The following day Maria's voice was steady, though her hands trembled slightly as she handed a bundle of tattered garments to one of the other pets. "Keep your head down. If a guard passes by, just... act like you belong."

The dimly lit supply room was cramped and smelled of dust and mold. Old crates lined the walls, their lids warped from years of neglect. Inside, there were scraps of fabric, discarded blankets, and, if they were lucky, dried rations.

A pet near the corner sniffled, clutching a strip of cloth to her chest. "We're going to die for this, aren't we?" she whispered.

Maria crouched down beside her, her green eyes fierce. "We're going to die if we don't do this. It's not a choice anymore."

The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling over them like a shroud. Maria straightened, her voice firm as she addressed them all. "They've taken everything from us. Our dignity, our freedom, our names. It's time we take something back."

One by one, the pets nodded. The fear remained, but beneath it was a flicker of determination.

They worked quickly, stuffing whatever they could find into stolen satchels. A few stale loaves of bread, half a sack of grain, even some frayed rope—all of it could mean the difference between survival and death.

Maria kept watch as the others moved silently, her mind racing. The success of their plan hinged on every second they could buy. If the vampires discovered their efforts too soon, none of them would live to see the morning.

As they left the supply room, Maria cast one last glance over her shoulder, her heart pounding. If they were caught, there would be no mercy.

Michael's feet dragged as he ascended the stone staircase leading to the female vampire's chambers. His stomach churned with a mix of fear and self-loathing.

The door loomed ahead, black and imposing, with intricate carvings that seemed to writhe under the flickering torchlight. He hesitated for a moment, then knocked.

"Enter," came the cold, clipped voice from within.

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He stepped inside, bowing his head instinctively. The room was sparsely furnished, save for a massive iron chair in the center, its edges sharp and cruel. The female vampire sat there, her pale fingers drumming against the armrest.

"Report," she said, her crimson eyes narrowing as they fixed on him.

Michael swallowed hard. "I've... I've heard whispers, my lady. A group of slaves is planning an escape."

Her eyes gleamed with interest, but her expression remained cold. "Continue."

"They're planning to raid the armory," Michael said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "They believe they can arm themselves and fight their way out through the front gates."

The vampire leaned forward, her gaze piercing. "And you're certain of this?"

"Yes, my lady," Michael lied, his palms slick with sweat.

For a moment, she said nothing, her eyes searching his face as if peeling back the layers of his mind. Then, with a dismissive wave of her hand, she leaned back. "Fools. Let them try. It will be their last mistake."

Michael nodded, bowing low. "Of course, my lady."

As he turned to leave, her voice stopped him cold.

"Michael."

He froze. "Yes, my lady?"

"Don't disappoint me."

The threat hung heavy in the air as he exited the room, his heart pounding like a war drum.

Back in the slave quarters, the atmosphere was grim. Luke and Jake had assembled the others, explaining the plan in hushed tones.

"You want us to what?" a young slave asked, his voice shaking.

Luke stepped forward, his face impassive. "We need blood bags to lure the ferals. The vampires can't know we've taken from their supply, so it has to come from us."

Murmurs rippled through the group, a mix of disbelief and fear.

Jake's voice cut through the noise. "You've all seen what they do to us. To the pets. Are you really going to sit here and wait for your turn to die?"

The room fell silent.

One by one, the slaves stepped forward, baring their arms as Luke and Jake prepared crude syringes made from scavenged supplies.

The process was slow and excruciating. Blood dripped into the bags, each drop a testament to their desperation. The slaves grew paler with each donation, their bodies trembling with weakness.

Jake clenched his fists, his jaw tight as he watched. "We're going to make this worth it," he muttered under his breath.

The blood bags were heavy in Jake's arms as he made his way through the mansion's labyrinthine hallways. His steps were deliberate, his expression neutral, but his heart raced with every passing guard.

"Delivery for the quarters," he said when questioned, keeping his voice steady.

The guards barely glanced at him, their disinterest a small blessing.

When he reached the vampires' quarters, the air was thick with the oppressive scent of decay and power. Jake set the bags down carefully, making sure to place them out of sight but in strategic locations where the scent would linger.

Behind a thick velvet curtain, under the edge of a plush chaise lounge, and near the foot of an ornate, towering bed—each spot was chosen with care, designed to delay discovery until the scent of blood was undeniable.

Using a small, concealed knife, he punctured each bag just enough for the blood to seep out slowly. The rich, coppery scent filled the air almost immediately, mixing with the room's faint traces of perfume and decay.

He wiped his hands on his trousers, his heart hammering in his chest as he surveyed his work.

As he turned to leave, he caught sight of a guard lingering nearby, his eyes narrowing slightly. Jake forced himself to walk away calmly, resisting the urge to run.

Only when he was back in the relative safety of the slave quarters did he allow himself to breathe.

"We're one step closer," he said to Luke, his voice low but resolute.

Luke nodded, his expression grim. "One step closer to freedom—or death."