, until they reached the shelter of a nearby tree. she propped him gently against the trunk, the snow gathering around them like a shroud, her breath trembling as she tried to think — fast.
mona gripped his shoulders and shook him hard, her voice breaking through the wind. "scara—open your eyes! look at me!” his lashes fluttered, his gaze unfocused, drifting somewhere between life and oblivion. snow gathered on his hair, melting against the faint heat of his skin. mona leaned closer, her breath trembling against the cold. “drink my blood,” she whispered.
his brow twitched, confusion flickering in his eyes. for a second, he thought he had misheard her—some delirious trick of his fading mind. but then she said it again, her tone firm, desperate. “drink my blood. you have to. if you don’t, you’ll die.” scaramouche’s head moved weakly side to side, a broken, stubborn refusal. “i don’t feed on human blood… witch. not anymore."
her voice hardened, fear sharpening into anger.
“you don’t have a choice, not this time. you can’t hunt in this storm, not like this—not when you can barely stand.” she pushed back her sleeve, revealing her wrist. the skin there was pale, traced with faint blue veins beneath the cold. then, without hesitation, she brought it close to his lips. “take it,” she said quietly. “please.” the snow kept falling around them, silent and endless, as her trembling hand hovered inches from his face.
scaramouche’s fingers moved faster than she expected—cold, trembling, but still strong enough to grab her wrist and shove it away. his voice came out rough, half-broken, but the defiance was still there. “if i can’t hunt, that’s my problem. you’ve done enough. you got me out of there. now leave me here, megistus.”
mona froze, his words sinking into the quiet that followed. snow fell between them in slow spirals, the world shrinking to the sound of her pulse and his ragged breathing. she looked at him for several long seconds, saying nothing. maybe he was right—she had done her part. maybe she should walk away.
but could she really?
this was the same man who had once been nothing but trouble—for her, for the knights of favonius, for almost everyone who crossed his path. yet those days were gone. over time, he had become… something else. unpredictable, yes. infuriating, always. but he had also stood beside the knights when it mattered. he had shared knowledge others could never comprehend. he had shown her glimpses of truths that even the stars hesitated to reveal. a being who had lived longer than anyone she knew, the son of an archon—a creature who had seen centuries pass and worlds shift. to mona, he wasn’t just an ally. he was a key. a key to understanding everything that had ever haunted her thoughts: the constellations, fate, the lies hidden in the sky.
he was a treasure she could not afford to lose.
she drew in a shaky breath, eyes glinting with resolve. maybe a little blood loss wouldn’t kill her. jean probably would though, if she ever found out. but mona’s hunger for knowledge had already outweighed reason.
and deep down, she knew it wasn’t just about knowledge anymore. it hadn’t been for a long time.
mona knew he would never take her blood willingly. there was no time left to argue. without hesitation, she reached down, snatched a sharp stone from beneath the snow, and in one swift motion drew it across her wrist. the cut opened cleanly. a line of crimson welled up and dripped into the white, staining the snow like spilled ink.
scaramouche froze. for a heartbeat, the world stood still. the faint scent of blood reached him, warm and vivid even in the freezing air. his eyes followed the droplets as they fell, and he realized—too late—what she’d done. “what are you—” he started, but the words broke off. his voice faltered, drowned beneath the pull of instinct clawing its way up his throat.
mona lifted her arm toward him again, steady despite the tremor in her fingers.
“this is exceptional,” she said quietly. “you have to, scara. just a little. it’s the only way you’ll survive.” he shook his head weakly, teeth gritted. “you’re insane… i’m not drinking from you.”
“then you’ll die here,” she said simply. “and i didn’t drag you out of that dungeon just to watch you freeze.” the snow kept falling. he could smell the iron in her blood, rich and burning. every nerve in his body screamed for it. his control, already fragile, began to fracture. “witch…” he hissed through his teeth, voice shaking. but when he looked up again, she was still there—her wrist open, her eyes unwavering, full of quiet resolve. the hunger inside him twisted, violent and relentless. he tried to look away, but he couldn’t. his gaze fell back to the wound, to the blood glinting darkly against her pale skin. he saw her lips move again, heard her whisper, steady and certain:
“drink.”
and as her words hung in the cold air, the hesitation in his eyes began to melt—slowly, inevitably—into the raw, burning thirst he could no longer fight.
scaramouche’s hand shot forward, closing around her wrist with startling strength. the air left her lungs in a quiet gasp as he pulled her closer. the world seemed to slow—the whisper of snow, the faint crack of ice under their knees, the heat of his breath brushing against her skin.
his lips found the wound, and mona felt the first sharp sting of contact. she bit back a sound, pressing her free hand against the rough bark of the tree behind her. the cold bit into her palm, grounding her, keeping her still.
the pull was desperate, unrestrained. she could feel his breath tremble against her skin with every intake, could hear the uneven rhythm of it—half hunger, half pain. her pulse raced beneath his touch, every heartbeat a reminder of what she was giving, and what he was taking.
the taste hit him like fire. witch’s blood—bright, alive, thrumming with starlight and magic—spread warmth through his veins, chasing away the cold that had consumed him. it was unlike anything he had ever known: not the dull, mortal essence of humans, but something luminous, dangerous, intoxicating. it shimmered faintly in his senses, carrying the faint echo of constellations, of power not meant to be touched.
the forest held its silence, as if afraid to breathe with them. flakes of snow drifted through the pale light, melting the instant they met her skin.
she closed her eyes and let him take what he needed, every nerve caught between pain and something she couldn’t name. somewhere between them, the line blurred—between mercy and surrender, between survival and something far more dangerous.
mona’s breathing grew heavier, the cold air burning her lungs. when she felt the pull against her wrist weaken, she opened her eyes. scaramouche was looking back at her—his gaze sharp, unreadable, mouth still stained with traces of her blood. for a heartbeat, neither of them moved. only the snow fell between them, soft and endless. then, barely above a whisper, he said, “i’m sorry.”
the words barely reached her before he shifted—swift, instinctive. his hand released her wrist only to steady her shoulders as he drew closer. mona gasped, the sound half fear, half disbelief. before she could react, the faint heat of his breath brushed her neck.
she barely had time to draw breath before she felt the sharp sting at her neck—heat, shock, and cold all colliding at once.
her moan echoed through the frozen air. instinct took over—her hands shot up, gripping his shoulder, pushing hard in a reflex of panic. “scara—!” the word fractured on her lips. he caught her wrist mid-motion, holding her still, his other hand firm against her back to steady her. the pressure forced her down, the snow soft but cold beneath her.
time seemed to fracture around them. every heartbeat echoed like thunder in mona’s ears. scaramouche’s touch was firm, anchoring her in place, but his movements carried an almost fragile restraint — as if he was fighting the very hunger that drove him.
she could feel the rhythm of it: the pull, the pause, the tremor that followed. each second stretched, drawn out and heavy, her breathing turning uneven. the air between them grew dense, filled with heat and cold and the faint metallic scent of magic and blood.
his grip held her steady when instinct told her to move. beneath the surface of fear there was something else—an energy she couldn’t name, a current that ran from him into her, unspoken and dangerous. mona tried to focus on the forest — on the cold seeping through her back, on anything that wasn’t the closeness of his presence. but it was impossible. he was everywhere — the weight of him above her, his grip pinning her wrist down, his cold hand steady at her waist, his body settled between her legs, enclosing her in shadow and breath. every sense had narrowed to him — the tension in his hand, the quiet rasp of his breath, the pulse of power that seemed to hum beneath his skin.
scaramouche didn’t stop. the rhythm of it blurred into the sound of the wind, into the beating of her pulse beneath his touch. mona’s breath came slower now, heavier, her chest rising in shallow intervals. the sting had faded into numbness; she could no longer feel where pain ended and cold began.
the pressure of his body, the way he leaned closer without meaning to, sent her mind spiraling. confusion mingled with the faint haze of exhaustion. she tried to focus, but everything was fading — the trees, the snow, even the air around them. her eyelids fluttered, her mouth parted, a weak breath escaping into the silence. scaramouche felt it — the subtle change in her heartbeat beneath his mouth. panic snapped through the fog of hunger.
he tore himself back, blood on his lips and fear in his eyes. the taste still burned in his mouth, intoxicating, unbearable. but the sight of her stilled him.
“mona,” he called out, his voice cracking in the cold. there was no response. panic struck through him like lightning. he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her lightly, snow scattering from her hair.
“mona! look at me!”
for a moment she didn’t move, her head lolling weakly to the side. then, slowly, her lashes fluttered — a faint spark of life behind her half-closed eyes. she tried to speak, but only a soft breath escaped her lips.
“stay with me,” scaramouche muttered, more to himself than to her. his hands were trembling as he tore a strip from his own sleeve, the fabric ripping under his grip. he pressed it against the wound on her neck, holding firm, ignoring the sting of the cold wind biting through his clothes. “don’t move,” he whispered, voice low but urgent. “you’ll be fine. you just… lost too much blood. i took too much blood...”
her head rested against his shoulder as he adjusted his hold, lifting her carefully from the snow. she was lighter than he expected — frighteningly light. her skin was pale, lips trembling, breath shallow against his collarbone. he pulled her closer, one arm around her back, the other keeping pressure on her neck. the snow crunched beneath his knees as he shifted to support her weight. he could feel how cold she’d become; even through his sleeves, her chill sank into his bones.
“mona, listen to me,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “you’re going to stay awake, understand? look at me.” her eyes flickered open again, unfocused, but they met his. that was enough. he exhaled shakily, trying to steady his own breath. “good… just like that,” he said, his tone softening.
the snow hadn’t stopped falling. each flake melted the instant it touched her skin. scaramouche pressed the torn fabric tighter against her neck, feeling the faint throb of her pulse under his fingers. too weak. but it was there. that was enough.
mona stirred weakly, her head resting against his shoulder. her breath brushed his collarbone, shallow and uneven. for a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of wind, the soft crunch of snow shifting beneath them. then she spoke — a whisper, hoarse but laced with a hint of her old defiance.
“…i saved you,” she murmured, her lips barely moving. “that means… you owe me now.”
scaramouche froze. her words cut through the storm like a spark in the dark. he tilted his head down, meeting her half-lidded eyes. she was pale, trembling — and still had the nerve to bargain. a breath left his lips, something between disbelief and a quiet laugh. “yeah,” he said softly, though his tone carried its usual bite. “guess i do.”
her eyes fluttered open a little wider, hazy but burning with something that almost looked like satisfaction.
“then i want it all,” she whispered. “everything that’s been hidden… the truth behind the sky.” he blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his expression. even now, half-conscious and bleeding, her obsession hadn’t faded. maybe that’s why he respected her.
her body shifted slightly in his arms, her forehead brushing his jaw as she tried to lift her head. his grip tightened automatically, steadying her. she was still too cold, too fragile — and yet, somehow, the spark in her hadn’t died.
“you never change,” he muttered, his tone soft but edged. his thumb brushed the side of her neck, keeping the pressure steady as he leaned closer. “fine. you’ll get your truth. every last piece of it.”
her gaze met his — tired, unfocused, but faintly amused.
“you promise?”
he exhaled, eyes narrowing just a little. “i don’t make promises. i keep debts.”
for the first time, the corners of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. mona let out a faint, shaky breath, her head dropping back against his shoulder. the tension between them lingered, quiet but tangible, humming beneath the cold like something alive.
the snow kept falling. his hand stayed at her neck, feeling her heartbeat — slow, fragile, stubbornly persistent. the hunger was gone, replaced by something heavier, something he didn’t want to name.
he held her closer, just enough to keep her steady.
“rest,” he murmured finally, almost to himself. “i’ll handle the rest.”
and as the wind howled through the forest, he held her closer — not out of gratitude, but out of something far more dangerous.