The tension in the air was palpable as Luke followed the iron-laced corridors toward Lord malric's quarters. Each step he took echoed ominously against the cold stone walls, the weight of his plan pressing down on him. He had rehearsed his request in his head countless times, yet the prospect of facing Lord Malric directly felt akin to walking unarmed into a lion's den.

The Keeper of Fangs was known for his ruthlessness but also his peculiar sense of intrigue. While others saw Luke's defiance as insolence, Malric had seemed amused by it during their past encounters, an amusement that bordered on dangerous curiosity.

Luke paused outside the ornate doors leading to Malric's chambers. The air smelled faintly of blood and decaying roses, an unnerving yet fitting combination. Steeling himself, he pushed the heavy doors open and stepped inside.

Lord Malric sat in a high-backed chair carved from dark ebony, the intricate designs resembling the twisting forms of writhing souls. Behind him, the vast room was bathed in a muted crimson glow, the light emanating from lanterns filled with some unnatural fire.

He didn't look up immediately, instead thumbing lazily through a thick book bound in human skin. His appearance was as unsettling as ever—his sharp features too perfect to be human, his skin pale enough to reflect the dim light. Malric's eyes, a piercing silver that seemed to see too much, finally met Luke's.

"Well, well," Malric drawled, his voice smooth and laced with mockery. "The bold one returns. What brings you to my den, little lamb?"

Luke clenched his fists at the condescension but kept his tone steady. "I need access to the feral prison."

The room fell deathly silent, save for the faint crackle of the lantern flames. Malric arched an elegant brow, closing his book with a deliberate thud. "You need access to the feral prison," he repeated slowly, as though savoring the audacity of the request.

"Yes," Luke said firmly. "I need the keys. I have a plan."

Malric rose from his chair in a fluid motion, towering over Luke as he approached. There was an intensity to his gaze that made Luke's stomach churn, but he refused to look away. Malric circled him like a predator assessing its prey, his steps silent on the polished marble floor.

"And what, pray tell, is this plan?" Malric asked, his tone dripping with amusement.

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Luke hesitated. "With respect, my lord, I'd prefer not to share the details. Not yet."

Malric stopped abruptly, his silver eyes narrowing. For a moment, Luke feared he had overstepped. Then, to his astonishment, Malric laughed—a low, melodic sound that sent shivers down Luke's spine.

"Bold. Very bold," Malric murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I must admit, your defiance intrigues me. Most slaves would be groveling on the floor by now."

"I'm not like most slaves," Luke replied, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Malric's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "No, you're not. And that's precisely why I'll entertain your request."

Luke blinked in surprise. "You will?"

"Yes," Malric said, returning to his chair and lounging as though this were all a game to him. "But on one condition."

Luke's throat tightened. "What condition?"

Malric's expression turned inscrutable, his silver eyes gleaming with an emotion Luke couldn't decipher. "You'll find out soon enough—if your plan succeeds."

Luke left Malric's quarters with the weight of the keys in his pocket and a gnawing sense of unease in his chest. Malric's cryptic words replayed in his mind, each syllable dripping with hidden menace. He had agreed too easily, and Luke couldn't shake the feeling that the price for his freedom would be far greater than he anticipated.

As he walked through the dimly lit corridors, his thoughts returned to the feast. The blood. The screams. The grotesque glee with which the vampires had torn through the pets.

He had forced himself to remain still, to swallow his revulsion, to be a silent observer while innocents were slaughtered. But now, in the quiet of the empty halls, the images clawed at his mind. The ripping of flesh. The lifeless eyes of those pets, once so full of fear and desperate hope.

Luke's hands trembled, his nails digging into his palms. He hated himself for not acting, for not doing anything to stop it. But what could he have done? Even now, the memory of the vampires' speed and power made his stomach churn.

His hatred for them burned brighter than ever, but beneath it was a flicker of disgust at himself. He had stood there and done nothing.

When luke returned to the slave quarters, Jake and Elias were waiting anxiously. The room was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the rough stone walls.

"You got them?" Jake asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Luke nodded and pulled the keys from his pocket. The metal gleamed faintly in the dim light, a symbol of both hope and impending danger.

Elias stared at the keys as though they were a death sentence. "I can't believe you went to him directly. Are you insane?"

"Probably," Luke admitted. "But we don't have a choice. This is our best shot."

Jake clapped a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm. "You did good. Now we just have to make it count."

Malrics perspective.

Back in his chambers, Malric stood by the window overlooking the sprawling estate. He held a glass of blood-red wine, the liquid swirling lazily as he stared into the darkness beyond.

He had known slaves like Luke before—defiant, ambitious, and far too human for their own good. Most were crushed beneath the weight of their own rebellion, their spirits shattered long before their bodies followed.

But Luke was different. There was a fire in his eyes that Malric hadn't seen in centuries, a determination that reminded him of...

He shook the thought away and took a sip of his wine, the bitterness grounding him. The memory of the feast clawed at him, unbidden.

The rush of blood, the shattering of bones, the screams—he had watched it all with a mask of indifference. Yet something about it had left him hollow. He had played his role as the Keeper of Fangs, a being of power and fear, but now, in the silence of his chambers, the aftermath lingered.

For the first time in centuries, he felt something close to disgust.

"Freedom," he murmured to himself, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. "Such a fragile thing. Let's see how far you're willing to go to grasp it, little lamb."

As the crimson moon hung high in the sky, Malric smiled faintly, the first genuine smile he'd allowed himself in years. For the first time in decades, he was curious to see what would happen next.