My eyes flutter open, and I find myself sitting on a plush, intricately woven rug in the center of a room that screams opulence. The bedroom is a testament to nobility, a veritable feast for the senses. A massive four-poster bed dominates one wall, its dark wood frame carved with intricate designs of twisting vines and leaping stags. Thick, velvet curtains in deep crimson hang from the posts, partially drawn to reveal silken sheets and a mountain of embroidered pillows.

To my right, a towering wardrobe looms, its doors inlaid with mother-of-pearl in swirling patterns that catch the light filtering through the stained-glass windows. The windows themselves are works of art, depicting scenes of heroic battles and mythical beasts in vibrant hues.

A heavy oak desk sits beneath one of these windows, its surface cluttered with parchments, quills, and an assortment of curious objects - a brass astrolabe, a collection of colorful glass vials, and what appears to be a small, ornate dagger with a jeweled hilt.

But it's the mirror that truly captures my attention. It stands floor-to-ceiling on the far wall, its gilded frame adorned with cherubs and demons locked in eternal struggle. The glass itself seems to ripple slightly, as if it's not quite solid, and I can't shake the feeling that it's watching me.

What in the name of all that is unholy was I doing? The thought flits through my mind like a bat in the night. My gaze drops to my hands, and I'm momentarily startled by their diminutive size. Clutched in my pudgy fingers is a wooden horse toy, its mane and tail crafted from real horsehair, its eyes tiny chips of polished onyx.

Ah, the whole 'become conscious thing'. Guinevere, you crafty digital demoness, you weren't kidding about this, were you?

I inspect my new body with a mixture of fascination and mild horror. I'm dressed in a miniature version of noble attire - a white linen shirt with delicate lace at the collar and cuffs, a deep blue velvet doublet embroidered with silver thread, and tiny leather boots that probably cost more than some peasants make in a year.

I look to be around 3 to 4 years old? Interesting, but Guinevere did say vampires age at twice the rate of humans. I want to have a look at myself. My eyes dart back to that imposing mirror, but before I can make a move, it happens.

The sensory overload hits me like a runaway carriage, and I nearly topple over from the sheer intensity of it all. It's as if someone has cranked every dial in my brain to eleven. The world around me explodes into a symphony of sensation.

My vision sharpens to an almost painful degree. I can see the individual threads in the tapestries hanging on the walls, count the dust motes dancing in the shafts of colored light from the windows. The grain of the wooden furniture stands out in stark relief, each whorl and knot a miniature landscape.

Scents assault my nostrils, threatening to overwhelm me. The musty sweetness of old parchment from the desk, the lingering aroma of beeswax candles, the faint metallic tang of blood - wait, blood? - coming from... somewhere. I can even smell the individual components of the incense burning in a corner brazier - myrrh, frankincense, and something earthier, more primal.

And the sounds. By all that is unholy, the sounds. The gentle rustle of leaves from the trees outside is as clear as if I were standing among their branches. I can hear the scurrying of mice in the walls, the steady thump-thump of a heartbeat that isn't my own coming from somewhere beyond the heavy oak door. In the distance, I catch snippets of conversation, the clatter of pots and pans, the neighing of horses.

It's as if I have the eye of a hawk, the nose of a cat, and the ears of a bat. This body, this form - it's a predator's vessel, honed by nature and twisted by something beyond nature to be the perfect hunter.

A grin spreads across my face, no doubt looking utterly deranged on my cherubic features. Oh, the possibilities. The sheer, unadulterated potential of it all. I may look like a toddler, but I'm a toddler with the mind of a genius and the senses of a supernatural predator.

With a casual flick of my wrist, I release the wooden horse from my grasp. It clatters to the ground, the sound echoing in the opulent chamber like the death knell of my former life. My tiny feet carry me towards the imposing mirror, each step a testament to the bizarre reality I now inhabit.

As I gaze into the reflective surface, I'm struck by the visage that stares back at me. Tousled black hair frames a face that's both familiar and alien. My eyes, two pools of brown, seem to glow with an inner fire that belies my youthful appearance. The pale skin stretched over my cherubic features is smooth and flawless, like polished marble.

Well, fuck me sideways. I look just like I did when I was a kid, minus the whole 'I've been drained of all pigment' thing. It's like looking at a ghost of my past self, if that ghost had been turned into a vampire and then shrunk in the wash.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I part my lips to inspect my new dental work. Sure enough, nestled among the baby teeth are two needle-sharp fangs, glinting in the soft light like miniature daggers. Yep, I have fangs. Because of course I do. What self-respecting vampire toddler wouldn't?

As I close my mouth, my newly enhanced senses pick up the sound of approaching footsteps from beyond the room. The cadence is light, almost musical - definitely female. I take a deep breath, allowing the scents to wash over me.

The smell that reaches my nostrils is a complex bouquet of aromas. There's the unmistakable metallic tang of blood, undercut by something sweeter - like honeysuckle on a warm summer's night. Layered beneath that is a musky scent that speaks of power and age. It's familiar, triggering some primal part of my brain that whispers 'safety' and 'home'.

The door swings open with a soft creak, admitting a figure that could have stepped straight out of a gothic romance novel. She's tall and lithe, with curves that would make a succubus weep with envy. Her hair is a cascade of midnight silk that falls to her waist, framing a face of otherworldly beauty. But it's her eyes that truly capture my attention - two orbs of liquid crimson that seem to glow with an inner fire. Her skin is pale as moonlight, smooth and flawless.

She's draped in a gown of deep crimson silk that clings to her form like a second skin, accentuating every curve and hollow. The neckline plunges daringly low, revealing a generous expanse of alabaster skin, while strategically placed slits along the sides allow glimpses of her long, shapely legs with each step. The sleeves are loose and flowing, ending just past her elbows, giving her arms freedom of movement. A delicate gold chain encircles her waist, the metal glinting in the soft light. The fabric, though rich and luxurious, seems almost gossamer-thin, as if designed to allow her skin to breathe in the warm summer air. It's an outfit that walks the fine line between noble elegance and seductive allure, perfectly suited to a vampire matriarch.

The woman's lips part, revealing a hint of fang as she speaks in a language that's both familiar and strange. The words flow like honey, rich with an accent I can't quite place.

"Que facit micu meu filiu?" (What is my little son doing?) she asks, her voice a melodious purr.

Well, shit on a stick and call it a lollipop. That sounds like străromâna, simple enough. It's familiar to my mother language, like listening to a drunk Romanian trying to speak Latin while gargling marbles. The gears in my mind start turning, translating on the fly.

I put on my best 'innocent child' face, which probably looks about as convincing as a wolf in sheep's clothing. "Doare me admiru in speculu," (I'm just admiring myself in the mirror,) I reply, my voice high and sweet, a stark contrast to the maelstrom of thoughts swirling in my head.

The woman's face softens, her crimson eyes warming with affection. "Veni ad Elisabeta tua, caru meu," (Come to your Elisabeta, my dear,) she coos, crouching down and opening her arms wide.

I toddle towards her, playing the part of the dutiful son. As I reach her, she scoops me up in an embrace that's both gentle and firm. Elisabeta. So I'm her son, and she's my mother. Isn't that just fucking precious? I wonder if she knows she's cuddling a mental time bomb in a toddler's body.

Elisabeta's hand caresses my face, her touch surprisingly warm against my cool skin. Christ on a cracker, her hand is like a furnace. Are we warm-blooded creatures? Or very hot-blooded creatures? I'd wager her body temperature is around 43°C, while mine is still hovering around 36°C. Probably because I'm still developing. Fascinating. I feel like a walking, talking science experiment.

She plants a soft kiss on my forehead, her lips burning against my skin. "Hodie est secunda tua dies natalis, micu meu princeps," (Today is your second birthday, my little prince,) Elisabeta murmurs, her voice thick with pride. "Nos celebrabimus sicut decet." (We will celebrate as befits.)

I'm two years old? Fuck me running, I really look like a four-year-old. This is intriguing as hell. So by age nine, I should reach full maturity in this body. Not a long wait, I suppose. Just seven more years of playing the role of a cherubic little monster before I can really start raising hell...

Elisabeta glides out of the room, her movements as fluid as mercury, closing the heavy oak door behind us with a soft thud. We emerge into a long corridor that stretches out before us like the gullet of some great beast. The walls are adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of battle and conquest, their colors muted by age but still vibrant enough to catch the eye. Ornate sconces line the walls, unlit in the bright morning light that streams through the high windows.

I crane my neck to peer out one of these windows, my enhanced vision allowing me to take in every detail of the sprawling garden below. It's a veritable Eden, teeming with life and color. Rows upon rows of flowers in every hue imaginable stretch out before me, their petals dancing in the gentle summer breeze. Beyond the flower beds, I can see neat rows of vegetables, their leaves a lush green in the morning sun. A few dozen men and women, dressed in simple garb, move among the plants, tending to them with the care of devoted servants. Or slaves. Who knows in this fucked-up medieval world?

In a fenced-off area to the side, I spot a group of plump pigs wallowing in the mud, their pink hides glistening in the sunlight. Nearby, a flock of chickens peck at the ground, oblivious to their likely fate as someone's dinner. The whole scene is so idyllic it's almost nauseating. I half expect to see a unicorn prancing through the fucking daisies.

"Quam pulchru est hortus nostru, non?" (How beautiful is our garden, isn't it?) Elisabeta coos, noticing my fascination with the view.

"Ita vero," (Indeed) I reply, my childish voice at odds with the calculating thoughts swirling in my mind. "Est sicut pictura viva." (It's like a living painting.)

Elisabeta chuckles, the sound like tinkling crystal. "Ah, fili mi, tu semper habes modu tam poeticu loquendi." (Ah, my son, you always have such a poetic way of speaking.)

As we continue down the corridor, I count the doors we pass. One, two, three, four, five, six... each one identical, made of dark, polished wood with intricate iron hinges. I crane my neck to look behind us, counting a total of twelve doors. Eighteen rooms on this floor alone. Not too shabby for a medieval vampire pad.

We reach a grand staircase that spirals down to the first floor. The steps are made of smooth, polished marble, each one wide enough for three people to walk abreast. A thick, plush carpet in deep crimson runs down the center, muffling our footsteps as Elisabeta descends with me in her arms. The banister is a work of art in itself, carved to resemble intertwining vines and leaves, with what looks suspiciously like small human figures trapped within the foliage. Charming.

As we reach the bottom of the stairs, Elisabeta turns right and approaches a set of massive double doors. With a gentle push, she swings them open, revealing a cavernous hall beyond. The ceiling soars high above us, supported by thick wooden beams that crisscross in an intricate pattern. Chandeliers hang from these beams, their candles unlit but still impressive in the morning light that streams through the high windows.

The room is filled with long wooden tables and benches, all empty now, giving the place an eerie, abandoned feel. At the far end of the hall, raised on a dais, stands a throne that would make the Iron Throne look like a fucking lawn chair. It's a monstrous thing, carved from a single piece of dark wood, its surface adorned with intricate designs of writhing bodies and snarling beasts. The armrests end in carved wolf heads, their eyes set with glittering rubies that seem to follow our movement. Three broad steps lead up to this seat of power, each one inlaid with what looks like mother-of-pearl in swirling patterns.

Elisabeta ascends these steps with regal grace and settles herself on the throne, adjusting me on her lap. She looks down at me with those burning crimson eyes, a smile playing on her lips.

"Esuris, fili mi?" (Are you hungry, my son?) she asks, her voice soft but carrying easily in the empty hall.

I nod, putting on my best innocent child act. "Paulu," (A little) I reply, my voice high and sweet. God, I sound like a fucking cherub. It's nauseating.

Elisabeta's smile widens, revealing the tips of her fangs. "Quid vis comedere? Ius gallinaceu vel carne? Iam satis grandis es ut bene mandere possis." (What do you want to eat? Chicken soup or meat? You're big enough now to chew properly.)

I consider for a moment. On one hand, meat sounds appealing to my new vampiric nature. On the other hand, I'm curious about how vampire physiology handles normal food. Time for some scientific observation.

"Volo ius gallinaceu, si placet," (I want chicken soup, please) I chirp, channeling every ounce of childish enthusiasm I can muster.

Elisabeta nods approvingly. "Bona electio, fili mi. Ius gallinaceu te fortem faciet." (Good choice, my son. Chicken soup will make you strong.)

With a fluid motion that defies her voluptuous form, Elisabeta rises from the throne, lifting me effortlessly in her arms. Her touch is warm, almost feverishly so, against my cool skin. She gently places me back on the massive seat, my tiny form dwarfed by the intricate carvings of writhing bodies and snarling beasts.

"Expecta hic, micu meu princeps. Reveniam cum cibo tuo in momento." (Wait here, my little prince. I'll return with your food in a moment.) Her voice is a melodious purr that seems to caress the air itself.

As she turns to leave, a thought strikes me. "Mater," I call out, my childish voice ringing in the cavernous hall, "Cur non vocas servum ut afferat cibum?" (Mother, why don't you call a servant to bring the food?)

Elisabeta freezes mid-step, her body going unnaturally still. She turns back to me, her crimson eyes wide with surprise. "Servos?" (Servants?) she echoes, her tone a mixture of confusion and amusement.

Fuck me sideways with a rusty spoon. Did I just step on a landmine? My mind races, trying to backpedal, but Elisabeta is already gliding back towards me, her hips swaying hypnotically with each step.

"Fili mi," she begins, her voice taking on a gentle, lecturing tone, "Non habemus servos. Homines quos vidisti foris sunt coloni nostri. Nos dividimus terram nostram cum eis." (My son, we don't have servants. The people you saw outside are our serfs. We share our land with them.)

She gestures grandly around the opulent hall, her arm sweeping in a graceful arc. "Omnia quae vides hic, ego et pater tuus Tudor aedificavimus per annos, solum pro oblectatione." (Everything you see here, your father Tudor and I built over the years, just for fun.)

I blink, trying to process this information. Tudor? So that's my father's name in this fucked-up reality. Elisabeta continues, oblivious to my internal struggle.

"Omnem pecuniam quam familia nostra facit, reddimus populo. Illi nobis reddunt respectum et fidelitatem suam, quod solum est quod requirimus a mortalibus, nihil aliud." (All the money our family makes, we give back to the people. They give us back their respect and loyalty, which is all we require from mortals, nothing else.)

She leans in close, her ruby eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes me want to squirm. "Si populus noster umquam pecunia egeret, venderemus omnia in hac domo ut eis provideremus, sine ulla haesitatione. Sed populus improbarent, quia si non videremur nobiles, eos dehonoraremos. Nos eos directe repraesentamus - imago nostra est imago eorum, imago eorum est imago nostra." (If our people ever needed money, we would sell everything in this manor to provide for them without a second thought. But the people would disapprove, because if we don't look like nobles, we dishonor them. We represent them directly - our image is their image, their image is our image.)

Her voice drops to a reverent whisper. "Benedicti sumus quod possumus habere fiduciam et respectum populi, quia ego et pater tuus dure laboravimus pro hoc." (We are blessed to be able to have the trust and respect of the people, because your father and I worked hard for this.)

Elisabeta straightens up, her face taking on a more serious expression. "Mortales necesse habent edere pluries in die, dormire, aquam bibere. Nos solum necesse habemus edere semel in die et sanguinem bibere semel in hebdomade - et ne quidem sanguinem mortalnum, possumus bibere sanguinem animalium. Et non necesse habemus dormire. Benedicti sumus comparati mortalibus, et ideo debemus eis reddere." (Mortals need to eat multiple times a day, sleep, drink water. We only need to eat once a day and drink blood once a week - and not even mortal blood, we can drink animal blood. And we don't need to sleep. We are blessed compared to mortals, and that's why we must give back to them.)

She pauses, her eyes searching my face for understanding. "Mortales fragiles sunt, et nos oportet eos protegere. Aliter, vampyri evanescent, quia solum cum mortalibus procreare possumus." (Mortals are fragile, and we need to protect them. Otherwise, vampires will disappear, because we can only reproduce with mortals.)

Finally, she asks, "Intellexistine omnia quae dixi, vel adhuc nimis parvus es ut comprehendas?" (Did you understand everything I said, or are you still too small to comprehend?)

I nod solemnly, trying to look as understanding as a toddler can. Satisfied, Elisabeta turns and glides towards the massive double doors. She pushes them open with ease, despite their apparent weight, and disappears into the corridor beyond.

As the echoes of Elisabeta's footsteps fade away, my mind begins to race, dissecting the socio-economic structure of this peculiar vampiric fiefdom. How does this place truly function, I wonder? The serfs surely don't all reside in manors of such grandeur. No, of course not. But then, why are they content with the Dracul family living in such opulence?

Ah, but of course! The key lies in the very foundation of this manor. We, the immortal overlords, built this edifice brick by brick, stone by stone, not through the parasitic practices of taxation and theft that plague mortal kingdoms. If Elisabeta's words hold true, then the entire paradigm shifts. Why would the serfs revolt? What cause for dissatisfaction could they possibly have?

I chuckle inwardly at the thought. If they desired a manor of their own, they could simply venture into the depths of the forest, fell the trees, quarry the stone, smelt the ore - after mining it, naturally. But therein lies the rub - for a mortal, such a Herculean task is nigh impossible. Yet for a vampire, with our eternal lifespan and superhuman abilities, it becomes a mere hobby, a pastime to while away the centuries.

It's a unique economic model, a 'vampire-capital' system, if you will. We, the undead, have no need for the mortal concept of money. Time itself is our currency, and we possess an infinite wealth of it. But how did we acquire these lands? Perhaps a gift from Tepes himself, given our familial connection? Or maybe they're ancestral holdings, and Elisabeta married into this vampiric dynasty?

But what of this peculiar notion that the people would disapprove if we were to lower our 'grandeur'? Do they truly derive satisfaction from our ostentatious lifestyle? And if we were to live more modestly, would they feel disrespected? No, no, it's far more nuanced than that. This manor, these riches - they're not necessities for our survival. They serve as a symbol, a physical manifestation of our domain's prosperity and power.

Yet, do we truly need these humans for anything beyond breeding stock? We could easily hunt, cultivate our own sustenance. It's not a matter of necessity that we protect them, but a choice. We're not exploiting the power dynamic; we simply have nothing better to do with our eternal existence. How droll - vampires, the apex predators, reduced to playing shepherd to a flock of mortal sheep out of sheer ennui.

Of course, this line of thought conveniently sidesteps the thorny issue of fertility. How long did Elisabeta labor to conceive me? If Guinevere's words about vampiric reproductive challenges hold true, then my dear mother may have endured centuries of attempts before successfully spawning her little princeling.

The socio-economic implications are staggering. We've created a 'vampirocracy', a system where immortal beings with infinite resources voluntarily maintain a symbiotic relationship with mortals. It's not feudalism, not capitalism, not communism - it's something entirely new. A 'chronocratic' society, where time is the ultimate currency and power.

But what of technological progress? In a world where the ruling class has no need for labor-saving devices or medical advancements, how does innovation occur? Are we, in our eternal boredom, stifling the potential growth of our mortal subjects? Or are we subtly guiding them, playing a long game measured in centuries rather than years?

And what of our own culture? Do vampires have art, literature, music? Or have we transcended such mortal pursuits? Perhaps our very existence, our manipulation of the world around us, is our art. Each carefully orchestrated interaction with our mortal subjects, a brushstroke on the canvas of eternity.

The concept of 'vampire economics' begins to take shape in my mind. A system where the primary resource - time - is infinite for the ruling class but finite for the subjects. How does this impact supply and demand? What are the long-term implications for resource management and population control?

And what of vampire politics? Are there factions among our kind? Different philosophies on how to manage our mortal herds? Are there vampiric luddites who reject this symbiosis with humans, preferring a more traditional predator-prey relationship?

As I ponder these weighty matters, perched upon this throne that suddenly seems both grandiose and absurd, a new thought strikes me. Are we, in our immortality, truly free? Or have we simply exchanged one set of shackles for another? The mortals may be bound by their fleeting lifespans, but are we not equally imprisoned by the weight of eternity?

I need to find out more about my circumstances and gather more information, but how can I ask without giving away that I'm not Elisabeta's child?

The massive oak doors groan open, their ancient hinges protesting as Elisabeta glides into the hall. Beside her, a man shuffles in, his rough-spun tunic and calloused hands marking him as one of the village farmers. The earthy aroma of freshly tilled soil and sun-ripened vegetables clings to him like a second skin, a stark contrast to Elisabeta's otherworldly perfume.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

As they approach, I notice the man's weathered hands cradling a golden-brown honeycake, its sweet scent wafting through the air and making my mouth water. Elisabeta's melodious voice carries across the hall as she converses animatedly with the farmer.

"Ah, Mircea," Elisabeta purrs, her crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. "Vide quam bonus puer Radu fuit." (Look how good a boy Radu has been.)

She turns to me, her pale lips curving into a smile that would make angels weep. "Fuistine bonus puer, Radu?" (Have you been a good boy, Radu?)

I nod enthusiastically, playing my part to perfection. "Ita, mater! Fui optimus puer!" (Yes, mother! I've been the best boy!)

The farmer, Mircea, chuckles, the sound warm and rich like honey. He kneels before the throne, his joints creaking with the motion. "Ave, parve princeps," (Hail, little prince,) he says, his voice rough but kind. "Sum Mircea, unus ex agricolis vici. Attuli tibi oblationem pro die natali tuo. Spero tibi placeat." (I am Mircea, one of the village farmers. I've brought you an offering for your birthday. I hope you like it.)

He holds out the honeycake, and I lean forward, my tiny finger sinking into the soft, sticky surface. I bring it to my lips, the sweetness exploding on my tongue like a supernova of flavor. The texture is perfect, crumbly yet moist, with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg dancing across my palate. It's a sensory experience so intense it nearly overwhelms my vampiric senses.

"Mirabile est!" (It's amazing!) I exclaim, my childish voice filled with genuine wonder.

Elisabeta's laughter rings through the hall like silver bells. "Ne nimis indulgeas Radu, Mircea," (Don't pamper Radu too much, Mircea,) she chides gently. "Oportet eum primum ius gallinaceum edere." (He needs to eat his chicken soup first.)

Mircea rises, bowing his head respectfully. "Certe, domina," (Of course, mistress,) he murmurs, placing the honeycake on one of the long tables lining the hall.

Suddenly, Elisabeta's nostrils flare, her eyes narrowing as she turns back to Mircea. "Odor sanguinis ex te venit, Mircea," (The smell of blood comes from you, Mircea,) she says, her voice laced with concern. "Vulneratus es?" (Are you hurt?)

Mircea nods sheepishly, holding up his hand. "Digitum cultro incidi hoc mane dum coquebam," (I cut my finger with a knife this morning while cooking,) he admits.

Elisabeta beckons me with a graceful motion of her hand. "Veni, Radu. Aspice." (Come, Radu. Watch.)

I scamper down from the throne, my tiny feet pattering against the cold stone floor as I hurry to Elisabeta's side. Mircea extends his hand, revealing a nasty gash across his index finger. Elisabeta reaches out, her pale fingers ghosting over the wound. Before my eyes, the flesh knits itself back together, leaving behind unblemished skin.

So that's what Elisabeta can do? Heal people by touching them? Interesting. The implications of such power are staggering. In a world without modern medicine, the ability to heal even minor wounds could mean the difference between life and death. It's a form of control, yes, but also a genuine boon to these mortals.

Mircea stares at his healed finger in awe. "Gratias tibi ago, domina," (Thank you, mistress,) he stammers. "Non erat necesse-" (It wasn't necessary-)

Elisabeta cuts him off with a wave of her hand. "Semper ad me venire debes pro auxilio, Mircea," (You should always come to me for help, Mircea,) she insists, her voice firm but kind. "Etiam pro re tam parva ut incisura in digito." (Even for something as small as a cut on your finger.)

Mircea nods, his eyes shining with gratitude and something deeper - reverence, perhaps? "Es mulier magna, domina," (You are a great woman, mistress,) he says, his voice thick with emotion. "Et dominus Tudor vir magnus est. Familiam meam a fame sub Popescu dominatione servavistis." (And master Tudor is a great man. You saved my family from famine under Popescu's rule.)

Elisabeta's expression softens, a hint of sadness creeping into her timeless eyes. "Illa tempora diu praeterierunt, Mircea," (Those times have long passed, Mircea,) she says gently. "Familia tua hic florere potest." (Your family can thrive here.)

She straightens, her regal bearing returning. "Dic aliis ut meridie veniant," (Tell the others to come at noon,) she instructs. "Ut convivium pro die natali Radu celebremus, sicut constitutum est." (So we can hold the feast for Radu's birthday as planned.)

Mircea bows deeply. "Faciam, domina," (I will do so, mistress,) he promises, before turning and exiting through the great doors.

As the echo of the closing doors fades, I find myself lost in thought. The interaction I just witnessed was a masterclass in soft power dynamics. Elisabeta's healing ability serves as both carrot and stick - a reward for loyalty and a reminder of the vampires' superiority. Yet it's wielded with genuine care and concern, fostering a relationship that goes beyond mere feudal obligation.

The respect and adoration in Mircea's eyes speak volumes about the stability of this unusual socio-economic system. Elisabeta and Tudor aren't just rulers; they're saviors, protectors against the ravages of nature and the cruelties of more traditional human lords like this Popescu character. It's a stark contrast to the typical image of vampires as bloodthirsty monsters.

In fact, this symbiotic relationship between vampires and humans is nothing short of revolutionary. The vampires provide protection, healing, and apparently economic stability. In return, they receive not just sustenance, but genuine loyalty and affection. It's a far cry from the brutality of conventional feudalism, with its crushing taxes and capricious lords.

Guinevere wasn't exaggerating when she described vampires as a symbiotic race. What I'm seeing here is beautiful in its efficiency and mutual benefit. It's a system that leverages the vampires' immortality and supernatural abilities to create a stable, prosperous society for both races.

"Radu? Radu?!" Elisabeta's melodious voice cuts through my reverie, her tone a mixture of amusement and concern.

I blink, focusing on her crimson eyes. "Nu, mamă. Doar mă gândeam." (No, mother. I was just thinking.)

As soon as the words leave her mouth, something shifts in my perception. The language I've been speaking, which moments ago sounded archaic and foreign, now flows as naturally as modern Romanian. It's as if a switch has been flipped in my brain, unlocking a vast repository of linguistic knowledge.

A knowing smile plays across Elisabeta's pale lips. "Ah, sângele meu trebuie să te afecteze acum. Începi să-mi moşteneşti amintirile, de vreme ce stăpâneşti atât de bine limba la vârsta ta." (Ah, my blood must be affecting you now. You're starting to inherit my memories, since you have such good control of the language at your age.)

"Ce vrei să spui?" (What do you mean?) I ask, curiosity piqued.

Elisabeta's voice takes on a lecturing tone. "Când un vampir îşi hrăneşte copiii cu sângele său, aceştia pot moşteni amintirile părintelui." (When a vampire feeds their children with their blood, the children can inherit the parent's memories.)

GENERATIONAL KNOWLEDGE TRANSFER?! Sweet mother of science, that's how I know this language and can speak it so fluently. No wonder Elisabeta isn't surprised by a 2-year-old's eloquence. At least I'm spared the indignity of baby talk. But the implications... the sheer potential of passing down centuries of accumulated wisdom and experience through blood... it's mind-boggling. The applications for education, skill transfer, preservation of cultural heritage - it's a goldmine of possibilities.

Elisabeta rises gracefully, lifting the trencher of chicken soup and placing it on a nearby table. With gentle hands, she picks me up and sets me down on a chair before taking a seat beside me. As she begins to feed me, I can't help but marvel at the surreal nature of my situation - a grown man in a toddler's body, being spoon-fed by a vampire matriarch.

Once the trencher is empty, Elisabeta's expression turns serious. "Acum e timpul pentru băutura ta zilnică de la mine." (Now it's time for your daily drink from me.)

She extends her wrist, placing it in front of my mouth. "Muşcă. Bea. Ştiu că e prima ta dată când muşti, dar trebuie să înveţi. Nu-ţi fie teamă." (Bite. Drink. I know it's your first time biting, but you must learn. Don't be afraid.)

A flicker of concern crosses my mind. "Nu te va durea?" (Won't it hurt you?)

Elisabeta's laugh is like tinkling crystal. "Te iubesc, copilul meu. Nu poţi să-mi provoci durere." (I love you, my child. You can't possibly inflict pain on me.)

The casual way she dismisses the potential for pain, the unconditional love in her voice - it's simultaneously touching and unsettling. Is this the nature of vampire maternal instinct, or is there something deeper at play here?

Hesitantly, I open my mouth and sink my tiny fangs into her wrist. The moment my teeth pierce her flesh, instinct takes over. My jaw clamps down, and a torrent of liquid ambrosia floods my mouth. It's an explosion of sensation - rich, complex flavors dance across my tongue, each drop a symphony of taste. The blood is warm, almost hot, with a consistency like liquid silk. It carries notes of honey, spice, and something indefinably primal. The taste is intoxicating, overwhelming in its intensity.

After what feels like an eternity but is likely only moments, Elisabeta gently pushes my head away from her wrist. "Va trebui să înveţi să te opreşti singur din băut, ca să nu omori pe cineva în viitor." (You'll have to learn how to stop yourself from drinking, so you don't kill someone in the future.)

I lick my lips, savoring the last drops. "Voi încerca, dar a fost imposibil să mă opresc. Era de zece ori mai dulce decât prăjitura cu miere pe care mi-a dat-o Mircea s-o gust." (I'll try, but it was impossible to stop. It was ten times sweeter than the honeycake Mircea gave me to taste.)

Elisabeta nods, her eyes filled with understanding. "Ştiu, dar trebuie să înveţi. Te voi ajuta să te controlezi." (I know, but you must learn. I'll help you control yourself.)

A thought occurs to me, and I voice it before I can think better of it. "Toţi vampirii sunt la fel de buni cu oamenii ca noi?" (Are all vampires as nice to people as we are?)

Elisabeta's expression turns thoughtful. "Vei afla mai multe despre societatea noastră când vei creşte puţin, dar trebuie să ştii că toţi vampirii din ţara noastră sunt asemenea mie." (You'll learn more about our society when you grow a bit older, but you must know that all the vampires in our country are similar to me.)

So every vampire in Wallachia is this benevolent? Curious indeed. What about the others beyond our borders? Best not to push my luck with too many questions. There's clearly more to this vampire society than meets the eye.

Elisabeta lets out a soft sigh. "Am trimis o scrisoare fiecărei organizaţii de vampiri din Europa acum doi ani, ca s-o chem pe Dumitra să te viziteze, dar încă n-a venit." (I sent a letter to every vampire organization in Europe two years ago, to tell Dumitra to come visit you, but she hasn't come yet.)

Dumitra, that woman I saw on Guinevere's screens. Hmm...

"Ce an este acum?" (What year is it?) I ask, feigning innocence.

Elisabeta raises an eyebrow. "De ce mă întrebi asta? Tocmai ai băut din sângele meu mai devreme. Ar trebui să poţi spune." (Why are you asking me that? You just drank my blood earlier. You should be able to tell.)

Uh... How? Wait. The knowledge floods my mind unbidden. It's the Year 309, and it's the 7th of July, Wednesday. Holy cow. I just learned that? The implications of this blood-based knowledge transfer are staggering.

"Este anul 309, ziua de 7 iulie, miercuri," (It's the year 309, the 7th of July, Wednesday,) I recite, marveling at the certainty of this newfound knowledge.

Elisabeta beams with pride, planting a kiss on my forehead. "Vei creşte şi vei deveni un băiat deştept şi puternic, suficient de puternic pentru a moşteni domeniul lui Ţepeş într-o zi." (You're going to grow up to be a smart and strong boy, strong enough to inherit Tepes's domain one day.)

"Ce vrei să spui prin moştenirea domeniului lui Ţepeş?" (What do you mean by inheriting Tepes's domain?) I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

Elisabeta's expression turns somber. "Vlad Ţepeş vrea să comită 'Trecerea' din cauza plictiselii." (Vlad Tepes wants to commit 'Passing' due to ennui.)

From the flood of memories that accompanied Elisabeta's blood, I realize that 'Passing' is a euphemism for suicide. So I was right about vampires being bored, but I had no idea it was this severe. The concept of an immortal being so world-weary that they choose to end their existence is both fascinating and terrifying. What does it say about the vampire condition that even Vlad the Impaler, one of the most infamous figures in history, has grown tired of existence?

Elisabeta's warm hand descends upon my head, her touch sending a shiver down my spine. Her fingers, unnaturally hot, card through my hair as she speaks, her voice a melodious purr that seems to caress the very air around us.

"Radu, dragul meu, în patru ani va trebui să găsim o fată cu care să te împerechezi, ca să devii bărbat," (Radu, my dear, in four years we'll have to find a girl for you to couple with, so you can become a man,) she says, her crimson eyes gleaming with an unsettling mixture of maternal pride and something far more primal. "Nu va fi o problemă să găsim pe cineva din sat care să facă asta cu tine." (It won't be a problem to find someone from the village to do this with you.)

Four years? I'm two and I look like I'm four now, so... six. She wants me to fuck at twelve. I guess it's alright? I remember in Romania that my father took me to whores when I was twelve so it doesn't really change anything. Still, the casual way she discusses my future sexual exploits is jarring. It's like she's planning a picnic, not my deflowering.

"Pot să aleg pe cea mai frumoasă?" (Can I pick the prettiest one?) I ask, my childish voice at odds with the lascivious thoughts swirling in my mind.

Elisabeta's laughter rings out, a sound like tinkling crystal that sends a chill down my spine. "Dragul meu, toate sunt frumoase," (My dear, they're all beautiful,) she says, her voice dripping with pride. "Am fost foarte atentă să aleg doar oameni frumoşi care să se alăture domeniului nostru." (I've been very careful to only pick beautiful people to join our domain.)

Huh, racist to uglies, I see. Well, this place couldn't have been perfect after all. I wonder what happens to the less aesthetically pleasing members of society. Are they exiled? Killed? Or just relegated to the shadows, forever unseen by their vampire overlords?

"Astăzi vei putea vedea toate fetele şi femeile din sat," (Today you'll be able to see all the girls and women in the village,) Elisabeta continues, her eyes taking on a dreamy, far-off look. "Vei vedea ce vreau să spun prin frumuseţe. Toate vor fi fete din care vei putea alege, şi ele vor considera o onoare să fie sub tine noaptea - cu atât mai mult dacă sămânţa ta prinde rădăcini." (You'll see what I mean by beauty. They'll all be girls you can choose from, and they'll see it as an honor to be under you at night - even more so if your seed takes root.)

Honor to be under me at night? That sounds suspicious. Is it really like that? The power dynamics at play here are fucking insane. These people worship us like gods, to the point where they'd consider it an honor for their daughters to be my personal cum dumpster. It's fucked up, but I can't deny the thrill that runs through me at the thought.

Elisabeta chuckles, the sound low and throaty. Her hand moves from my head to my cheek, her touch burning against my cool skin. "Mai ai patru ani de crescut şi de băut zilnic din încheietura mea până când vei fi suficient de matur mental şi fizic pentru aşa ceva," (You still have four years of growing up and daily drinks from my wrist until you're mature enough mentally and physically for such a thing,) she purrs, her eyes glowing with an inner fire. "Dar voi fi foarte mândră să te privesc cum o faci cu o femeie frumoasă şi să te ghidez în acel moment sau poate... eu voi fi prima ta." (But I'll be very proud to watch you do it with a beautiful woman and guide you in that moment or maybe... I'll be your first.)

Bro, incest much? Or rather, no? She's not even my real mother so why am I even trying to moralize what she just said? I would fuck her brains out without a second thought.

"Nu trebuie să te îndrăgosteşti de niciuna dintre fetele din sat," (You must not fall in love with any of the girls in the village,) Elisabeta says, her tone suddenly serious. "Te poţi căsători doar cu nobilime - poate cineva din familia Ţepeş care este încă muritor." (You can only marry nobility - perhaps someone from the Tepes family who is still mortal.)

Aren't we cousins? Or are we distant cousins? I wonder. The intricacies of vampire genealogy are still a mystery to me. But then again, if Elisabeta's willing to fuck me herself, I doubt a little cousin-loving is going to raise any eyebrows.

"Pot să mă căsătoresc cu Dumitra?" (Can I marry Dumitra?) I ask, the name of the mysterious vampire woman I saw in Guinevere's screens slipping from my lips before I can stop it.

Elisabeta's expression softens, a hint of sadness creeping into her timeless eyes. "Vampirii nu se pot reproduce cu vampiri," (Vampires can't breed with vampires,) she explains gently. "Aşa că o astfel de căsătorie ar fi inutilă." (So such a marriage would be useless.)

The massive oak doors of the great hall groan open, their ancient hinges protesting as if in pain. A man strides in, his presence commanding attention despite the slight stoop in his shoulders. He seems to be in his fifties or sixties, his face a roadmap of wrinkles etched by time and worry. His hair, streaked with silver and brown, giving him the appearance of a distinguished statesman.

The man's attire is a stark contrast to his weathered visage. He's draped in ornate robes of deep crimson and gold, the fabric shimmering in the flickering torchlight. Intricate embroidery adorns the hems and sleeves, depicting scenes of battle and triumph. A heavy gold chain hangs around his neck, bearing the Dracul family crest.

But it's not his appearance that catches my attention. It's his scent. Unlike Elisabeta's otherworldly perfume, this man smells of earth and decay. The aroma of freshly tilled soil clings to him, mingling with the musty scent of old parchment and the metallic tang of blood. It's a heady mixture, one that speaks of mortality and the passage of time.

Elisabeta's eyes light up at the sight of him. "Tudor! Dragostea mea!" (Tudor! My love!) she exclaims, her voice filled with genuine warmth.

The man, Tudor, nods curtly. "Elisabeta," he replies, his voice gruff and tinged with exhaustion.

Elisabeta rises gracefully, her movements fluid and inhuman. "Cum a fost călătoria ta în sat?" (How was your trip to the village?) she asks, her tone light and curious.

Tudor's weathered face creases into a frown. "A fost productivă," (It was productive,) he grunts, his eyes scanning the room before landing on me.

He approaches, his footsteps heavy on the stone floor. "Creşte sănătos?" (Is he growing healthy?) Tudor asks Elisabeta, his gaze never leaving my face.

Elisabeta nods, a proud smile playing on her lips. "Da, se dezvoltă bine," (Yes, he's doing well,) she replies, her hand coming to rest on my shoulder.

Tudor grunts in acknowledgment. "Bine," (Good,) he says, before settling himself into a chair at the long table.

I study Tudor carefully, taking in every detail. He seems to be a stern, no-nonsense type of guy. If opposites truly attract, then that means Elisabeta is... ah, great, an airhead. Just what I need, a ditzy vampire mom and a grumpy human dad. This family dynamic is going to be a real treat.

Tudor lets out a heavy sigh, his eyes meeting mine. "Cum te simţi, băiete?" (How are you feeling, boy?) he asks, his tone gruff but not unkind.

I put on my best innocent child act, beaming at him. "Mă simt minunat, tocmai am mâncat!" (I'm feeling great, I've just eaten!) I chirp, my voice high and sweet.

Tudor flinches visibly, his face contorting into a grimace. "E trist cum vampirii iau copilăria de la copiii lor cu acest truc al băutului de sânge," (It's sad how vampires take childhood from their children with this blood-drinking trick,) he mutters, his voice laced with bitterness.

Elisabeta's eyes narrow, her posture stiffening. "Aşa funcţionează, Tudor. E tradiţie," (That's how it works, Tudor. It's tradition,) she says, her tone sharp.

Tudor's fist slams down on the table, making the silverware rattle. "Tradiţia voastră ia fericirea unui copil, transformându-l în adult la vârsta de doi ani!" (Your tradition takes away a child's happiness, turning them into adults at the mere age of two!) he roars, his face flushing with anger.

Elisabeta's lips curl into a sneer. "Contează asta pentru tine? Ai un moştenitor de sex masculin, iar familia Dracul tocmai a devenit nemurită cu el ca moştenitor," (Does it matter to you? You have a male heir, and the Dracul family has just become immortalized with him as the heir,) she hisses, her eyes flashing dangerously.

Tudor's jaw clenches, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge of the table. "Nu înţelegi, Elisabeta. Vreau ca Radu să se bucure de copilărie, să aibă amintiri, să crească natural," (You don't understand, Elisabeta. I want Radu to enjoy childhood, to have memories, to grow naturally,) he says, his voice strained.

Elisabeta lets out a harsh laugh. "Copilărie? La nouă ani va arăta ca un adult. Copiii vampiri nu au timp să fie copii," (Childhood? At nine years old, he'll look like an adult. Vampire children don't have time to be children,) she retorts, her tone dismissive.

Tudor's shoulders slump in defeat. "Cât de 'adult' este acum?" (How 'adult' is he now?) he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Elisabeta's expression softens slightly. "Poţi vorbi cu el ca şi cum ar fi un băiat de doisprezece ani," (You can speak to him as you would to a twelve-year-old boy,) she says, her tone almost gentle.

Tudor mutters under his breath, "La doar doi ani..." (At just two years old...)

He looks up suddenly, his eyes blazing with a new intensity. "Nu înţeleg de ce vampirii nu preiau pur şi simplu controlul lumii," (I don't understand why vampires don't just take over the world,) he says, his voice filled with frustration.

In a move that catches me off guard, Elisabeta straddles Tudor, her lithe form settling onto his lap. "Vampirii nu sunt aşa, Tudor. Suntem doar... plictisiţi," (Vampires aren't like that, Tudor. We're just... bored,) she purrs, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest.

Tudor's brow furrows. "Şi ce s-ar întâmpla dacă nu aţi mai fi plictisiţi?" (And what would happen if you were no longer bored?) he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

Elisabeta flinches, her composure cracking for a moment. "E puţin probabil să se întâmple asta, având în vedere că menţinem această tradiţie a cunoaşterii generaţionale," (That's unlikely to happen, considering we maintain this tradition of generational knowledge,) she says, her voice tight.

Tudor's eyes narrow. "Ce s-ar întâmpla dacă un copil vampir nu ar primi sângele, aşa cum e tradiţia? Dacă l-am lăsa să crească şi să înveţe din propriile experienţe?" (What would happen if a vampire child wasn't given the blood, as is tradition? If we let them grow up and learn from their own experiences?) he asks, his tone challenging.

The sound of flesh striking flesh echoes through the hall as Elisabeta slaps Tudor, her eyes blazing with fury. "Asta ar fi cel mai rău lucru pe care l-ai putea face vreodată unui copil vampir. E oribil!" (That would be the worst thing you could ever do to a vampire child. It's horrible!) she snarls.

Tudor's response is swift and violent. He pushes Elisabeta off his lap, sending her sprawling onto the cold stone floor. To my surprise, Elisabeta chuckles, her eyes glinting with amusement and... arousal?

"Vrei să încercăm pentru un al doilea?" (Do you want to try for a second one?) she purrs, her voice husky with desire.

Tudor's face contorts with a mixture of anger and exhaustion. "Te-am futut zilnic timp de treizeci de ani ca să obţinem unul. Nu mai am alţi treizeci în mine," (I've been fucking you daily for thirty years to get one. I don't have another thirty in me,) he growls.

Thirty years of daily fucking? Poor guy. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Tudor stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "Adevarata familie Dracul moare odată cu mine," (The real Dracul family dies with me,) he declares, his voice heavy with finality. "Sper că Radu îşi va continua linia de sânge - sau nu, nu mai contează la acest punct, pentru că Radu nu va muri niciodată." (I hope Radu will continue his bloodline - or not, it doesn't matter at this point since Radu will never die.)

As the echoes of Tudor's words fade, Elisabeta's lithe form unfolds on the cold stone floor. With a grace that defies her recent tumble, she spreads her legs, the crimson silk of her gown parting to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of pale thigh. Her ruby eyes lock onto Tudor's weathered face, a predatory smile playing on her lips.

"Eşti sigur că nu vrei să încercăm pentru un al doilea?" (Are you sure you don't want to try for a second one?) she purrs, her voice dripping with seduction. "Poate de data asta va fi muritor." (Perhaps this time it will be mortal.)

A mortal? So there's a chance that a vampire doesn't give birth to a vampire? The implications race through my mind like wildfire. The genetic roulette of vampire reproduction, the potential for a mortal child in an immortal family - it's a fascinating twist in this already bizarre world. I file away this information for future consideration, my mind already spinning with potential experiments and hypotheses.

Tudor's face contorts in a mixture of desire and exasperation. "Ridică-te, femeie!" (Stand up, woman!) he growls, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. "Fă-te prezentabilă în faţa lui Radu. E încă doar un copil, pentru numele lui Dumnezeu!" (Make yourself presentable in front of Radu. He's still just a child, for God's sake!)

Elisabeta's laughter rings through the hall, a sound like tinkling crystal that sends shivers down my spine. "Oh, Tudor," she says, her voice rich with amusement, "Radu înţelege mai multe decât crezi." (Radu understands more than you think.)

Tudor sighs heavily, the sound of a man who's fought this battle a thousand times before. Elisabeta rises with fluid grace, her movements so smooth it's as if she's floating rather than standing. Tudor approaches her, his steps heavy with the weight of mortality. Their eyes lock, a silent communication passing between them that speaks volumes of their centuries together.

Without warning, Tudor pulls Elisabeta close, crushing his lips against hers in a kiss that's equal parts passion and desperation. It's a stark reminder of the complex dynamics at play in this family - the mortal and the immortal, locked in an eternal dance of love and loss.

As they part, Tudor's voice is gruff with emotion. "Te iubesc, nebuno." (I love you, you madwoman.)

Elisabeta's reply is soft, almost reverent. "Şi eu te iubesc, muritorule meu preţios." (And I love you, my precious mortal.)

They stand there, lost in each other's eyes for what feels like an eternity. I watch them, fascinated by the interplay of emotions on their faces. It's like watching a living, breathing painting - 'The Vampire and Her Mortal Lover', perhaps. Finally, their gazes turn to me, and I'm struck by the weight of their combined attention.

Tudor clears his throat, his voice taking on a more businesslike tone. "Ar trebui să-l ducem pe Radu în grădină," (We should take Radu to the garden,) he suggests. "Să vorbească cu sătenii, să-i cunoască puţin înainte de petrecere. N-au avut ocazia să-l vadă de când s-a născut." (Let him talk to the villagers, get to know them a bit before the party. They haven't had a chance to see him since he was born.)

Elisabeta's brow furrows slightly. "Tradiţia spune că copiii vampiri trebuie arătaţi întregului clan la doi ani, nu unul câte unul," (Tradition says that vampire children must be shown to the entire clan at two years old, not one by one,) she counters. "De aceea organizez această petrecere pentru toată lumea." (That's why I'm holding this party for everyone.)

Tudor's lips quirk in a half-smile. "Mircea l-a văzut deja pe Radu," (Mircea has already seen Radu,) he says. "Mi-a spus cât de drăguţ e băiatul." (He told me how cute the boy is.)

Elisabeta's eyes gleam with mischief. "L-am lăsat pe Mircea să-l vadă pe Radu ca să creeze puţină agitaţie în sat," (I let Mircea see Radu so he could create some excitement in the village,) she admits.

Clever, very clever. Using Mircea as a hype man, stirring up anticipation among the villagers. It's a masterful play of social engineering, manipulating the mortals' emotions to ensure a warm reception for the vampire princeling. I'm beginning to appreciate the subtle machinations at work in this world.

Tudor approaches me, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he lifts me from my perch. His fingers ruffle my hair, the gesture oddly paternal. "Ai o zi lungă în faţă, băiete," (You have a long day ahead of you, boy,) he says, his voice gruff but not unkind.

Elisabeta glides closer, her lips pressing a soft kiss to the back of my head. The warmth of her touch is startling, a reminder of her unnaturally high body temperature. "Ai o viaţă lungă în faţă, micul meu prinţ," (You have a long life ahead of you, my little prince,) she murmurs.

I decide to play up the child act, turning to Elisabeta with wide, innocent eyes. "Mamă, pot să mănânc acum prăjitura cu miere pe care mi-a dat-o Mircea?" (Mother, can I eat the honeycake Mircea gave me now?)

Elisabeta's face lights up with a mixture of amusement and mischief. She plucks the honeycake from where it sits and places it on the table, then sets me down beside it. "Mănânc-o cât de murdar poţi," (Eat it as messily as you can,) she instructs, her eyes dancing with glee.

Tudor chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Vrei doar să-mi arăţi un copil astăzi, nu un aproape-adult," (You just want to show me a child today, not an almost-adult,) he says, shaking his head fondly.

Elisabeta's smile is radiant. "Acesta este cadoul meu pentru tine, dragul meu," (This is my gift to you, my dear,) she says softly.

I comply with Elisabeta's request, attacking the honeycake with gusto. Sticky crumbs cling to my cheeks and fingers as I shove fistfuls of the sweet treat into my mouth. I make sure to look up at Tudor as I eat, watching his face soften with each messy bite.

This world is kind of depressing. Here I am, a grown man in a child's body, playing at being a toddler to please my immortal vampire mother and mortal father. The complexities of their relationship, the weight of eternity pressing down on all of us - it's enough to make even the sweetest honeycake taste bitter. And yet, as I watch Tudor's smile grow, I can't help but feel a twinge of something... not quite happiness, but perhaps a bittersweet contentment.

This fucked-up family dynamic might be all kinds of wrong, but it's mine now. For better or worse, I'm Radu Dracul, vampire princeling and future ruler of this bizarre world...