In the world of vampires, siring wasn't just an act of creation—it was a declaration of ownership. It was the oldest kind of binding. The blood that turned you also claimed you, stitched into your bones and your breath and your very sense of self.
Normally, a fledgling was simple—a human bitten, drained, given blood, turned. But in that turning, the fledgling was rewritten, made to crave their sire's approval, to answer to their call like a blade answers its master's hand. No laws. No wills. No hope. Once sired, your soul belonged to your maker. It was terrifying... and irreversible.
But that was for humans.
Vampires who were born—born of pure blood, not turned from mortal stock—were different. They were supposed to be untouchable. Sovereign. Bloodlines so dense with ancient power that no one, no matter how strong, could ever rewrite their existence.
Supposed to be.
*
Helena stepped forward, lowering herself into a deep bow, her voice carrying clearly through the stunned hall.
