The chamber was impossibly vast, its ceiling lost in darkness. Blackened stone walls stretched endlessly, adorned with jagged, twisted designs carved centuries ago. Flickering braziers lined the space, their eerie green flames casting distorted shadows across the room. A massive, circular obsidian table dominated the center, polished to a reflective sheen and engraved with sigils of vampiric clans long forgotten by mortal history.

At its head sat Valerius Duskborne, the Arch Vampire of the Nightshade Collective. His presence alone silenced the room. The air itself seemed to bend around him, heavy and suffocating, as if the shadows in the chamber obeyed his will.

To his right and left sat the heads of the Collective's departments: Lord Malric, Keeper of Fangs; Lady Elara Nightveil, Mistress of Secrets; Kryos Valemir, Commander of the Eternal Guard; and Saria Duskthorn, Keeper of Rites. Their expressions were inscrutable, masks of cold detachment, though the flickers of resentment and rivalry between them were unmistakable.

Across the table sat the visiting Arch Vampires. They arrived in grim silence, their demeanor sharp and calculating. Among them were the regional heads they brought as companions, their loyalty evident yet uneasy under the weight of such a gathering. No words were spoken as the last of the guests arrived, their footsteps echoing like drumbeats of doom.

Valerius broke the silence. "You have traveled far. Let us begin."

The discussion began with reports of ferals—the scourge of vampirekind. Saria Duskthorn stood, her voice cold and methodical.

"They are spreading faster than we anticipated. In the last month alone, three cities under our governance have reported outbreaks. Small, contained for now, but their numbers grow. If humans continue to dwindle, we risk..." she hesitated, her pride unable to utter the word.

"Starvation," finished Kryos Valemir bluntly, his armored gauntlet tapping rhythmically on the table.

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A ripple of discontent swept through the room.

"These ferals," scoffed one of the visiting Arch Vampires, his voice dry and rasping. "They are merely the refuse of our kind. Cull them. Burn their nests to ash."

"Would that it were so simple," replied Lady Elara Nightveil. "The ferals are not an isolated plague. They are a consequence of our reliance on human blood and our inability to adapt." She shot a pointed look across the table at one of the visiting heads.

Lord Malric leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with disdain. "You speak of adaptation as though we are weak. We have thrived for centuries. The humans are cattle. If the herds grow thin, we simply claim more lands."

"And if there are no more lands to claim?" countered Elara. "Humans are not breeding as they once did. Entire bloodlines have vanished since the Collapse. Our dependence on them will be our undoing if we do not find alternatives."

The tension thickened, silence hanging heavily in the air.

Valerius's voice cut through it like a blade. "Enough."

All eyes turned to him.

"The ferals are a symptom, not the disease," he said, his voice a measured cadence of authority. "We will cull them, yes, but we will also address the root of the issue. New resources must be cultivated, or new methods explored."

A murmur swept through the gathered vampires, their discomfort palpable.

Luke's Perspective

As the conversation shifted to logistics, Luke lingered in the shadows of the adjoining hallway, a tray of goblets balanced in his trembling hands. He had been tasked with delivering refreshments to the gathering, though none of the vampires acknowledged his presence. He moved silently, ensuring not a drop of the chilled, dark liquid—blood harvested from the pets—spilled.

He caught fragments of the conversation through the heavy doors. The word "feral" sent a shiver down his spine. It was not a term the slaves were familiar with, but its tone carried unmistakable dread.

The mention of starvation followed, and though fear churned in his chest, Luke couldn't help but feel a flicker of something else—a distant, dangerous emotion. Hope. If the vampires were worried, if their control was faltering, perhaps cracks were forming in their unyielding dominance.

It was a fragile thread, one he dared not pull, yet it lingered, a faint light in the suffocating darkness.

As the gathered Arch Vampires began their deliberations for the coming days, the undercurrent of tension grew more palpable. Behind their composed facades, each plotted their next move, alliances forming and dissolving in the span of moments.

Valerius watched them in silence, his crimson gaze unreadable. He could feel the fractures within his own Collective, the simmering ambition of the visiting Arch Vampires, and the looming shadow of something far worse.

For now, the game continued. But the pieces were shifting, and none could predict how it would end.

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