Third Person's POV
Morning came gray and heavy, pressing against the thin walls like a held breath.
The kind of light that didn't warm, only revealed.
Adelina woke before dawn, as she always did — to the sound of restless breathing and the creak of too many bodies sharing too little space. Nine children slept in the narrow room, curled together for warmth. Her youngest sister's hand rested against her arm, small and trusting, and Adelina carefully shifted it aside before rising.
The air smelled faintly of soot and damp wool.
The room was silent except for the occasional sigh — innocence unbothered by hunger.
Adelina dressed quietly, slipping into a faded linen dress with frayed seams. It had once belonged to her mother, when her mother still smiled. That was before the factories, before the debts, before life itself seemed to sour.
From the next room came the low rumble of her father's voice, then the sharp crack of her mother's reply. The sound of their arguments had long since dulled to background noise — like the scrape of a dull knife against wood.
"Girl," her mother called, as if summoning a servant. "If you're awake, see to the children and fetch water. The day's already wasted."
It was always girl. Never Adelina.
She obeyed without a word. There was no kindness in speaking first.
In the cramped kitchen, the morning's meal lay waiting: a pot of thin porridge, two bowls. One for her parents. One for the rest.
Her mother stood over it, dividing portions with mechanical precision — a habit born from years of scarcity. When Adelina reached for a spoon, her mother's hand stilled hers.
"Leave the soft parts for the little ones. You can manage with crusts."
"I know," Adelina murmured.
It was routine — the gentle cruelty of a woman who'd forgotten how to love anything that couldn't be sold or consumed.
Adelina didn't argue. She tore her portion quietly, wrapping it in a scrap of cloth for later.
When she turned back to the small room, the children were beginning to stir. Little yawns, sleepy blinking eyes.
Her youngest brother, Tomas, sat up and rubbed at his face. "Lina?" he whispered, still half in dreams.
She smiled softly. "I'm here."
The twins — Mara and Elise — were already squabbling over a single threadbare blanket, their identical curls a wild tangle.
"Enough, you two," Adelina said, her tone gentle but firm. She knelt beside them and began to braid their hair, deft fingers working through the knots.
"You'll be late for the school rounds again," she teased lightly.
"We wouldn't be if the blankets weren't so small," Mara muttered.
"That's because you keep stealing hers," Adelina said, tugging playfully on the end of her braid. Elise giggled, victorious for a moment.
The older boys were quieter. Pietro, fifteen, helped the younger ones pull on their patched shoes while pretending he didn't enjoy the routine as much as he did. He caught Adelina's eye for a moment — a rare look of understanding between them — before muttering, "You shouldn't have to do all this, you know."
"I don't mind," she said simply.
And it was true. This was the only time of day her heart felt light.
Once the children were fed, she packed the small bits of bread she'd saved for them into a shared basket and kissed each forehead in turn.
Her siblings were used to it — but still, the younger ones clung to her arms as if she might disappear.
"Will you bring back the honey bread again?" Tomas asked, eyes hopeful.
"If Master Garen lets me," she promised. "Only if you behave."
He grinned, missing a tooth, and hugged her leg.
It was enough to make the day worth enduring.
⸻
Outside, the streets were already stirring. Smoke rose from the factory chimneys, staining the pale sky with the color of ash. Carriages rolled through the narrow lanes — sleek, black things bearing the sigil of vampire houses. Their wheels hissed against the wet cobblestones, and every human in their path bowed their head without thinking.
It was second nature now, this submission.
No one remembered a time before it — only the stories of when humans had once been kings.
Adelina didn't listen to those stories anymore. They felt like lies, told to make children believe the world hadn't always belonged to the night.
She worked at a baker's stall on the corner of Hollow Street — a small, cracked-brick shop with flour on every surface and warmth leaking from its seams. Master Garen, the baker, was already there when she arrived, arms deep in dough. He gave her a curt nod, his way of greeting.
"Morning," she said softly.
He only grunted. It was enough.
She tied on her apron and fell into rhythm: sweep, knead, roll, dust. Her hands were quick, careful. The scent of yeast and fire filled the air, sweet and thick, a rare comfort. Sometimes, if she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend this was enough — this quiet routine, this fragile peace.
Outside, market voices rose and fell like waves. The talk was of tithes and trade, of shipments gone missing, of vampire envoys seen near the southern gate. The blood tithe was coming soon — that much everyone knew.
Once every season, the vampires claimed their due. Sometimes they bought. Sometimes they took.
For blood. For pleasure. For sport.
It was just how things were.
Adelina didn't let herself think about it much. People whispered that the chosen were treated well — fed, clothed, housed in mansions.
It was easier to believe that than the other rumors — the ones about screams carried on the wind.
She brushed flour from her hands, glancing at her reflection in the shop's small, warped window. Her eyes — violet, her mother's least favorite color — stared back at her, framed by hair dark as ink with faint blue sheen. Her skin was pale, the kind that never truly tanned no matter how much she worked under the sun.
Her mother said she looked unnatural.
Her father said nothing at all.
By the time dusk fell, her hands ached from kneading and her thoughts felt hollowed out. She stayed late to finish the bread, earning a coin or two more than usual — enough to bring home a few extra crusts for her siblings.
When she stepped into the chill evening, the sky was bruised with violet and gray. Lanterns flickered in the distance, casting ghostly reflections in the puddles. She walked home slowly, passing the old chapel where the doors had long been sealed shut — the gods abandoned when the vampires took their throne.
As she turned down her street, a black carriage stood at the far end, wheels gleaming with rain. Its curtains were drawn tight. Two men in fine coats stood beside it, their faces hidden, their silence heavier than the wind.
Adelina's heart gave a small, inexplicable tremor. Then she looked away. It wasn't her concern. Such carriages passed often in her district now — collectors, traders, nobles.
Not for her. Never for her.
She clutched the parcel of bread to her chest and hurried home.
Inside, her siblings were already asleep, tangled in a nest of blankets. Her parents' door was closed, light flickering faintly beneath it, voices hushed. She didn't listen — didn't want to. She just knelt by the children, setting the bread beside their beds.
Then she sat against the cold wall and watched them breathe, letting her exhaustion blur into silence.
Tomorrow was her twentieth birthday.
She wondered if anyone would remember.
Probably not.
Still, she whispered a soft goodnight to the room, her words vanishing into the dark.
And somewhere far above the city — in a fortress of black stone and moonlight — a lord she had never met signed a parchment sealed in crimson wax.
Her name was written upon it.
….
The morning of Adelina's twentieth birthday broke softer than most.
For once, sunlight crept through the shutters without being chased away by shouting or the clatter of dishes. The house smelled faintly of oats and warmth, and when she opened her eyes, she could hear her siblings whispering.
"Happy birthday, Lina," Elise said shyly, her curls framing a gap-toothed smile. "Mama says you get the first bowl today."
Adelina blinked. "The first bowl?"
Elise nodded with fierce pride, as though she'd won something for her.
It felt… strange. The thought of being seen, if only for a morning.
By the time she rose, the others were already awake — Mara helping Tomas tie his laces, Pietro trying to comb the twins' hair into some semblance of order. They all looked brighter somehow, the room alive with quiet energy.
Her mother's voice came from the kitchen, not sharp this time, but calm. "Adelina! Breakfast."
When she stepped into the small kitchen, the sight nearly undid her: a full pot of porridge, thick and sweet, and beside it — a jar of honey.
She stared, uncertain.
"Is there an occasion?" she asked carefully.
Her mother looked up, smiling — a soft, unsettlingly gentle smile. "Of course there is. My eldest daughter is twenty years old today."
Adelina hesitated, unsure what to do with the warmth rising in her chest. "Thank you," she murmured, sitting down.
Her father poured her a bowl himself, the honey catching light like gold as he drizzled it in. "Eat," he said. "You've earned a day of celebration."
A laugh escaped her, half shy, half disbelieving. "I'm not sure I've earned anything."
He looked at her then — not unkindly, but with something unreadable in his gaze. "You've earned more than you think."
She smiled faintly and took a bite. The sweetness stung her tongue.
Her siblings chattered between spoonfuls. Tomas boasted that when he turned twenty, he'd have a feast even grander. Mara said she'd wear flowers in her hair. Elise, ever earnest, leaned against Adelina and whispered, "You're so pretty when you smile. Maybe you'll find a nice boy at the market."
"Maybe," Adelina said, though she didn't really believe it. Boys didn't look at girls like her — not the ones who had other choices.
Still, the thought of the market stirred something light in her chest.
When the meal was finished, her mother wiped her hands and turned to her. "Go put on your clean dress. We're going shopping. You'll have your pick of something new — a proper gown and shoes to match."
Adelina froze mid-step, uncertain she'd heard correctly. "A new dress?"
Her mother's smile returned, faint but firm. "It's time you had one. You're of age now, and a woman should look it."
Her siblings gasped as though the gods themselves had spoken.
Adelina couldn't help the small laugh that escaped her. "I— I don't know what to say."
Her father's voice softened. "Say yes."
So she did.
⸻
The market was already humming by the time they arrived, full of color and noise. It had been months since she'd walked its busier streets, always too tired after work to do more than pass through. But today, her mother took her arm and guided her through the rows of stalls, their faces turned toward her as though she were someone worth looking at.
They stopped at a tailor's booth — bolts of silk and cotton spilling over the table like rivers of color. The merchant looked surprised when her father laid down enough coin to make his eyes widen.
Adelina hovered near the edge of the stall, afraid to touch anything.
Her mother nudged her forward. "Go on. Pick one."
She hesitated, fingers brushing over a soft fabric dyed a muted shade of wine red. It shimmered faintly in the light — deep, warm, and elegant.
Her mother's gaze lingered on it for a moment, and then she nodded. "That one suits you."
Adelina smiled, a little shyly. "It's too fine for me."
"Nonsense," her father said. "It's perfect."
They even bought her shoes — soft leather dyed to match the dress. She could hardly believe it when the merchant wrapped them carefully and handed the parcel to her.
As they walked home, the fabric pressed to her chest, Adelina felt something she hadn't felt in years: wanted.
For one day, she wasn't the unwanted burden or the extra mouth to feed. She was a daughter.
⸻
Back home, the children gathered around her like petals around a flame.
Elise gasped when the dress was unwrapped. "It's beautiful!"
"Try it on!" Tomas demanded.
Her mother's voice softened again, that strange, distant gentleness still in her tone. "Go on, then. Let's see how it fits."
Adelina obeyed, stepping behind the curtain that served as her family's meager divider. When she slipped the gown over her head, the fabric whispered against her skin — soft, unfamiliar. It fit perfectly, almost uncannily so, as if someone had known her exact measurements.
She stepped out, and the room fell silent.
Her siblings' faces lit up, wide-eyed and amazed. Her father's expression was unreadable, but proud. Her mother's lips curved into that same faint, ghostly smile.
"My, my," she said quietly. "Look at you. You could pass for nobility."
Adelina laughed nervously, cheeks warming. "Hardly."
Her mother brushed a strand of hair from her face and tilted her chin. "Sit," she said softly. "Let me do your hair properly."
Adelina blinked in surprise. "You haven't— since I was a child—"
"I remember," her mother said. "Now sit."
So she did.
Her mother's hands were careful, almost tender, combing through the long black waves that fell past her waist. The room was quiet except for the soft scrape of the comb and the muffled laughter of her siblings in the next corner.
"You've grown into a fine young woman," her mother murmured, twisting the strands into a loose braid and pinning it with a small silver clasp. "You'll turn heads, I think."
Adelina smiled faintly. "Do you really think so?"
Her mother didn't answer immediately. She tied the last ribbon into place, the deep red bow matching the dress. "Yes," she said at last. "You'll be unforgettable."
When Adelina turned to face the cracked mirror by the wall, she barely recognized herself.
The woman staring back had soft lips, a delicate face framed by midnight hair and violet eyes that gleamed like amethysts. For a fleeting moment, she felt beautiful.
And for the first time in her life, she thought perhaps she could be happy.
⸻
That evening, the house glowed with the soft warmth of candlelight and the hush of rain beyond the thin windowpanes. For once, there was laughter — not sharp or tired, but true and light.
Adelina sat on the worn rug beside the fire, her new dress folded neatly in her lap, the fabric gleaming faintly even in the dim light. Her siblings had gathered around her like the petals of a flower, eager and bright-eyed.
"Tell us again about the market!" Rosa chirped, bouncing on her knees. Her dark curls framed her round face, a mirror of innocent wonder.
"Especially the part about the dresses," added Livia, one of the twelve-year-old twins, her voice bubbling with excitement. "You said there were silks that shimmered!"
Lucien, her twin brother, gave a small sigh — the kind meant to sound mature, though his eyes were equally curious. "You've already asked her twice."
"I like hearing it," Livia said, sticking out her tongue. "It sounds like a dream."
Adelina laughed softly. "It felt like one," she admitted. "There were rows and rows of fabrics — silk, lace, even velvet. And colors like I've never seen before. Gold like sunlight, blue like a summer storm… and the one I chose, the red one—"
Elise, one of the eldest twins at fifteen, gasped dramatically. "The red one that makes you look like a lady of court!"
Mara, her twin sister, gave her a gentle nudge. "She is a lady of court," she teased softly. "Or she should have been."
Adelina smiled at that, a touch bittersweet. "Hardly. I'd settle for not tripping over my own skirts."
Pietro, fourteen and ever the skeptic, leaned back against the wall with crossed arms. "If you're tripping, it means you're finally wearing something worth tripping in."
"Pietro!" Livia scolded, though her laughter betrayed her amusement.
"It's true," he said with a half-smirk. "You should've seen her face when Father actually paid for the thing. I thought she'd faint."
Adelina shook her head, smiling despite herself. "I almost did."
The youngest, Tomas — only eight — had been unusually quiet until now, sitting cross-legged beside her, his chin propped on his fists. "Did you see any knights?" he asked suddenly, eyes wide. "Or vampires?"
The room went still for a heartbeat, the word heavy even in childish tones.
Adelina forced her smile to stay steady. "No vampires, thankfully. And as for knights… no, Tomas. They don't walk among people like us anymore."
Tomas frowned. "Maybe they should. Then they could make the vampires go away."
Lucien glanced at him, thoughtful. "No one can make them go away."
"Lucien," Mara said gently, her voice a low melody of reason, "don't talk like that."
Adelina reached out and ruffled Tomas's hair. "You worry too much, little one. Let's talk about nicer things — like honey cakes."
At that, Elise's eyes lit up. "You had one?"
"Half of one," Adelina confessed. "Mother said it was my birthday, after all."
Rosa sighed dreamily. "I want one on my birthday."
"You'll get one," Adelina promised, smoothing Rosa's hair. "Maybe I'll even make it myself."
"You don't know how to bake," Pietro teased.
"She'll learn," Mara countered, always her quiet defender. "Lina can do anything."
The compliment caught Adelina off guard. She smiled, touched, her heart aching with affection for them all — her messy, stubborn, beautiful little siblings.
As the chatter softened, she leaned back against the wall, watching them. Elise and Mara shared a blanket near the hearth, whispering. Livia was braiding Rosa's hair, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. Lucien was sketching something with a piece of charcoal on a scrap of parchment, brow furrowed. Pietro was trying — and failing — to stifle a laugh at Tomas, who was pretending to fall asleep upright.
And Nico — sweet, shy Nico, only nine — had drifted closer, pressing against her arm. His small hand found hers and didn't let go.
"Lina?" he murmured, voice heavy with drowsiness.
"Yes, love?"
"Can we go to the market again? All of us?"
Adelina smiled, brushing his hair back. "One day, perhaps. I'll take you all — and we'll buy honey cakes and ribbons, and Livia can try on every dress she sees."
"I will," Livia said sleepily, from across the room. "Every single one."
A soft ripple of laughter passed through them all.
Soon the conversation dwindled to murmurs and sighs. Tomas fell asleep first, curled at her side. Nico followed, then Rosa, her small hand still clutching the hem of Adelina's skirt.
Adelina stayed awake, tracing the gentle rise and fall of their breathing, the sound of rain against the window, the warmth of the fire dying low.
This — this was what she lived for. The laughter, the noise, the closeness of them all in that cramped, half-broken room.
She looked toward the shuttered window, the distant glow of lanterns flickering through the slats.
"Tomorrow will be better," she whispered to no one.
And for the first time in years, she almost believed it.
Tomorrow would be different — she could feel it.
She just didn't know how.