The screeching of metal startled awake the young woman inside the cell. Rubbing the blur from her eyes, she turned her head, heavy as if filled with concrete, to the source of the noise. A woman, an understated beauty neither fresh-faced nor older than thirty or so in appearance, stood in the gap of the iron gate. An oversized robe concealed her figure, and her lips were rouged to the same intensity as her irises. She recognized this woman, but only on a visceral level as someone who had come to feed her – like livestock recognizing its owner.

“He was right,” the woman whispered, bringing a hand to her mouth with a slight gasp. “You’ve awakened now, truly.”

Corner to corner, with dry, stinging eyes, the prisoner scanned every inch of the cell. A vague sense of unease twisted her stomach. She had suffered here. As for how, or why, she couldn’t remember, and any guesses were beyond her imagination.

The robed woman approached, her skirt whisking up motes that shimmered as if materializing at the feet of a goddess. She sat facing the prisoner, brows soft and slightly raised, lips both pursed and parted. As she lowered her hood, the scent of patchouli wafted from her hair, a hint of vanilla following. The young woman drew back, hugging her knees. She shuddered as the empty, hollow feeling in her stomach intensified.

“You’re safe here,” the robed woman promised. “Do you remember anything?”

Her throat was too dry to speak. She tried to think back and pull a single memory from somewhere, but there was nothing, not even her own name. Shaking her head, she held a hand up in a spot of lamplight. Purplish veins bulged beneath a surface of translucent white skin, tracing paths to each bony, knobby-knuckled finger. Her stomach was wringing itself out now; she doubled over, trying not to heave.

The vague flashes of agony, the loss of all memory, the ethereal, nurturing figure belying any emotion with soothing words – all of it was enough to make her consider she was dead. The only thing that suggested the contrary was the gnawing, agonizing hunger. She pounded her fists on the ground, crying out in both pain and distress as her thoughts spiraled.

A gentle squeeze on her shoulder brought her back, eased the pain. For some reason, that touch was a familiarity in a complete void of memory. It made her feel safe.

“Don’t worry, fledgling.” The robed woman’s voice was soft and pacifying even as she delivered such grave news. As the corners of her mouth turned upward, they revealed a pair of sharp canines. “You’ll start to feel more like yourself soon, maybe even more so than you’ve ever been able to feel.”

“More like myself? And who am I?” More rasp than voice came out. It prickled her throat and made her cough. She covered her mouth, in part to hide that she was testing a light bite of her lip, and discovered her own pair of sharp teeth.

Fledgling. I’m one of those things. So is she. What is it they’re called…?

“You are someone who made a great sacrifice for someone she loved,” the woman answered. “That is all I can tell you for now, to avoid any further shock before your body and mind are prepared to handle it. The rest will come back to you, including your name. Slowly, but most assuredly.”

“Slowly? How long? Days? Years?”

“Certainly not years, so please take that as a piece of solace. Lord Cedric will explain everything. I’m here to get you bathed and clothed to present to him, since finally it seems you’re stable.”

“All right, I suppose.” The fledgling clutched her abdomen. The pangs were back, albeit less intense. “I’m hungry.”

“That is no surprise. You’ve been ravenous from the moment you changed. Noisy, as well, with your strange little grunts. I’ve quite enjoyed looking after you, a great deal more than any others, I might even say. Oh, but my apologies, here I am reminiscing already. We’ll see to it that you’re fed… after your meeting.” She stood, brushing off her robe, and offered a hand.

Stiff legs made for great difficulty in the task of standing. The fledgling found herself wondering when the last time was that she used them. She angled her arms out at her sides and flexed her calves to raise herself onto her toes a couple of times, then rolled back onto her heels. Her guardian kept both hands hovering over her shoulders as she took her first steps. They walked out of the cell, arms locked together for safety.

“Can I at least know your name, since you’ve been taking care of me this whole time?” asked the fledgling. A sudden stop caused her to lurch forward, but the strength of a guiding arm helped to right her.

“I suppose it can’t hurt,” answered the guardian, staring down at the floor. “I’m Sylvestra.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, sorry, it’s… nothing.” Sylvestra shook her head, dispelling the fog apparent in her eyes, and continued moving forward. “I’m just flattered you cared to ask.”

Their conversation fell flat after the exchange; the fledgling was speechless as she took in her surroundings. Along the walls were more cells, with others locked up just as she was. Thin and pale, their hair sparse if they had any, most did nothing but sit limply with far-off stares. One was eyeing the two of them as they passed by, hunched over two hands holding a rabbit. Blood dripped from his mouth and between his fingers, forming a pool on the floor that glistened in the lamplight.

Do I look like them? The fledgling reached a hand up to the top of her head. Thin, brittle hairs snapped in her grasp. She let go of them and pressed her fingers against her cheeks, which she found to be hollow and gaunt. Sylvestra chuckled.

“You’re one of the prettier ones. And even if you weren’t, it’s only temporary. You’ll look like yourself again, only better.”

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She wondered if Sylvestra realized how little looking like herself meant to her. She wondered whether she’d recognize her own face at all if she saw it. For now, it was nothing more than a blank silhouette in the eye of her mind.

They soon reached a door where a lantern hung from a hook. Sylvestra reached up and took it by the handle. She led the fledgling through, and they walked in silence down a long, decrepit corridor riddled with spiderwebs and cracked mortar. After what felt like a mile, they made a turn and came to a stairwell.

The fledgling plodded up the stairs while Sylvestra did her best to guide her. The weakness in her limbs, despite being unaccompanied by any pain, made the task feel akin to climbing a mountain. Her mind wandered, now curious to know whether she ever had climbed a mountain in her previous life.

At the top of the stairs, Sylvestra opened another door and extinguished her lantern, then hung it on its hook. The next corridor was much more amicable and well lit, with no apparent structural troubles or uninvited, eight-legged tenants. They came upon an alcove fitted with a carved marble inset, and the fledgling stopped to admire it.

Flawless figures of men and women played out a vibrant, mirthful scene in front of her, moving as if enchanted. Some danced, coattails flowing and skirts billowing. Others sat on luxurious, padded chairs to watch the spectacle, raising goblets, applauding, leaning in to whisper among each other. A pair shared a kiss, entangled in each other’s arms.

Sylvestra stood beside her ward and took in the image as well. She clasped her hands together.

“That’s the celebration of Libereath. Our kind used to be hunted and executed throughout Nelthemar, but after a great effort from Lord Vildeson, who came before Lord Cedric, we were granted amnesty. That is, on the condition that we would isolate ourselves from cities. Once our sanctuary was founded here, they celebrated in this fashion for three whole months.”

“It’s beautiful,” the fledgling remarked. Sylvestra nodded, and a hint of wistfulness trickled into her voice as she continued.

“Yes. For a time, we had an artist in our midst. Of course, we all have an eternity to cultivate any skill we’d like, in a technical sense, but Lord Cedric believes there’s a wall to the heart that no amount of practice can penetrate. No one can be taught how to reach such raw depths of their own vulnerability that it becomes infectious. That is the essence of talent. Every time I look at this, I find myself inclined to agree with that sentiment.”

The fledgling said nothing, curious about what happened to the mentioned individual, but not enough so that she would risk upsetting her guardian with the question. Her silent acknowledgment seemed to suffice, though, as they both lingered to enjoy the view a bit longer.

In the top left corner of the scene, a sullen creature loomed. He sat heavy on his knees with his arms supporting him, thin and pale and sparse of hair. While her eyes were locked on his stare, remote from the others but direct to the viewer, the movement and merriment ceased, like time had stopped in that little realm of perfect beings.

“I’m sorry,” said the fledgling, stepping back as another hunger pang ripped her from her trance, “I didn’t mean to hold us up.”

“That is quite all right.” Sylvestra gave her a reassuring smile. “There’s much to see throughout the entire castle, so please don’t feel shy about enjoying it. Come, let’s get you to the bath.”

She’d gathered from the surroundings that they were within the walls of a castle, but hearing it still filled her with wonder. She followed Sylvestra further along the corridor, slowing down here and there to admire larger-than-life portraits with gilded frames, sculptures of men and beasts, and tapestries depicting struggle between human and vampirekind.

Vampires, she remembered. That’s what they’re called – we’re called.

Through a door to their left, they entered a quiet wing with a lower ceiling and a more intimate atmosphere. In the first section, two walls’ worth of bookshelves overlooked an arrangement of couches and chairs with soft padding. A young, raven-haired girl melted into one of the seats, barely visible past a stack of books on the center table. Preoccupied with her reading, she paid no mind to the two who entered. A thick, green rug stretched over the area, leaving only a few inches of cherry wood flooring exposed before the wall and archway.

Sylvestra smiled and waved at the girl, but otherwise did not try for her attention. She motioned to the fledgling and whisked her into the next room.

There were four beds, one in each corner separated by folding screens, with a side table and a chest at the foot. Of the chests, three were closed and one open; Sylvestra approached the open one and took out a robe and some towels. She passed them over to her ward.

“This will be your bed.” She gestured to it, her voice hushed. “The others are around; you will all meet eventually. Here, we’re almost to the bath.”

The fragrance of rose oil filled the air as they entered the bathing area. The With that scent came the flashing image in the fledgling’s mind of a young woman’s face, blue-eyed and chestnut-haired with a smile that could crumble her to her knees. Her heart jumped and refused to slow down. As soon as the image appeared, it vanished. She blinked hard, exhaling through rounded lips.

“You may set your things down on the chair.” Sylvestra pointed to one beside a mirror. “And… Don’t be alarmed if you do see your reflection; we have managed to find ways to make that possible. Something about interdimensional refraction—truly, I don’t know. Lord Cedric could explain better if you are curious.”

“Thank you, Sylvestra. Setting her things down, the fledgling resisted a pull to glance in the mirror. “You’ve been a wonderful help to me so far.”

“I’m glad I could be of assistance. We will see each other often, but I’ll miss being your appointed guardian. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, though; we still have a few more ventures together yet. Enjoy your bath until then. I’ll be waiting in the corridor.” She spun away, her skirt rippling, and closed the door behind her.

The fledgling closed her eyes, savoring the first moment she had to herself since gaining consciousness. As she peeled off her linen shirt, her hands grazed her ribs, and each individual one was palpable. She stepped out of her pants and tossed both items of clothing, stiff with blood stains, onto the floor. Not long after a sigh of relief came another urge to retch, but she held her abdomen and hunched over.

She collected herself and stepped onto the stool beside the tub. Steam pervaded her nose, tumid with the scent of roses. It soothed her dry throat, but it brought back flashes of that chestnut-haired woman. She still had no name, but the fledgling’s chest swelled with a hazy sensation. Maybe she was the one Sylvestra mentioned, the one she loved enough to make a great sacrifice, whatever that may have been.

She stuck a finger into the water and stirred a pink petal, checking the temperature. Her legs shook as she held onto the edge of the tub and eased herself in. Resting her head on a leather pad, she let the warmth swaddle her and whisk her away on a bed of roses. Soon she was drifting off, and in her first fragments of dreams, a familiar voice whispered a name.

Elyza.