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Some time had passed since he defeated Brencis and freed Vale Sangora from his rule, but for many—while life moved on—Coen’s had stood still since then. The day his world changed completely. Brencis had turned him into a vrakhiri. Even though he is a human by day, he still is one of them—Dawnwalker or not. He still feels the bloodlust whenever the moon appears, and his skin remains cold to the touch.
Laslea was slowly being rebuilt after the attack, and Coen helped out here and there, despite the gazes he felt upon him. Many hadn't forgotten what happened—the things he had done to save his family.
“Those people should be grateful for what you did for each one of them,” Ambrus said inside Coen’s head. Coen had almost forgotten that the man was now literally in his head.
“Well, it’s a bit hard to be grateful to the person who’s one of the monster that are the reason it all happened, you know,” Coen replied to the man in his head.
“Yeah, yeah. Even so, you were the one who saved them in the end, so my point stands.” Coen could sense the smile Ambrus was wearing, even though he no longer had a body. “Well... there’s a certain man out there who truly knows your worth.”
Marat. He was talking about Marat, the leader of the Manumites. Coen hadn't seen him since they defeated Brencis together. Was it by choice? Perhaps. He knew he needed to leave Laslea—leave Vale Sangora—and put it all behind him, but that also meant leaving him behind. He wasn't sure he could bring himself to say goodbye to only good thing that had come out of everything else.
He loves Marat with his whole being. They went through hell together, and if Marat were to appear before him asking him to stay, he would probably say yes—but he can’t. Lunka needs him. They both need to get out of this place.
As he helps Laslea get back on its feet and prepare for the winter, he tries to avoid looking toward the area where he knows the Manumites are helping. Marat likely already realized Coen is avoiding him and is probably waiting for the perfect moment to confront him.
“Coen, I can hear your mind going haywire.” Ambrus remarked, sounding bored by hearing Coen’s thoughts about the other man.
“Is that jealousy I hear, Ambrus?” Coen teased, only to disturb the other man’s peace.
“Ha! In your dreams, dear Coen—but no. I’m just tired of hearing your mind constantly dwelling on the rebel leader. I think even our friend Isbrand has sunk low just to avoid hearing any more of this.” Coen has to admit he really has been thinking about him a lot.
“I can’t believe I’m giving you advice, but you should talk to him. Tell the truth, for a change.” Coen can’t believe Ambrus is actually trying to help him with his current crisis, but he knows that, somehow, Ambrus is right. Marat would find out sooner or later that Coen was avoiding him at all and would realize something was very wrong. They had killed Brencis and saved Vale Sangora—even though it was now without a ruler, since Catalin ended up being killed by Brencis (Coen had chosen not to intervene; he didn’t want another tyrant on the throne). In the end, they had restored peace, so why avoid him now of all times?
Coen decided not to reply and continued with his tasks before nightfall. First, he went to fetch an extra blanket for Lunka and did what he could to help Laslea. He helped his father with the destroyed door of their house and spoke briefly with his mother, Mirto, and Yanna. His mother remained unchanged; even though she talked with him a little, she was still trapped in her own mind, repeating the same phrases.
He walked past the area where the manumites were helping out and saw Marat leaning against a wall near the blacksmith. He had to summon all his willpower just to keep from rushing over and hugging him right there. He misses Marat’s touch, and the time they’d spent in the forest after that little argument—remembering how Marat had slept peacefully against his shoulder, finally finding a moment of calm amidst the chaos.
He ran away without looking back. If Marat noticed, Coen didn't see it—or chose not to.
But Marat did notice. He’d been witnessing the same pattern ever since arriving in Laslea, and he needed to know what was going on. The constant worry was eating him alive. He’d tried asking the villagers, even Vlad and Coen’s father, but everyone gave the same answer: "We don't know," or "He's probably just busy with everything"—after all, Coen had become a hero to many in Vale Sangora.
He knew the only person who might really know what was happening was Anca—or perhaps Lakra or Vicho. Coen had spoken about them a little during the rare moments they were alone. But he couldn't just show up out of nowhere, or Coen would avoid him again. He had to use the same trick he’d used when they first met: a little ambush.
So, Marat waited near the path leading to Anca’s house, ready to intercept Coen and cut off any escape.
A few minutes passed, and Marat saw Coen leaving Anca’s house in the distance. He got ready to step right into his path, blocking his way. As Coen finally drew closer, Marat stepped directly in front of him.
"Are you finally going to talk to me, or are you going to keep pretending I don't exist, Coen?" He used his leader’s voice, knowing Coen always took that tone seriously.
Coen jumped in surprise; he didn´t expected an ambush like this, but he knew there was no avoiding it now.
Coen sighed, bracing himself for the conversation to come.
“No, I’ve just been busy, that’s all.” Coen didn't look Marat in the eye—a giveaway that he was lying.
“Hm, and busy with what? Pretending you don't see me, I assume?” Coen looked away even further, embarrassed. “Ever since we killed Brencis and I arrived in Laslea, you haven't looked me in the face. And I know it’s not because of who I am—you made it clear you felt the same way. So what is it, Coen? What’s made you simply ignore my existence all this time?” Marat stepped closer and closer until he was just a few meters away from Coen.
Coen seemed to be fighting with something internally—perhaps the fact that he now had two voices in his head. Marat still couldn't believe how Coen had willingly accepted having Ambrus—and another mad vampire—inside his mind.
Inside Coen, Ambrus was chattering incessantly.
“I told you he’d talk to you, but you never listen—it’s incredible. You keep avoiding this conversation, and I still can't believe I’m helping you.” Coen wanted to strangle Ambrus, but unfortunately, since the vampire no longer had a physical body, that desire would remain just that—a desire.
Coen had to face the reality of the situation head-on, even knowing that if he looked at Marat, he would likely falter.
“Not here, Marat. Please. I...” Coen carefully weighed his options before continuing. “Meet me near a cave—you’ll know which one when you see Vicho guarding it.” After saying this, Coen finally looked at Marat; and oh, how he had missed those eyes and the face of the man who kept him warm, even now that his own skin was ice-cold and lifeless.
“But you can’t let anyone see you going there, for any reason. Okay?” It wasn’t the first time Marat had seen Coen so serious, yet it was still unsettling; this was clearly a serious matter.
“I hope this isn’t just another way to avoid talking to me, Coen.”
“It isn’t, I promise. I have to go now—meet me there at moonrise.” Coen spoke, but before leaving, he decided to sacrifice a bit of his sanity and hug Marat.
“I promise I’ll explain everything. Trust me. Please.” Coen whispered into Marat’s ear. He had missed such intimacy so much. Marat held the embrace a little longer, clinging to the moment for as long as he could.
“Okay, I trust you, Coen.” Marat let go of the hug and allowed Coen to go on his way. Whatever was occupying Coen like this, it was clearly far more serious than Marat had imagined.
While waiting for nightfall, Marat continued trying to help the people of Laslea, though with little success—after all, no one trusts a Tatar. He would see Coen around sometimes—even heading toward the forest, likely to hunt for food for his family or something of the sort—so he didn't question it much when he noticed him returning with a dead rabbit, though he admits it is strange—just a little.
As dusk finally began to settle, Marat started walking toward the cave Coen had mentioned, spotting the vrakhiri’s footprints in the earth along the way. He knew he was close when he saw Vicho standing a few meters ahead.
“Ah, Marat, I presume. Go on, Coen is already waiting. Just one small thing,” Vicho said, stopping him in his tracks. “Please, try to understand him. He’s doing all this for Lunka.”
Marat simply nodded, though the question lingered. What had happened to Lunka? He vaguely remembered Coen frantically searching for her after killing Brencis—while Marat helped his family escape the castle—but he had never learned anything more.
Upon arriving, he saw Coen crouching near some blankets and noticed he seemed to be speaking to someone; he could hear the sound of soft growling.
“Coen...?” Marat said quietly as he approached.
Coen stiffened slightly upon hearing Marat’s voice behind him, then remembered he was the one who had asked him to go there.
“Marat. You made it.” Coen said, rising from his spot. He was already in his vrakhiri form—not that Marat minded; it was another part of Coen he had learned to love.
Coen seemed to decide against wasting time and spoke immediately.
“You asked why I’ve been avoiding you. Well, the truth is right here.” As he spoke, Coen stepped aside to reveal whatever lay behind him. Marat was not prepared for the sight.
Lunka, Coen’s sister, had turned into a... monstrous being. Vrakhiri eyes, claws, fangs—everything.
Oh, how he wanted to kill Brencis all over again.
“Coen, did Brencis do this to your sister?” Marat didn’t need an answer, he could see it in his face. He stepped closer to Coen and gave him another hug.
Coen didn’t realize when it happened, but he was already crying. Marat gently pulled Coen’s face away from his shoulder and wiped away his tears, unafraid of the fangs or claws. It was still Coen there, vrakhiri or not.
“Brencis warned me that something was waiting for me. That ‘something’ was Lunka like this—a Murohn,” Coen explained, slowly pulling away from the embrace. “I’ve been trying since that day, looking for a way to bring her back, but without success. Anca made a potion, but we don’t know if it’ll work. It might very well make everything worse,” Coen said, looking at his little sister.
“I... I’ve been avoiding you... Because I know that if I looked at you and you asked me to stay, I wouldn’t be able to say anything but yes.” Coen’s fists were clenched tight, his claws digging into his flesh and drawing blood. “I have to leave Laslea—leave Vale Sangora. I’ve been... summoned, so to speak.”
Marat tried to piece together every bit of information Coen was pouring out. Summoned? He had to leave the Valley? It was a lot to take in. He was, at the very least, stunned, trying to fit together the answers to the questions he’d been asking himself. Coen hadn’t been avoiding him simply because he wanted to, or because he didn’t want to look at his face anymore—as Marat had feared. No, he had been taking care of his sister. Taking care of his family... again. He was shouldering the weight of everything all over again, and Marat knew he couldn’t let him do it alone.
“I’ll go with you, then,” he said with absolute confidence. Coen stared at Marat in shock, unable to believe what he had just said.
“No, Marat, you can’t! I’m going somewhere where there will likely be a lot of vrakhiris—”
“So you’re going to leave me here? Where I have nothing left?” Marat interrupted Coen mid-sentence. “I don’t care if there are vrakhiris or not; you can’t keep carrying all that weight on your shoulders and leave me all alone in this godforsaken place!” Coen was stunned as Marat began to raise his voice.
“I don’t want to leave you, Marat, but I have to, and you can’t come—it’s simply impossible.” Coen kept trying to explain the situation. To no avail.
“You don’t own me; you can’t tell me what I can or can’t do.”
“Damn it, Marat! Don’t you understand that you can’t come with me because I don’t want to watch the person I love die again because of my choices?! God, I’d drag you along or stay here with you if I could, but I can’t!” Now it was Coen shouting, his boiling emotions finally exploding. He didn’t want to be responsible for anyone’s death. He didn’t want a repeat of what happened to Alin. Not again.
Marat fell silent, stunned. Coen had just said he loved him.
He loved him—a Tartar, someone rejected by his own father for who he was, rejected by so many others.
(Further away, Lakra and Vicho overheard everything, feeling both pity and astonishment on Coen’s behalf.)
Marat took a deep breath and calmed himself, prioritizing reason over emotion.
“I love you too, and that’s why I can’t bear to see you leave, but—” Marat looked straight into Coen’s multicolored eyes, which were already welling up with tears again. “You have to promise me a few things first.”
“Anything you want. It’s yours.” Marat grabed Coen’s cheeks in his hands.
“Don’t forget me.”
Coen was struck by Marat’s words.
“Never.” Coen thought carefully before speaking again. “I’ll find you again in the future—even if it’s in another life or some other form. I will find you again.”
It might have been a foolish promise to make. No one knows if reincarnation or second lives are real—or if they’re just things told to the faithful—but he knew his destiny was bound to Marat’s, one way or another.
Marat laughed at Coen’s words, well aware that neither of them knew if it was true or if Coen was simply saying it to make the goodbye hurt less. Still, the pain remained unbearable.
Finally, they shared their last kiss. All their feelings poured into that kiss—every desire, everything they felt for one another. They remained pressed close together until Marat had to pull away to catch his breath—not that he was particularly happy about it.
“I love you, Coen of Laslea. I always will.”
“I love you, Marat. Always.”
Coen knew he had to leave quickly before the sunrise, so he reluctantly pulled himself away from Marat.
“Goodbye, Marat—until the next life.”
"Goodbye, Coen." - Marat give him a little smile, even if it was an painfull one.
Now it was Marat who was crying, after so long without shedding a tear, he was crying.
Neither of them knew if they would ever meet again or what the future held, but both hoped they could finally be happy—without hiding, without fear of loving each other—and that they might finally, *finally* have a normal life.