The convoy pressed on.

No alarms. No movement reports. No screams.

Eventually, even the engines’ constant growl couldn’t mask how wrong that felt.

Ramza stood watch outside the containment berth, spear unstrapped now and resting against his shoulder. The reinforced door was sealed, rune-lines faintly glowing along its edges. Through the narrow observation slit, Idris lay exactly as he had been placed. Still, bound, eyes closed, chest barely rising.

Something finally changed.

It was so subtle Ramza almost missed it. Idris’s fingers twitched.

Ramza straightened instantly, one hand lifting to the wall control. “Commander.”

“I see it.”

Idris’s head tilted a fraction to the side, as though listening to something only he could hear. Then his eyelids fluttered open.

His eyes met the artificial light overhead. There was no panic in them. No hunger. Just confusion… and a deep, distant weariness.

He blinked once. Slowly.

The restraints clinked as he shifted his wrists, testing them with minimal pressure. The runes flared faintly in response. Idris paused, registering them.

“Oh,” he murmured.

His voice was hoarse, but calm.

Ramza felt a chill crawl up his spine. “He’s awake.”

The Commander tapped the intercom rune. “You are restrained,” he said, voice firm and measured. “Do not resist.”

Idris turned his head toward the sound, eyes focusing on the observation slit in the vehicle. For a moment, his gaze sharpened, taking in the new vessel he found himself trapped in. The inside of the vehicle was completely metal. He was in its centre, in a circle carved from different runes. He could tell these runes were different however. They weren't magic. They reminded him of something dwarven. From one enclosure to the next.

“I see,” Idris said. “That explains the headache.”

Ramza exchanged a glance with the Commander. “He’s coherent.”

“Unusual,” the Commander replied quietly. Then, louder, “State your name.”

There was a pause. Idris seemed to think, as though the answer were buried under layers of dust.

“…Idris,” he said at last. 

Ramza frowned. “You’re a vampire.”

Idris’s brow creased. “Is that all you care about?”

That earned a sharp look from both men.

Another pause. 

Ramza broke it. “Do you know where you are?”

Idris’s eyes drifted, taking in the metal walls, the hum beneath the floor. The clattering of the wheels against the ground from the outside “Inside a moving fortress it seems. I doubt it however because I didn’t know there were such things.”

“No such things? An armored vehicle?”The Commander stiffened. “How? They’re everywhere.”

Idris frowned slightly. His face was that of a lost child. “Everywhere?”

Ramza tilted his head. “You’re telling me you’ve never seen an armored convoy before.”

Idris considered the question, then gave a slow, careful nod. “Not like this. Not… alive.” His gaze traced the ceiling, following the vibration of the engines. “Your machines have a rhythm. Almost like breathing.”

The Commander’s jaw set. “How long were you hiding, hmm bloodsucker?”

Idris’s eyes returned to the slit. For the first time, something like uncertainty flickered across his face—but it vanished just as quickly. “Hiding? I haven’t been hiding.”

“That’s not an answer,” Ramza said.

“No,” Idris agreed gently. “It’s a courtesy.”

The Commander exhaled through his nose, patience thinning. “Then let’s dispense with the courtesies. Why were you in an unconscious state when we found you?”

Idris did not answer immediately. His gaze drifted inward, past metal, past the present entirely. When he spoke, it was quieter. “Because I was tired and that happened to be the spot my blood pressure decided to drop. What were you expecting? I was chasing some silly human and didn’t get my fill of blood?”

“Convenient,” Ramza muttered.

Idris’s lips twitched. “So I’ve heard.”

The Commander leaned closer, voice sharpening. “Then answer this. Why does the Crown want you alive?”

That got his attention.

Idris’s eyes lifted, focusing fully now, like a blade being drawn halfway from its sheath. “The Crown?”

“You were saved,” the Commander said. “Not staked. Not shot. Retrieved. Alive.” A beat. “By request.”

Idris blinked once. “Request?”

“From the Princess,” Ramza added.

Silence.

Idris stared at the ceiling, then at his bound hands. Slowly, a sound escaped him. Low at first. Breathless.

A laugh.

It grew, rough and incredulous, scraping against a throat unused to mirth. Idris turned his head to the side, eyes unfocused, as though seeing something far away.

“The veiled woman?” he murmured. “Is she the princess?”

Ramza stiffened. “You know her?”

“Not really,” Idris said, still smiling faintly. “I just helped her pick a flower.”

His laughter faded, replaced by something almost fond. Almost amused. “She saved me over that.”

Ramza’s grip tightened on his spear, but not with pure anger. There was a baffled frustration there. “A flower,” he repeated, his voice flat. “You’re saying the Crown’s intervention, this whole secure transport, is because you played gardener for an afternoon?”

Idris’s smile turned wry. “It was a very nice flower. She seemed to think it was important.”

“And you just… helped?” The Commander’s tone was deeply skeptical.

“I was bored,” Idris shrugged as much as the restraints allowed. “She was polite. It was a novel interaction. You don’t get many of those when people are usually screaming or throwing garlic.”

Ramza pinched the bridge of his nose. “So we’re to believe you, a vampire, are getting a pardon for botany?”

“Royal botany, don’t forget that part too,” Idris quipped, his dry tone laced with amusement. “Though, I’ll admit, this is a more enthusiastic review than I anticipated.” He jangled his manacles.

“Watch your tone,” Ramza said, but the heat was leaving his voice, replaced by weary exasperation. “You’re here on her sufferance. Don’t act like you’ve won a prize.”

“Aren’t I?” Idris challenged lightly, his eyes glinting. “I’m alive. You’re frustrated. It seems I’m ahead.” He leaned his head back, looking between the two soldiers. “The real question is: what does that make you? Royal escorts? Or glorified nannies for a fanged beast?”

Ramza felt his cheek twitch. “We’re following orders.”

“Ah, the noble refrain,” Idris sighed dramatically. “I’m sure it’s very comforting. It must just itch, though. Knowing you could end the potential threat right now. One clean strike.” He nodded toward Ramza’s spear. “But the pretty princess said ‘no.’ So you stand there, all duty and repressed instinct. It’s almost poetic.”

“Are you trying to get yourself staked?” Ramza asked, though it came out more like genuine curiosity than a threat.

“I’m just pointing out the absurdity of your situation,” Idris said. “I’m just the only one who seems to find it funny.”

The Commander let out a long, slow breath. “Your humor is noted. And unhelpful.”

“I have little else to offer at the moment,” Idris replied. “Except my continued, well-mannered non-violence. See? I’m a model prisoner. You could even say I’m… disarmed.” He wiggled his bound hands again, a flash of a real, sharp-toothed grin appearing.

Ramza just stared at him, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a profound sense of surrealism. He was being teased by a vampire. A coherent, witty, infuriatingly calm vampire who was here because of a flower.

“Just… be quiet,” Ramza finally said, turning to resume his post.

“As you wish, noble nanny,” Idris’s voice followed, rich with playful mockery. “Do wake me for supper. I’d hate to miss the menu.”

Ramza shook his head, turning his back to the slit to lean against the cold metal wall. “Unbelievable.”

“A question, then, for my noble nannies.” He paused. “The world has clearly moved on. These machines… this metal that moves. How long has it been since the Mages shattered Darkthorn?”

Ramza glanced at the Commander, who gave a slight, wary nod. It was common history.

“Three centuries,” Ramza said, turning back. “Give or take a decade. The final Purge Wars ended around 312 years ago. Darkthorn’s ruins have been a dead zone for longer than that. Why?”

Idris did not respond.

He had gone perfectly still. All traces of his former amusement vanished, wiped clean as if by a sudden, cold wind. His eyes, fixed on the ceiling, widened slightly, the glowing irises seeming to swallow the dim light. His chest stilled for a heartbeat, then two, before resuming a shallower rhythm.

“Three… centuries,” he repeated, the words a dry whisper. The faint, mocking smile was gone, replaced by a slackness of profound shock. He slowly turned his head to look at his own hands, bound in modern, rune-etched steel, then back at the stark metal ceiling of a world he clearly did not recognize.

“I… see,” Idris said finally, but the words held no comprehension, only a dawning, staggering weight. All the clever banter, the taunts, the defiance, had been predicated on a understanding of the world that, in a single sentence, was proven utterly false. 

He closed his eyes, a deep line of concentration or pain etched between his brows. When he spoke again, his voice was low, stripped of all affect, meant only for himself, yet carried perfectly to the men outside.

“A very long sleep, then.”

The Commander and Ramza exchanged a new, even more confused glance. His earlier ignorance wasn’t an act. The convoy, the technology, the state of the world—it was all genuine news to him.