The halls of the mansion were quieter in the mornings, save for the faint echoes of slaves shuffling through their routines. Lord Malric preferred these moments of near solitude—before the feasts, before the politics, before the weight of his position pressed heavily upon him once again.

Seated in his private chamber, Malric swirled a goblet of dark red liquid, his pale fingers caressing the rim. The blood was still warm, harvested mere moments ago, but it tasted stale to him. No matter how fresh, how rich, it was never enough. Not because he craved more, but because it no longer satiated him the way it did others of his kind.

He cast his gaze toward the large window overlooking the courtyard. A group of slaves, heads bowed, moved like cattle under the watchful eyes of the guards. Somewhere among them was Luke, the human with defiance burning behind his weary eyes. Malric had noticed him more than once, the way his jaw clenched during meals, the subtle glances he exchanged with his companion. Luke hated his kind, and Malric couldn't blame him.

"The boy would drive a stake through my heart if he thought he had a chance," Malric mused aloud, his voice a quiet murmur.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. A younger vampire stepped inside, bowing low. "Lord Malric, the Arch Vampire requests your presence for tonight's council meeting."

"Of course he does," Malric replied, waving the messenger away. The Arch Vampire, with his endless schemes and taste for theatrics, ruled the mansion with an iron grip. Malric respected his power but despised his methods. Cruelty, to the Arch Vampire, was an art form—a means to remind humans and vampires alike of their place in his world.

Once the messenger had gone, Malric's eyes fell upon the empty cage in the corner of his chamber. He didn't keep pets. The very idea repulsed him—enslaving a human for personal amusement, treating them as objects. His peers mocked him for it, of course. They called him "soft," a traitor to his nature.

But Malric had lived long enough to know that vampires were not gods. They were parasites, cursed to exist in the shadows of the world they'd conquered. For every vampire who reveled in bloodlust, there were others—like him—who saw the futility of it all. Survival, yes. Dominance, no.

The slaves are not the only ones in chains, he thought bitterly, draining the goblet.

Malric walked the eastern corridor, his boots clicking softly against the stone floors. The east wing was far quieter than the rest of the mansion, its halls lined with heavy, locked doors. These were the chambers of the Arch Vampire, a place that even the most powerful avoided unless summoned.

The guards stationed along the wing were unlike the others—hulking brutes with eyes as black as tar and expressions carved from stone. These were the Arch Vampire's "enhancements"—former vampires who had willingly subjected themselves to his experiments in pursuit of greater strength and endurance.

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Malric allowed his gaze to linger on one of them, a towering figure with a jagged scar running down the length of his face. He looked more beast than man, his pale skin stretched taut over muscle that seemed ready to burst through his uniform. Rumors swirled that the enhancements came at a cost: a vampire's sanity.

As Malric passed one of the locked doors, he caught a faint metallic sound, like chains dragging across stone. The smell of blood was stronger here, mixed with something acrid and chemical. The Arch Vampire was at work again.

His experiments, Malric knew, were as much about power as they were about control. The Arch Vampire had no patience for vampires who overstepped their station or dared to challenge his authority. Those who fell out of favor were brought here, stripped of their arrogance and ambition, and transformed—or destroyed—in equal measure.

Malric paused outside a particularly thick door, its edges sealed with iron. There were no sounds from within, but the cold radiating from the room was enough to chill even his immortal body.

"They say he's working on something new," a voice murmured behind him.

Malric turned to see a fellow noble, Lord Rafe, standing in the shadows. Rafe was a wiry vampire with sharp features and an unsettling smirk that seemed permanently etched onto his face.

"What new horror has he conjured this time?" Malric replied dryly.

"Something to ensure our kind never fall," Rafe said, his tone carrying equal parts reverence and fear. "Or so he claims."

Malric said nothing. The Arch Vampire's obsession with perfection had consumed him for centuries. He sought to mold their kind into something unstoppable—immune to sunlight, hunger, and even the passage of time.

But Malric had seen what happened to those who failed the Arch Vampire's trials. Their screams still echoed in his mind.

As Malric approached the end of the corridor, his sharp hearing caught a faint whimper from one of the nearby doors. He slowed his pace, his eyes narrowing.

Inside, a voice was speaking, low and deliberate. He didn't need to press his ear to the door to know who it belonged to. The Arch Vampire himself rarely raised his voice, but his words carried the weight of authority.

"You dared to challenge my judgment," the Arch Vampire was saying, his tone ice cold. "Do you understand what that means, child?"

A muffled response followed—a female voice, trembling with fear. Malric didn't recognize it, but he knew its fate. Those who struck too far above their station, who dared to question the hierarchy, often found themselves in these chambers.

Malric continued walking, unwilling to stay and listen. He had no intention of drawing the Arch Vampire's attention, especially not now. His distaste for the cruelty of his kind was one thing, but even he was not foolish enough to openly oppose the Arch Vampire.

As he emerged from the east wing, Malric cast one final glance back at the guarded corridor. The Arch Vampire ruled with fear, and his experiments were a testament to that power. But Malric couldn't help but wonder: How long could they cling to control through fear alone? How long before the cracks began to show?

The Arch Vampire was a force to be reckoned with, yes. But even the strongest forces could crumble under the weight of their own hubris.

Later, as he crossed the west wing, Malric paused at a railing overlooking the dining hall. Below, the slaves cleaned and cleared the remnants of the earlier feast. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on Luke, scrubbing the floor with mechanical precision.

Malric could see the tension in the boy's shoulders, the quiet fury in the way he gripped the brush. He wondered if Luke even realized how transparent his anger was. Perhaps not. Perhaps he thought himself unreadable, a mere tool obeying orders.

Malric smirked faintly. Defiance was a dangerous quality in a slave—but it was also the one he respected most.

"Soon," he murmured, his voice lost in the cavernous expanse of the hall. "We'll see how far your courage truly goes."