Forks, Washington – 1936
Rain danced a slow, steady rhythm against the windows of Forks General Hospital, muffled by thick panes and drawn curtains. Outside, the world was a watercolor of wet evergreens and gray sky, the town little more than a damp breath clinging to the edge of the Pacific Northwest. Inside, it smelled of carbolic soap and steam radiators, with a faint undercurrent of wet wool and antiseptic.
Dr. Carlisle Cullen stood in his office, tall and still as a cathedral pillar. Blond hair neatly combed back, waistcoat immaculate, cufflinks gleaming faintly under the amber glow of the desk lamp. He held a telegram in one hand. Read it again.
Then read it once more, just in case the words might change if he stared hard enough.
DAENERYS AND I TURNED TWO GIRLS. STABLE. FOR NOW. CANNOT REMAIN IN FORKS. QUILLEUTE TREATY IN JEOPARDY. PREPARE TO LEAVE. CONTACT US ABOARD THE QUEEN MARY. – H.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, folding the paper with surgeon's precision and sliding it into his inner pocket. The silence of the office pressed in around him. The radiator hissed in protest.
They had turned someone. Two someones. Girls.
His mind drifted—London, 1918. The war had just ended, but influenza was winning its own. He remembered Hadrian's body hitting the floor of his clinic like a dropped coat. He remembered Daenerys slumped over him, half-conscious and spitting foreign curses in a language Carlisle still couldn't identify. Both of them dying in ways the medical journals had no footnotes for.
Magic, he suspected even then.
And then they became his. Not servants. Not followers. Family.
Like Edward. The boy who'd walked into his life like a stormcloud and never quite left. All fury, guilt, and unshed tears.
Carlisle blinked, pulled from reverie by a rap at the door. Nurse Nancy, bright and pink-cheeked despite the weather, peeked in.
"Dr. Cullen, Dr. Lannigan's asking for you in Ward C. Says he's wrestling a case of stubborn ribs and could use your miracle touch."
Carlisle offered the kind of smile that made people feel safe in their own skin. "Tell Dr. Lannigan I shall bring all the miracles I can carry."
Nancy grinned. "Knew you would. Ward C's all yours, sir."
He left the office, footsteps silent on the linoleum. His white coat fluttered faintly with each measured stride, crisp against the dull tones of the hospital. Nurses nodded in passing, a few younger ones blushed. Carlisle Cullen was, after all, precisely the sort of doctor women wrote letters to magazines about. Tall, refined, soft-spoken, and just strange enough to stir the imagination.
But his thoughts were elsewhere.
He imagined Esme back at the lodge, curled in her favorite window seat with a cup of tea, a new sketchpad in her lap. Likely drawing roses, even though roses hated Forks weather.
Edward, fingers poised over the piano keys, composing something too sad for a boy who hadn't lived long enough to earn that much melancholy.
Rosalie and Emmett—probably elbow-deep in grease, arguing over spark plugs and how much chrome was too much chrome for a respectable vehicle.
They were happy.
Settled.
Three years here, the longest stretch of calm since Chicago.
And now he would have to break that peace.
He stepped into Ward C and found Dr. Lannigan—a squat, balding man with the temperament of a bulldog and a moustache fit for silent film.
"Ah, Cullen," Lannigan grunted, waving him over. "Got a young lad fell off a hay wagon and decided his ribcage didn't need alignment. Won't sit still. Parents smell like they drowned in gin."
Carlisle bent to examine the boy, whose cheeks were flushed with fever and indignation.
"Hello there," Carlisle said gently, lifting the blanket. "Mind if I have a look?"
The boy scowled. "You ain't gonna poke me like the last one did."
Carlisle smiled faintly. "I give you my word—I shall be much gentler. Besides, it would be terribly rude to go poking without an introduction. I'm Dr. Cullen."
The boy eyed him warily. "Tommy."
"Tommy," Carlisle repeated, testing the ribs with feather-light pressure. "Let's keep breathing for now, hm? I won't ask you to do anything brave unless I'm very certain you can outdo the last chap."
Tommy squinted. "Outdo?"
Carlisle leaned in slightly. "The boy before you claimed he could hold his breath longer than anyone in Forks. I disagreed. I think you look like the sort who could give him a run for his money."
Tommy immediately drew in a sharp, determined breath—and winced.
Carlisle nodded, hands already moving. "There we are. Two cracked ribs, no puncture. A clean wrap and you'll be back falling off wagons by next week."
Lannigan stared, impressed. "You've got the devil's own way with 'em, Cullen."
"Just practice," Carlisle murmured, but his eyes drifted for a moment—to the window, where the rain beat down harder now.
The Quileute treaty.
That wasn't a name spoken lightly. It hadn't even been spoken at all since they'd moved to Forks. A silent accord, ancient and unforgiving. No turning. No new vampires. No lines crossed.
And now Hadrian and Daenerys—his children as much as any—had done just that.
Why? Why now?
Hadrian wouldn't do it lightly. Nor Daenerys. There was always a reason. But the wolves wouldn't care. The treaty had no provisions for nuance. No footnotes for "good intentions."
And so… they'd have to leave.
"Dr. Cullen?" Lannigan barked. "Still with us?"
Carlisle blinked. "Apologies. Distracted by the rain."
Lannigan snorted. "Rain here? Perish the thought."
Carlisle finished wrapping the boy's ribs, gave him a peppermint from his pocket, and excused himself.
By the time he returned to his office, the telegram felt heavier in his chest than it had in his coat. He pulled it out again. The words hadn't changed.
He glanced at the typewriter on his desk.
He would have to break it to Esme first. Prepare her. And then… well, Edward was always watching. Always listening. Perhaps he already knew something was off.
He looked to the grandfather clock in the corner.
Soon. He'd finish his shift, drive home through the fog, and tell his family their time in Forks was over.
Again.
He sighed.
"Three years," he said aloud, to no one. "That's almost a decade in Cullen terms."
And still—not long enough.
—
Certainly! Here's a rewritten, extended version of the Cullen family scene—infused with richer period detail (1936), deeper characterization, period-appropriate dialogue, and plenty more banter, with your requested casting inspirations in mind. This expands on Carlisle's calm charisma (à la Skarsgård), Esme's warmth and strength (à la Tulloch), Edward's brooding wit (Pattinson), Rosalie's sharp elegance (Turner), and Emmett's lovable muscleheadedness (Centineo). Enjoy!
Cullen Lodge, Forks — That Evening, 1936
"The rain never ends in Forks," Rosalie had once said. "It's like the sky is constantly apologizing."
But tonight, the rain didn't apologize—it insisted. It slid down the stone walls of Cullen Lodge in glassy ribbons, dripped from the eaves, and turned the gravel drive into a mirror of the mist-draped forest beyond.
The Packard rolled to a stop with a sigh of brakes. Carlisle stepped out, the brim of his felt hat casting shadows over his sharp features, the telegram folded precisely into the breast pocket of his charcoal suit.
Esme opened the door before he reached it. Light pooled behind her like warmth spilling out of the hearth. Her hair was twisted into soft, neat waves, a navy blouse tucked into a high-waisted skirt, a sketch pad under one arm, and a pencil still tucked behind her ear.
"You're late," she said, brushing water from his coat collar, her touch lingering a moment longer than needed. "Did something go wrong?"
Carlisle gave her the sort of look only a man who had practiced being calm for over two centuries could give.
"Not at the hospital," he said quietly. "But yes."
She stepped back, and he followed her into the drawing room.
—
Drawing Room — Minutes Later
Carlisle sank into his favorite wingback chair, one leg crossed over the other, the telegram now unfolded in his long fingers. The fire crackled low, throwing golden shadows across the Persian rug and dark wood paneling.
Esme perched on the arm of the chair beside him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
"They turned two girls," he said simply. "In Scotland. Sent this from Inverness. They're heading back."
She took the telegram and scanned it. Her face remained composed, but he saw the way her eyes sharpened, calculating.
"Newborns," she murmured. "Two of them."
"They claim it was unavoidable."
"It always is," she said. "But that doesn't mean the tribe will see it that way."
Carlisle nodded once. "We'll need to leave. Tonight, if possible. The treaty…"
Esme's fingers slipped into his hair, smoothing back a damp curl with infinite care.
"You don't have to explain it to me," she said softly. "If they're in danger—our children—then we go. Simple as that."
Carlisle allowed himself a small smile, eyes softening.
"I'll gather the others," she said, already rising.
—
Fifteen Minutes Later — Drawing Room
The Cullen children entered like minor gods being summoned: elegant, exasperated, eternal.
Edward arrived first, hands in the pockets of his pinstripe trousers, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. He leaned one hip against the grand piano, the picture of a 1930s jazz club poet—brooding, bored, beautiful.
Rosalie swept in next, hair twisted into a chignon worthy of a Hollywood debutante, lips blood-red, blouse Chanel, expression pure frost. She dropped into a chair with the sigh of someone far too glamorous for rural Washington.
Emmett crashed in last, boots leaving wet prints on the rug, suspenders hanging from his broad shoulders, white shirt stained with engine grease.
"Someone better be dead or bleeding," he said cheerfully. "Because I was in the middle of building a carburetor the size of a chicken coop and—oh." He saw their faces. "Okay. So. Someone is dead?"
"No one is dead," Carlisle said, standing. "At least not recently."
"That's not comforting, Pops," Emmett muttered.
Carlisle passed the telegram to Edward, who read it quickly. His expression didn't change much—just a tightening of the jaw, a brief flicker of muscle beneath one high cheekbone.
"Hadrian and Daenerys," he said flatly. "Two girls?"
"They were in trouble. You know what that means."
Rosalie arched a brow. "It means we're moving. Again."
Emmett flopped into the armchair beside her. "You say that like it's the end of the world, Rosie."
"I just got the tulips to bloom."
"You can plant new tulips."
"I will plant you," she snapped.
"Promise?" he grinned.
"Children," Esme said, sweeping in with that particular maternal tone that could silence hurricanes. She crossed to the hearth. "Carlisle?"
"We'll need to relocate. We can't risk the treaty."
Edward made a low sound of agreement. "The Quileutes won't care that it was necessary. They'll care that it was done."
"Where to, then?" Rosalie asked. "Please don't say Alaska."
Carlisle hesitated.
Edward groaned. "No. Absolutely not."
"Oh here we go," Rosalie muttered, flopping back in her seat. "Cue the soliloquy."
"I am not," Edward said darkly, "subjecting myself to another winter of Tanya's—thoughts."
Emmett perked up. "You mean her mental—what did you call it—flipbook?"
"With sound effects," Edward said bitterly.
"Bet they were good ones."
"She once mentally whispered my name during a town council meeting." Edward shuddered. "Do you know how hard it is to focus on zoning permits while someone is mentally performing scenes from The Song of Solomon in French?"
"I mean…" Emmett shrugged. "Sounds kinda impressive?"
"I hate all of you," Edward muttered.
Esme, behind her composed smile, looked dangerously close to laughter. "Edward, darling, you do know you can tune people out?"
"Mother, unless I pluck out my own optic nerve and replace my brain with static, that woman's imagination will find a way in."
Carlisle pressed his fingers to his temple and sighed. "Buffalo, then."
Everyone stared.
Rosalie blinked. "Buffalo?"
"New York," Esme said helpfully. "Large enough to blend in. No existing coven that we know of. The girls will dock nearby, we can meet them quietly."
"It's cold," Emmett offered.
Rosalie smirked. "Oh, you'll love that. You can go chase icicles."
"Do they have bears?" Emmett asked, deadpan.
"No," Edward said. "They have factories. And maybe the occasional stray dog."
Emmett shrugged. "A win's a win."
"You're not allowed to hunt near a populated area," Carlisle warned. "Not again."
"One time," Emmett grumbled. "That goat was looking at me funny."
"You got us almost blacklisted from Albany, you maniac," Edward snapped. "I had to forge a municipal livestock report!"
"Boys," Esme said. "Focus."
Carlisle stood straighter. "We'll leave in three days. Quietly. In pairs. Pack light."
"And the newborns?" Rosalie asked.
"We'll help them. Guide them. If they let us."
Esme stepped beside her husband, her hand slipping into his.
Edward looked at his siblings, then down at the telegram again. "They saved lives," he said quietly. "That's worth running for."
Carlisle looked around the room—the fireplace's light reflecting in golden eyes and shadows.
"Family," he said. "It's always been worth it."
—
Upstairs — Midnight
The house had fallen quiet, though the storm hadn't.
Esme knelt beside her cedar trunk, folding old letters and charcoal sketches into layers of tissue. A drawing of a young girl with dark curls peeked out—Renata, from another century.
In his study, Carlisle packed his books with the reverence of a priest tending relics. He held the telegram one last time before slipping it between the pages of his copy of Paradise Lost.
A new city. A new life. Again.
But two more lives brought in from the dark.
Two more children, finding home.
And that was worth everything.
—
The snow had fallen thick and silent overnight, muffling the Scottish Highlands beneath a downy white hush. The year was 1936, but inside the stone-clad manor, time itself seemed to hang suspended. Frost veiled the leaded windows, filtering the morning light into a dreamlike haze of gold and ash. Firelight danced across the walls, clinging to velvet drapes and the ancient carved oak of the great hall.
Hadrian stood at the tall window, his arms folded behind his back, a figure cut from marble and moonlight. His emerald green eyes tracked the snowfall, unblinking. His reflection in the frosted glass barely existed—an absence more than a presence.
Behind him, the manor was alive with impossible stillness, and chaotic elegance.
"Again," Daenerys commanded.
She sat draped across a chaise lounge in white velvet, her silver hair braided loosely down one shoulder, violet eyes gleaming with something fierce beneath hooded lids. She looked like a painting come to life, all sumptuous curves and impossible poise, as though Botticelli had gotten drunk on absinthe and painted an angel made of danger.
Elspeth groaned, slouching on the edge of a brocade armchair. Her blonde curls were pinned up in an attempt at propriety, but her thick Scottish brogue betrayed her irritation.
"Ach, this is bloody nonsense. How in God's name d'ye walk like a human when your bones scream like a wolf in a cage?"
"You practice," Liam said, lounging like sin in a three-piece suit by the fire. He flicked a match against the stone hearth, lighting a cigarette he didn't need. He let it smolder between his fingers like a prop, not a habit.
Siobhán sat on the arm of his chair, crossing her long legs with the casual grace of a woman who remembered empires burning. She was embroidering a handkerchief—or pretending to. Her fingers moved too quickly, the needle nearly invisible.
"You're sewing like a damned loom," Daenerys said without looking.
Siobhán rolled her eyes, slowing her hands. "Ye asked us to act human, not like saints."
"And you," Maggie drawled, leaning against the piano, her fiery curls pinned in a careless 1930s roll, "You're blinking like a broken doll, Elspeth. Stop it."
Elspeth crossed her arms. "Maggie, I dinnae ken how t' blink normally anymore!"
"Just blink like you're not being hunted, darling," Hadrian said at last, not turning. His voice was velvet over steel. "You're twitching like a rabbit on the moor."
Caitriona was pacing. Or she had been. In a blink, she'd crossed the room again.
"Bloody hell!" she cursed in her thick Highland burr. "I cannae do it. I used tae walk fine. Now I move like a bloody thunderbolt."
"Because you are a bloody thunderbolt," Liam said, not bothering to look up. "You're trying to drive a Rolls with the engine of a Spitfire. Ease up on the throttle."
"I am eased," Caitriona snapped.
Daenerys lifted a brow. "No. You're poised to strike. Try again."
Caitriona took a breath—habit, not necessity—and began to walk. Slower. Deliberate.
"Better," Maggie murmured, clapping softly. "Still looks like a lion in church, but at least she's not teleporting."
"How do ye lot do it?" Elspeth asked. "Pretend to be weak when ye're not?"
"Because perfection is terrifying," Hadrian said, finally turning. He moved with liquid grace, too smooth, then deliberately scuffed his heel against the edge of the rug. A soft, human sound.
"Imperfect is believable," he said. "Perfect is suspicious."
Daenerys watched him with a lazy smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Show-off," she murmured.
"You like it," he murmured back.
"I do. Unfortunately."
There was a spark between them then, like a match struck in a tomb. Daenerys stood, unfolding herself with the effortless elegance of someone who had once ruled the fire. She glided toward him, eyes locked on his, like a challenge and a caress.
"You're teaching them restraint," she said, standing too close. "But you're forgetting how intoxicating you are when you're unrestrained."
He smiled slowly, that half-smile that made hearts stop. "Tempting me, Your Grace?"
"Testing you," she said.
Maggie coughed dramatically. "Shall we leave ye two to flirt in peace or will ye resume our bloody lesson?"
Elspeth grinned. "If this is a lesson, I want private tutoring."
Caitriona snorted. "If you flirt with him again, Elspeth, I'll throw ye out into the snow."
"Jealous?"
"Exhausted."
Liam exhaled smoke. "Ladies, this is becoming less 'Finishing School for the Undead' and more 'Vampires Behaving Badly.'"
Daenerys clapped once, loud. "Focus."
They stilled.
"Everything in you is louder now," she said. "Your hunger. Your instincts. Your beauty. The world will see it and be terrified, even if they don't know why. You must become shadows in silk. Knives in velvet."
Hadrian stepped beside her, their bodies just not touching.
"You are no longer human. But the world must never know."
Elspeth sighed. "So we're supposed to pretend we're no' monsters?"
"You're not monsters," Daenerys said. "You're more than that."
"We're a masquerade," Siobhán said softly.
"Exactly. And one day, when the world is ready, you won't need the mask."
Maggie lifted her teacup, full of charmed, lukewarm mimicry. "To the masquerade, then."
Liam raised his cigarette. "To the lie that becomes truth."
Caitriona sighed. "To pretending not to terrify the world."
Elspeth looked around. At them. At the flickering firelight. The monstrous and the magnificent.
Then she grinned.
"To the damned family I never knew I needed."
They clinked nothing. Just held the moment. In silence. In understanding.
Outside, the snow kept falling.
And something ancient, watching from the white horizon, stirred.
Waiting for what came next.
—
The snow continued to drift in thick, silent waves outside the manor, blanketing the world in a hush only winter could command. But inside, the fire crackled in a grand stone hearth, throwing golden light against the walls and casting shadows that danced like ghosts with secrets. The warmth couldn't chase away the sense of something more primal that simmered beneath the surface.
Hadrian turned toward the women, his emerald eyes glinting with something unreadable, yet familiar to those who knew him well. His voice was low, deliberate, smooth as polished riverstone.
"Come," he said, not as an invitation, but a promise.
He pivoted and strode down the corridor without waiting to see if they followed. Of course, they did. They always did.
Daenerys was first to move, her steps as fluid as silk through water. She moved like a queen who had never forgotten how to be a dragon, her violet eyes glittering in the candlelight. Her silver hair shimmered with every step. Elspeth and Caitriona fell in beside her, their boots tapping softly against the polished floor.
"Elspeth," Daenerys said without turning, her voice laced with amusement, "are you staring at his back again?"
Elspeth snorted. "Aye. If ye'd seen the sculpted marvel of his shoulder blades from this angle, ye'd be speechless too."
"I can confirm," Caitriona added with a dry smirk. "It's practically a cathedral."
"Both of you," Daenerys murmured with a laugh, "have the subtlety of a sledgehammer."
"I take tha' as a compliment," Elspeth said cheerfully.
They arrived at the far end of the sitting room, where a large, unremarkable trunk sat flush against the wall. Mahogany, iron-banded, with brass latches dulled by time.
Caitriona eyed it suspiciously. "That's a trunk."
Hadrian's hand came to rest gently on the lid. "Only if you're dreadfully unimaginative."
He flicked his wrist, and the runes etched along the edges shimmered—gold, silver, and something ancient that defied definition. Violet, or maybe void itself.
A soft click echoed from the trunk, like it had just exhaled after a long slumber. Then it began to unfold.
Panels twisted inward, then outward, and space stretched impossibly. Stairs revealed themselves, descending into a soft, glowing light, tinted with the scent of jasmine and something darker. More primal.
Elspeth gasped. Caitriona's brows lifted so high they practically vanished beneath her fringe.
"Bloody hell," Caitriona murmured. "That's not normal magic."
"No," Hadrian said, stepping aside like a gentleman ushering guests into a secret realm. "It's mine."
They descended slowly, reverently. The moment their boots touched the soft stone below, both girls halted in wonder.
It was a sanctuary. A world tucked inside a box.
Lush moss blanketed the ground between cobbled paths. Miniature trees glowed faintly with ethereal life. A crystal-clear stream meandered through the garden, singing softly to itself. The air pulsed with enchantment and care. Above, a magical sky shimmered in hues of violet and gold, caught in eternal dusk.
Caitriona crossed the stone bridge, drawn as if in a trance. She reached out and touched a creeping vine that wrapped slowly, lovingly, around her hand.
"Ye made this for me," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
Hadrian watched her, arms crossed, his gaze soft. "You told me you couldn't feel rooted indoors. So I gave you a place that breathes. One that grows with you."
Caitriona turned to face him, expression flickering between disbelief and emotion. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her nod said everything.
Elspeth wandered further, toward an open circular chamber with marble floors and high domed ceilings. Wind slipped through the archways like breath, carrying flower petals and the scent of freedom.
She spun slowly, laughing.
"I said I missed the sky," she murmured. "And ye gave me its ghost."
Hadrian smiled. "You'll always have a piece of it, now."
Daenerys glided past them both, fingers trailing the air like she was caressing an old lover. "The entire space is protected. Soundproof, scent-proof. No trace escapes unless we will it. It is our secret, stitched with blood and vow."
Caitriona crouched beside a fern that now bloomed crimson beneath her fingers. "Only ye two can open it?"
"Yes," Daenerys replied. "To others, it's just a trunk. A relic. To us? Sanctuary."
Elspeth whistled low, eyes still wide. "Tha's magic, right enough. But it's more'n that. It feels… warm. Like home."
Hadrian reached into his coat and produced two braided leather bracelets, their texture rough but beautiful. Silver strands wove through them—Daenerys's hair.
"These are for you," he said.
Elspeth took hers with reverence. "They're bonnie."
"I carved the runes," Hadrian said. "Daenerys braided them. Together, they dampen your sense of smell. Activate them, and the human world won't tempt you. No blood. No scent. No hunger."
Caitriona slipped hers on with a thoughtful frown. "Will it stop the craving?"
"It will help you resist," Daenerys said, stepping closer. "But control doesn't come from a trinket. It comes from choice."
Elspeth wrapped hers around her wrist. The runes pulsed once, a soft heartbeat of light. "Thank ye," she said quietly. "Both of ye."
"You're not weapons," Hadrian said. "You're not property. You're family. And I protect mine."
Daenerys stood beside him then, closer than before, their shoulders brushing. Her fingers reached for his, lightly threading with his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She looked up at him, a soft, knowing smile curving her lips. "You brood like a gothic poet, you know that?"
He glanced down, mouth twitching. "And you flirt like a serpent in silk."
"I'm cold-blooded."
He leaned in slightly. "You're fire."
She didn't argue. Just smiled.
"We leave tomorrow," Daenerys said, turning to the others. "America isn't ready for us. But we will be ready for it."
Caitriona rose, expression steel and laughter all at once. "They'll never know what hit 'em."
Elspeth grinned. "A garden, a sky, and vampiric grace in our luggage. Tha's mental."
"It's survival," Hadrian said. "Elegant survival."
A moment passed. Quiet, heavy with everything unsaid and everything understood.
This wasn't just a sanctuary. It was a covenant.
Above them, unseen through the trunk and manor and snow, the fire cracked louder.
And outside—just beyond the walls—something moved in the dark.
The world was waking.
And soon, it would remember how to be afraid of velvet.
—
The sleet fell like silver threads unraveling from heaven's hemline, coating the world in a sheen of melancholy light. Dawn struggled to break through the mist that coiled around the stone platform of Inverness Station. The iron beast of a steam engine idled beside them, coughing great plumes of smoke into the air like an aging dragon reluctant to wake.
Hadrian stood tall, cutting a figure as tailored and immovable as a statue. His black wool overcoat, perfectly pressed, clung to his broad frame, a single emerald-green scarf the only dash of color. One gloved hand rested on the handle of an elegant leather suitcase, the other twitched restlessly in his pocket.
Daenerys stood beside him—radiant even in gray. The high collar of her dove-grey coat was turned up against the cold, cinched tight at the waist with a silver clasp shaped like a dragon's wing. Her silver hair was braided into a crown that shimmered faintly beneath the gaslamps. Violet eyes—hidden behind dark-tinted spectacles—missed nothing.
She exhaled slowly, the breath fogging in front of her lips. "Southampton by there," she murmured, voice low and sultry. "And from there, across the Atlantic."
Hadrian didn't respond. His gaze had locked onto the trio approaching through the mist, their silhouettes framed in backlit gold.
Liam led the way—tall, craggy, with hair like wind-whipped ash and the kind of eyes that had seen too many winters but still carried the spark of stubborn loyalty. He wore a thick tweed coat and a woolen cap pulled low.
Beside him strode Siobhán, crimson coat flaring behind her like a war banner, her flaming curls wild and proud, her gait a queen's march. Her crimson eyes gleamed with purpose.
And trailing close, Maggie—tiny, fierce, her curls escaping her knitted hat, nose pink from the cold, chin tilted as though daring the wind to stop her.
Liam spoke first, voice wrapped in gravel and warmth. "Ye sure this is the road, lad? We could still come. Still stand with ye."
Hadrian gave a soft smile. "You've already stood more than anyone had the right to ask."
Maggie snorted, her Irish brogue thick. "We're not doin' it for ye, Hadrian bloody Wayne. We're doin' it for the bairns. For our girls."
"They know," Hadrian said, voice low and warm. "And they love you for it."
Siobhán stepped forward, eyes sharp as flint. "America is chaos. Always has been. The Volturi used to let it burn on its own. If they're sending Jane and Alec across the sea, it means they smell fear."
Daenerys tilted her head, a slow smirk curving her lips. "Then they're already bleeding."
Siobhán's smile returned, cool and approving. "I like her."
"Most people do," Hadrian murmured. "Until she starts giving orders."
Daenerys jabbed him lightly with an elbow. "You love it."
"I'm a masochist."
She turned to Siobhán and took her hands. "You kept them safe before we came. I won't forget that."
Siobhán gave a curt nod. "They're your kin now. You protect 'em, same as we did."
Without warning, Siobhán pulled Hadrian into a fierce, smothering embrace.
"Oi, woman, I'm not made of lace," Hadrian mumbled.
"You act immortal," she whispered into his collar, "but that heart of yours is soft as butter in July. Watch your back."
Hadrian returned the hug with unexpected tenderness. "I'll write. Or send ravens. Or carrier bats. Something dramatic."
Maggie didn't wait—she pounced into his waist like a cannonball. "If ye don't come back, I'll drag yer ghost out of Hell and slap it!"
"And what if I'm in Heaven?"
"Oh, please."
Liam chuckled. "She's not wrong."
Daenerys extended both her hands to Liam. He took them in his large ones.
"You kept them safe," she said, soft and solemn. "Thank you."
He shrugged. "They're ours. Just like you are now."
Daenerys's face softened, the icy queen melting for a moment. "You're going to make me cry, Liam. And that's very undignified for an exiled dragon princess."
He smirked. "Cry later. Kick Volturi arse first."
A whistle pierced the stillness, long and shrill. The train hissed, ready.
Hadrian turned and flicked his fingers toward the luggage car. The layered enchantments relaxed with a breath. The trunk trembled slightly—then creaked open just enough for two heads to pop out.
Elspeth, blonde and grinning, threw a lazy salute. "God save the bloody King. And maybe us too."
Caitriona lifted a silver flask and winked. "Don't let 'em bite unless you're into that sort o' thing."
"Inside," Hadrian said sternly. "And stay hidden."
"Aye aye, Cap'n," Elspeth drawled in her thick Scottish brogue. "Back into the magical murder box."
"We'll miss ye," Siobhán said softly.
"They'll be back," Hadrian promised. "With better fashion."
The conductor called again. Daenerys turned, boarding first with effortless grace. Her boots clicked against the steps like a metronome of defiance.
Hadrian hesitated. Looked back one last time.
"Tell the others," he said, voice low, "the world's changing. The old covenants are dust. And when the velvet monsters rise again—"
"They won't be hiding," Maggie finished, grinning.
"Exactly."
He boarded.
The train groaned, then began to lurch forward.
Inside the carriage, Daenerys pulled off her gloves, reclining in the velvet seat with imperial indifference. Hadrian dropped into the seat across, unbuttoning his coat to reveal the crimson silk lining, stitched with the faint outline of a phoenix in flight.
"In eight days," Daenerys said, sliding her glasses off slowly, "we meet the Volturi. Think they'll behave?"
Hadrian arched a brow. "They'll try."
She leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "And if they don't?"
He smiled. "I've always wanted to redecorate the Waldorf. Maybe something in ash and crimson."
From below, the trunk gave off a faint hum—the thrum of wild magic and stolen twilight. Inside that sacred space, the last bloom of dusk unfurled in gold and violet.
The garden moved now.
And so did its war.
---
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