(1710)
When Maya awoke, she did not open her eyes right away.
The scent hit her first—lavender and parchment, subtle smoke, and the barest trace of blood. Her body lay on something soft, impossibly soft, unlike the stone and straw she had grown used to. A thick blanket weighed across her chest, and her wrists… they were free.
She opened her eyes.
The ceiling above her was arched and carved, not like the damp dungeon stone, but of polished ivory laced with gold veins. The light was gentle, filtered through sheer curtains drawn across towering windows. A fire crackled faintly in the hearth near the foot of the bed, and tapestries lined the walls—depicting great battles, winged creatures, and ancient symbols she didn't recognize.
She sat up slowly.
The movement made her wince, her body aching in places she hadn't realized could ache. She glanced down—her arms had been cleaned. The dried blood and grime were gone. Her wounds had been bandaged. She wore a simple yet rich gown of midnight blue linen, her feet bare against the cold stone floor beneath the bed.
This isn't real, she thought, bracing herself with both hands. This is another game.
She slid off the bed, legs weak and wobbly, but steady enough. Her eyes swept the room. There were no guards. No locks. Only a single wooden door and a tray of untouched food set near a small round table.
Her stomach turned. Not from hunger—but from mistrust.
Why had he brought her here? Why now?
Her last memory was of Luxien's hand at her throat, the walls pressing against her spine, the strange gleam in his eyes—not hunger, but something far worse.
Curiosity.
That scared her more than the chains.
---
Elsewhere in the fortress…
The grand hall of the High Council was a domed chamber carved directly into the mountain's heart. Its walls shimmered faintly with magic—spells etched into the stone to suppress illusion, compel truth, and reveal treason.
Luxien stood at the center of the chamber, surrounded by the robed and seated Elders of the Ancient Blood. Vampires old enough to have witnessed the first famine. Eyes sunken and skin like wax over bone. Their power clung to the air like oil.
Lord Valeon, the eldest among them, leaned forward from his throne-like seat.
"You were ordered to eliminate the last of the human resistance," he said, voice brittle but sharp. "And yet word has reached us that one female remains. Not only alive, but sheltered in your personal wing. Is this true?"
Luxien stood still. Impossibly still.
His gloved hands were folded behind his back. His expression was unreadable, carved of ice.
"She is no threat," he said coolly. "A stray the fire missed. She caught my… interest. She now serves as a personal attendant."
A pause.
No one spoke, but the silence brimmed with unease.
Luxien's eyes narrowed slightly.
He didn't need them to speak.
He was already reading them.
Their minds unfurled before him like rotting scrolls.
Why would he keep a human?
Has the General weakened?
He defies the Council openly now.
Perhaps he's finally unraveling.
It is time we reconsider his place among us.
Luxien's jaw ticked.
He could hear every doubt, every suspicion, every whispered betrayal they hadn't dared voice aloud for centuries. It coiled in the air like poison.
And yet none of them truly understood.
Not the name she spoke. Not the flicker in her eyes. Not the block on her mind, the ancient scent in her blood, the way she defied him and lived.
They saw a maid.
But he saw a key.
Without a word, Luxien turned and began to walk away.
"General Draxen," one of the younger Elders called after him, voice laced with caution, "you are still under oath to report anomalies. We will expect further clarification—"
But Luxien didn't stop.
He swept through the arched doors like a shadow slipping through cracks in glass.
---
Back in his chamber, the fire was dead. No light save for the chill moonlight slicing across the marble floor.
Luxien tore off his gloves.
The black rot had spread further—creeping up his forearms now, veined and blistered beneath pale skin.
He flexed his hands slowly, rage simmering just beneath the surface. This body is failing. The curse will win if I don't find the truth soon.
And yet, when he closed his eyes, all he saw was her.
Maya.
Bleeding, proud, defiant.
And something older than either of them humming just beneath her skin.
He let out a breath like steam and whispered into the silence:
"Who are you, really?"
---
He didn't know if she would be his salvation or his ruin.
But either way, she was waking something in him that could no longer be ignored.
The door creaked open.
Maya's head whipped toward the sound, her body tensing instinctively despite the soreness etched into her limbs. Her fingers tightened against the edge of the bed. She was barefoot, disarmed, and healing. Whatever entered that room next would find her prepared to bite, claw, scream—whatever it took.
But it wasn't a soldier. Or a vampire. Or even one of the quiet, spectral figures she imagined served in this cursed place.
It was a girl.
A young girl, maybe thirteen—fourteen at most—with a mop of tangled brown curls and wide, nervous eyes. She wore a simple gray dress cinched at the waist, and carried a wooden bucket in each hand, steam rising gently from both.
Maya blinked, caught off guard. The girl didn't meet her gaze as she entered. She walked quickly but with caution, setting one of the buckets beside a stone basin tucked near the window. Then the second.
She moved with the quiet efficiency of someone used to being ignored. Or punished.
Maya stood from the bed, watching her warily.
The girl pulled a cloth from a nearby shelf, then began pouring water carefully into the shallow tub. Her movements were practiced, familiar—but her hands trembled just slightly.
Something in Maya's chest twisted. A memory, a mirror. She's scared.
But not the way the others had been.
Not the way the vampires moved, like apex predators in silk and shadows.
No. This girl… this girl was something else.
Maya took a step forward, slowly.
"Wait," she said, her voice low but firm.
The girl froze. Her shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow, and Maya immediately felt a pang of guilt pulse through her.
"I won't hurt you," Maya added quickly. "I just… I have a question."
The girl turned her head slightly, cautious.
Maya took in her features—freckled skin, flushed cheeks, and large eyes that shimmered not with bloodlust, but fear. Warmth. Life.
Her heart thudded, confused and frantic.
"You're… you're human," Maya said, the words slipping out in a near-whisper.
The girl blinked at her, startled, and for the first time their eyes met fully.
Maya saw it then. The unmistakable shimmer of mortality. The tiredness that no immortal creature could mimic. The subtle sag in the girl's shoulders that came from a life that bent and bruised her.
She wasn't like them.
The girl didn't answer, just nodded once, barely perceptible, before quickly returning to preparing the bath. But her hands moved faster now, more nervously.
Maya stepped closer, voice gentler. "What's your name?"
A long pause. Then, soft as the steam that curled around them: "Isla."
Maya tasted the name. Real. Earthy. Human.
She crossed her arms, staring out the window for a moment as her mind churned. "I didn't think anyone else like me existed in this place."
"You're not like me," Isla replied without turning. Her voice was quiet, almost mechanical. "He… Lord Luxien… he doesn't bring people like you here. Ever."
Maya's breath caught.
So it wasn't normal. She was an anomaly.
"What do you mean?" Maya pressed. "People like me?"
Isla didn't answer. Instead, she wrung out a cloth and dipped it into the basin. "I was brought here five years ago. My village made an offering. They took my older sister first. Then me. I was young. Easier to train."
Maya's stomach churned.
"They keep humans here?" she asked, stunned.
Isla's shoulders lifted slightly in a shrug. "Not many. Most die quickly. Others are… turned. The lucky ones become ghosts."
"And you?" Maya asked softly.
"I learned to disappear while still breathing."
The response sank into Maya's skin like ice water.
For a while, the only sounds were the gentle splash of water and the distant howl of wind brushing against the ancient windows. Maya sat back on the edge of the bed, tension bleeding out of her slowly, replaced by something she hadn't felt in days.
Connection.
She studied Isla carefully. The girl's skin bore faint bruises that had long since yellowed. A scar nicked the side of her wrist. But her hands moved with grace, and her voice—when it came—carried a strange resilience.
Despite everything, Isla still had hope left in her. Or maybe just enough habit of surviving that it looked the same.
"Why are you helping me?" Maya asked at last.
Isla hesitated before wringing out another cloth.
"Because he told me to," she said. "And because… I've never seen him look at someone like he looked at you."
Maya's brows furrowed. "Like how?"
Isla met her eyes again, this time less afraid.
"Like you're not supposed to exist," she said. "But somehow… you still do."